Xan Hood - of Blood and Dirt

What motivates us?

2011-01-05T16:13:00.000-08:00

I have been reading through Ecclesiastes. I find myself returning there a lot. A king who seems to have had it all, both of good & God, along with wandering out into the world to see what it had as well. I imagine he would have to be considered one of the great wisdom teachers that the world has known. Why? I imagine because he has been through it.

One friend shared with me the other day, wisdom only comes through the pain of suffering through it.

I am struck by his honesty about the world and what he sees. One passage specifically in Ecclessisates 4:4, "And I saw that all labor and all achievement spring from man's envy of his neighbor."

I find it intriguing for the king of Israel who inherited such blessing and wealth to come to this conclusion. If there was a man who seemed to have been able to have never engaged in such a topic because of his wealth, fortune, and status, he should have been able to have never dealt with it with the people around him. Who was wiser? Richer? More popular? But then again, even the king has the same places in his heart. Envy, selfish ambition, pride. It takes one to know one, isn't that how that phrase goes?

It is interesting to engage with a culture and our world that has this often under everything else. At the bottom of most things, we could find this scripture coming to reality. I think that is why the struggle of the gospel and God's kingdom is always so opposite from this. When we find ourselves looking out and see this envy and achievement, it is pretty disgusting. Whether it be in church gossip or greedy capitalist. And when we look deep enough, we always see on the outside, what is often on the inside. I have no doubt, even Solomon in all his wealth and wisdom still felt this as well. Even the man who seemed to have it all.

I think it is important for us to be the first to confess as Paul said, the chiefest of sinners, and in that be able to name those things within ourselves. I know for me, as I confess, and I admit it is the same inside, that somehow the work of the Spirit can bring me to a deeper place.

I think the question of what really motivates us is a tricky one. Freud has his theories. But maybe it's exploring the depth of our own struggles where we find our need for a better motivation.

I think that is what I am looking for these days. A great love. A greater motive then often what finds itself lurking in my heart. I am glad Solomon is able to guide the way.

John Muir's Father

2010-07-17T15:34:00.000-07:00

I have been reading about one of the great wilderness prophets of America- John Muir. From what I have gathered, it seemed the mountains were a place of healing for him. He went west for something that seemed difficult to fully trace from his past, but as I came upon this letter written to him by his father after an article was published, I am reminded all the more of what, despite tremendous shame, he birthed for many. His father was a heavy reformed calvinist...

My Very Dear John,

Were you as really happy as my wish would make you, you would be permanently so in the best sense of the word. I received yours of the third inst. with your slip of paper, but I had read the same thing in "The Wisconsin," some days before I got yours, then I wished I had not seen it, because it harried up my feelings so with another of your hair-breadth escapes. Had I seen it to be God's work you were doing I would have felt the other way, but I knew it was not God's work, although you seem to think you are doing God's service. If it had not been for God's boundless mercy you would have been cut off in the midst of your folly. All that you are attempting to show the Holy Spirit of God gives the believer to see at one glance of the eye, for according to the tract I send you they can see God's love, power, and glory in everything, and it has the effect of turning away their sigh and eyes from the things that are seen and temporal to the things that are not seen and eternal, according to God's holy word... You cannot warm the heart of the saint of God with your cold icy-topped mountains. O, my dear son, come away from them to the spirit of God and His holy word, and He will show our lovely Jesus unto you, who is by His finished work presented to you, without money and price... And the best and soonest way of getting quit of the writing and publishing your book is to burn it, and then it will do no more harm either to you or others.

Muir's father through beating and memorization had Muir memorize all of the New Testament and most of the Old Testament by 11 years old. As I read these words above, it made me grow to love Muir as a man even more. Much of Muir's words have such biblical imagery that open the natural world in a way that Emerson and trascendentalism was trying to get away from. Muir was bringing the gospel words in the places he was going. He was preaching something that at his father's level had no worth, and was outside of God. And yet, he was using the language and opening people to the beauty of creation.

There is a story that as he spent time in Yosemite Valley there was erected a church for services for the guests. He would ask the question, why would someone worship in such a man made structure, when the temple of worship was all around them.

I just got back from 5 days of fly-fishing with 14 young men. Many of them it being the first time to hold a fly rod, and catch a trout. On one day, we caught 231. Native greenback cutthroat trout. The most amazing red and greens.

The man who led us into Rocky Mountain National Park was Ron Smith. One of our guides for Training Ground. He is 63, and been fishing those waters sense he was five.

Ron reminds me of John Muir. He has a hard past with religion, but somehow, it always comes back to that, much like Muir. No matter the past, no matter the pain. The metaphors, the images, the heart always has the gospel in it. Many of our southern friends were a bit taken by Ron, since he doesn't fit the classic christian man. But one of my favorite quotes from the weekend is when Ron looks around the group during one of our times together in the evening all huddled together and says, "I meet Jesus every time I catch a trout. If I catch 15 trout, it's like I am re-born 15 times that day."

I love the John Muir's of the world. Men who are a bit outside the norm. On the edges of what most would consider "in." And yet, you can't even begin to count him out. He is the prophet pointing to Jesus, much like Muir. And I am saddened as I read those words about Muir's father, that little did he know what his son was offering to the world.

Unity amongst brothers.

2010-06-28T20:45:00.001-07:00

Psalm 133:1 - "How good and pleasant it is when brothers live together in unity."

We live in a day where there are many sons, but there are few fathers to guide those sons. I can think of nothing deeper, no ache common to man than to be affirmed, blessed, and guided into his place as a man. It takes a father to do that. God sets himself up that way. He uses the language of father describing himself.

I love the line from Iron John by Robert Bly, "A land with no fathers demands a king." We too easily fall prey to that thinking, worshiping idols over seeking fathers since none seem to be around. It seems the case from Israel's first king Saul, who everyone wanted to be their great deliverer, onto present day Obama. Everyone is so disappointed he has not lived up to his potential as king.

I think its because we need more fathers, not more kings.

I find myself doing that more often than I wish. To be near a king, to be around power and prestige is far too often a denial of the true fathering I need to grow into the man I need to become. A king is like a genie in a bottle instantly granting you wishes. A father is more a guide to grow you up. I'd much rather take the safer route of just being instantly zapped. Then walking out the pain and process it takes to become that man.

But, we find ourselves in a world in need of fathers. We have a king. One set in the throne above now guiding all men who look to him. We need fathers guided by our king of kings passing down the blessing of the Father. But few of them seem to have been through the agonizing process themselves from a son to a father, and live the day to bless the sons.

And here lies one of the issues of unity in brotherhood. While brothers can bless one another, it is the father's blessing we are after. There appear few who can give it. We are like refugees starving for food clawing on one another when the food arrives. Or is spotted. Who will get it? I must claw my way through the crowd...

There is a book by Bob Sorge called Envy. He explains that most envy comes from brother-to-brother relationships, sister-to-sister. We are not usually as envious of fathers, as we are the sons around him. The reason Cain killed Abel? Jealousy, envy of a brother for the fathers blessing. There is the story of Joseph. Why did they sell him? He was the most loved. His brothers despised that.

Sorge explains the issues of the day is between brothers and the blessings.

My biggest yearning is to be blessed, by God, by good fathers, and yet so is everyone of my brothers who are equally starving for the same. All deserving of the same. The question is, can we all be blessed, is there enough food to be passed around, or does just one of us get that? Are all our lives of equal importance, or are there just a few the king has in mind for greater things.

I think of that scripture in the Psalms about living in unity with brothers really grabbed me tonight as I read it. How truly a beautiful thing that is. It means a king has come, and fathers are blessing sons. It means they can respect and enjoy one another. Cheer one another on. Bless each others success, and pray for their struggles.

I think somehow that is what SHALOM means. It will finally come at the King's coming to finally restore us as fathers and sons, filled with the blessings. I pray till then, unity can come through more fathers blessing more sons. I think the more food we see, the less we will be crawling on one another thinking there is only a few sources to find it. We will most certainly be feasting at a large table. And I am glad there will be plenty of food. The wedding feast of the lamb. That's going to be one big meal with lots to go around.

Searching for knowledge.

2010-06-11T18:39:00.000-07:00

I was at a little coffee place I frequent in the mornings today. Every Monday through Friday a group of retired gentleman gather there to talk about just about everything. One man in particular who is in his 80's is becoming quite an interesting man in conversation. He is always asking me what I am typing on my laptop, and no matter what I say, he seems to know about it. In fact, he said he had thought awhile about getting on facebook, but he realized most of his friends were dead. I laughed at his joke. But realized, he wasn't kidding, he is as alive and interesting as any man I have met.

Well, we were talking about Teddy Roosevelt today, and he said, you know he is a progressive right. Well, kind of I said. And he went on to tell me about the movement, and Woodrow Wilson, and FDR. I was kind of interested in learning about it and I said, "I need to look more of that up." And he just stared at me and said, "Well, I lived through it."

And it just kind of hit me staring at him. That I hadn't even thought of saying, tell me more. Or what was that like. Or did I even connect that there are people alive, and men alive sitting at coffee shops right next to me that know these stories of the past. I was going to google it. He was it.

I love technology. I really would love one of those ipads. But I wonder how man screens we are getting our information from, instead of seeing who is right before us. Or who we could talk to. I need to practice the art of asking and listening. and sitting. versus all the knowledge at my finger tips get the quick facts gathering life. I am sitting on my laptop in a coffee shop full of googles with real stories within them.

The Kentucky Derby - where would you sit?

2010-05-01T11:33:00.000-07:00

I have been watching ESPN today, as they broadcast the Kentucky Derby. I must confess I forget how men and women dress for things like this. The large hats and dresses. The suits and ties. Then there is the infield. It has been raining for the entire day, and the place looks more like woodstock. People out there partying, wearing green hair, shirts half off. There are mint juleps inside under all the air conditioning and probably PBR out there in the rain.

I have wondered, where would I belong? Which group would I want to enjoy the Derby in?

It just made me realize how there can often emerge two worlds. Two sides of people. The haves and have nots. Both are there, enjoying themselves. Different drinks. Different outfits. Different perspectives of the track. of the weather.

Where would you go? Run out in the mud and get dirty? Or put on your derby hat and head into the grandstands and high society and mix with a few celebs and business tycoons?

Sometimes I kind of wish for fun sake, we could toss them around a bit. Shake the place up and everyone switch roles. Maybe the little men on the horses would become the great men in the stand who are the wealthy owners, and the slightly overweight owners would head down to those horses they are watching in their binoculars, jump on the horse, and ride them around the track in all that mud covering their expensive italians suits.

That is a race, I would like to see.

One Church Many Tribes

2010-04-18T13:42:00.000-07:00

I just opened a book written to the Church from a Native American offering his vision of some of the issues facing the clash between Native Americans and us Anglo-Europeans. It is a fascinating book, I find myself highlighting most of the pages. Isn't it fascinating that as the people of God's Kingdom, we have never asked what did His original inhabitants offer to us as a way of understanding the Kingdom?

The book's author, Richard Twiss of the Lakota Sioux tribe says this...

"It may be difficult to hear or to accept, but I believe that because of clashing cultural worldviews, the Anglo expression of Christ and His kingdom has said to the Native expression of Christ and His kingdom, "I have no need of you. I don't need your customs, your arts, your society, your language, concepts or perspectives." If you look at a thing and cannot identify any value in it, you will have no perceived sense of need for it. And if you have no need for it, then you get along without it.

He is sharing that after explaining, or maybe asking why there are no native americans today in major christian leadership roles across our country?

It is a great point. What does God want to teach us through the original native people of this land as an expression of worship, of Kingdom thinking?

I just have really been enjoying a deeply reverent, Kingdom minded, and Christ focused Native American who I imagine, might be one of those voices we might need to listen to.

If you are interested, the book is ONE CHURCH MANY TRIBES, by Richard Twiss

And a few vides on youtube...

Laying a stone.

2010-03-18T20:58:00.000-07:00

I was watching Ken Burn's National Park series tonight. It is so well, well done. Evoking so much longing. It also reminded me of the wonderous beauties of some of the places I have been fortunate to go over the past few years. One of them a trip I took with my wife, Jayne, to the Grand Teton National Park.

We were headed up paintbrush canyon, heading to the backside of the teton range from the park entrance to the east when there was a worker laying trail. There is a need in the trail system to upgrade the trails, and for many of the workers, they camp back in the parks, and work longs day, chipping away rocks, and setting up and rebuilding worn trails. I tell you, it is a back breaking job. Long hours. Sweat. No showers. Heavy lifting.

We stopped to talk to one of the guys, and I asked why he did it. He was laying stones over a small stream bed, rocks that were the size of tires, each one having to be cut, and rolled into place.

He said something of the sort, like, I get the satisfaction of coming back here years later, to see the work, and knowing what I am doing will be here for many years to come.

I dont think I will ever forget that moment. In the midst of what seemed like a horrible job, I heard him explain the connection to the place. Putting something in place that will last many years, even beyond him. The cost was worth the pain.

I need that reminder these days. I want to live that kind of life. So much of what we do, so easily is washed away at the next rain. the easy stuff easily can be washed in the next storm. only to have to be rebuilt, replaced. and often it simply is lost.

I don't know how many boulders any of us can put in place in this life that are eternal. It is grace we can do any. We sure can't make a mountain, or build a entire trail system on our own. but if we grit our teeth, and we sweat it out, and pay the cost, I think we each have a stone or two to lay.

I am in a time of my life, where I am feeling the weight and the cost of placing a few stones in their seeminly right place in the path. Its not sexy like it was a few years back. I mostly feel the cost, the pain, and the weight of the stone, and the pain of my back.

Maybe that is what we all are given. To prepare the path, and lay the stones we are given to lay. Some of us think we have to carve and cut the whole trail, others just want to use the trail, without carrying any of its cost. and some are just laying down pebbles, that will soon wash away.

I imagine for that man, the greatest joy is coming back. Walking up that trail, and seeing those stones he lay. The enjoyment of remembering that season of hard work. Seeing its place and purpose in the scheme of it all. I need that reminder these days, and I am looking forward to the day I can walk the trail, and see the stones I helped cut and roll into place, along with the so many others who offered theirs along the way.

I guess for me right now, that is one of the great mysteries, where is this trail going? If someone came by and asked of where I am currently in the path, I would probably have to admit, I am not all that sure. Its headed in that direction, as I pointed. I know its good. I just am here, doing this part.

I think of that day, when we can walk that trail, as it is finally complete. Fully restored. It will be fully paved.

Editing my life .

2010-03-11T22:11:00.000-08:00

I am two days away from turning in the final edits of a book I am working on due out this July 1st. It is my second book, and one thing I find is that the last read through is the toughest. It’s the last moment to make changes.

When you are writing stories, for me, mostly personal ones for others to read, it is always a bit of a gasp. It seems that our lives are lived by our interpretation of what is happening. How we view the events of our lives. To tell them word by word, and sentence by paragraph, and form them into chapters, and a book, is in some essence to tell them a certain way. Interpret them. And sell them to people. Give a certain way for people to interpret their lives.

I think that is what is always the hardest for me. I think God's invitation into our lives is to continually reinterpret what is really happening. It is so hard to have the lens of God, as St. Paul says, we see through a glass darkly.

It’s funny because I did a television show for my first book. It was all quite a rather weird experience to be on Christian TV, and feel like those televangelists in those gold chairs. There was a moment when the host had me look into the camera, and really bring the thunder. It was all rather odd to me, but I did it as asked.

They gave me the complimentary copy of the show. And to this day, I have never watched it. I could watch myself in this moment I think, but to watch myself in a moment past, is to look at what I know now, and kind of do a, "oh my gosh, what was I thinking, what was I doing."

I am already reading through it, and feeling that again. Xan, why did you say it that way, or, is that really what that moment should be explained as? And yet, for that moment in time, I wrote it. and I thought it. and it will remain in print, till those moths come and destroy them.

I had heard awhile ago, that one pretty big Christian author who wrote a very popular book as a young man, doesn't recommend his book to people anymore. instead he recommends another book he wrote later about the subject. that makes a lot of sense to me. the older we get, the wiser we hopefully get, and the less we find we know. which is what makes us wise, but makes us feel stupid for all the things we said when we "knew" so much.

And so, this book is my knowing, and will have to be undone by my living on. but I think what I am trying to learn is to allow my writing, like my life, to be a work in progress. of where I am, when I wrote it. it’s kind of like knowing when you are taking a picture that somehow in 40 years; people are going to look at your clothes, or your haircut, and laugh. and say, you wore that? you kind of know that will be true, but you haven't any clue why or what they will say about it. it looks right for the time.

and so it is with this book. it is me, in this moment, of this time. an offering of a perspective that will likely change. and yet, it is worth the sacrifice to bring it, and share it, because I guess we are all in that process of changing and growing, and by the time I realize how foolish it was, it will have been replaced by other fools writing books on other areas we think they have all the answers for. till the next one comes along.

Everything falls apart.

2010-03-04T22:10:00.001-08:00

I have been learning a few lessons these days. I guess the lessons are always there to learn, its just a matter of when we are ready to see them. When we have had enough. A good man I like to read says, "we learn by prayer or by suffering." And for most men, the only pathway is suffering. He wish it weren't true.

There is a mentality I think in most men, that is both for his good, and his vice. It is, I can fix it. I can make it better. I can change the world.

I think its probably good to get a sense of that. My generation seems to believe it. We can make a difference. We go out and live for purpose, passion, get involved in social causes like no other generation. We have a great optimism. I love to believe this has been true of my life. I have believed.

But one hard lesson to learn, all things break down. Our bodies. Our bank accounts. Our dreams. Our understanding of just about everything. I think it has to. I think that is part of living. Part of coming to that end of ourselves.

I think one of the things we must find is to see the world as broken, but fixable. To see a world with questions, and believe there are answers to be found. But there is something important I think, when we remain in hope, a hope beyond our own hope, that the world is also breaking down. and we can't fix it.

I realized today how many things I have written down, and then crossed of when it was accomplished. I have this sheet that has a top 2 big things for the day, 5 people to call, 10 things to do. Its kind of my guide to keep me on track. Keep me moving forward, disciplined, focused.

I dont know how many things I crossed off, probably in the 1,000's by now. But I think with each one crossed, I felt that much closer to some finish line of completeness. that somehow I could cross enough tasks of that I would come to the end of them all, and I would find myself at peace, and ready to rest.

But dang it, the lists are growing, the email box is getting more full, and the demands are ever more, and I still can't get my truck's oil changed, and the dust, it just keeps collecting. I wipe it off, and it keeps coming back.

I think I am going to have to learn to find peace and rest in the midst of the tasks yet to be marked off. or the emails to be gotten to. How does one take a break, when that hours of work, could help pay the light bill? is it fair to just take off, and go be with the trees, and your soul, and the one who calls to us in the midst. it is so, so hard.

Making a person.

2010-02-17T22:26:00.000-08:00

I am still so caught in the mystery of the making of a person. Meaning how two people, make one really tiny person. it is what happens every day, but somehow when you make your own, it all makes sense.

I seem to have spent the majority of my life, building stuff. as a boy it was legos. a little older and I was working on complete baseball card sets. then it was a remote control car. then a salt water reef aquarium eco system in my room. then other things. i am tinkering with a business right now, and growing a ministry. which gets me to tonight. laying on my bed, exhausted from what seems like a lot of building, a lot of making.

well, jayne and i have been sleeping with our little girl, kruzie in the bed. trying it out, her lying between us the last few nights. so here i go to lay my head, from what seems like 3 long years of making things, with a few pauses, and there is this little product of my and jaynes making.

it seems so surreal to me. so much work is required in making things. things break down. you need more money. problems occur. re-thinking, re-strategizing. it seems the natural part of anything creative is lots of work. it requires a lot, and you have to put in the sweat. nothing just happens. but that to me, is the greatest mystery of lying next to this little girl. I helped make her. but it was probably the simplest making ever.

and maybe that is what is so complex to me. the most amazing, unique, and remarkable creation, is a person. and somehow, we do the deed, the stuff comes out, goes to the egg, and the rest, just happens. and then one day, you look over on your bed, and there is something created. that is alive. and real. and a soul. moving and breathing.

it is the most complex and intricate making. we make them. but, there is so much evidence, there is someone else so much more in the process than me. i think that is what is so amazing, while everything else is prone to break down, and rust, and come apart, without attention, this little one is growing, and changing, and while there is plenty of hands on, and doing, it is like this natural thing God has set up. God makes it all grow.

I am not sure if this is "making" sense. But I think I feel so grateful that God is growing this little girl. most of what I make, tends to fall apart, at some point. and yet, there is such evidence, not this time, not this one. I feel outdone. outdone. and yet, I feel so honored that I get to play a part in continuing to make her. make and grow her into what she was made for, and who she was made to be with. her little makers (mom and dad) and her Big Maker.

I just had to get back up from the bed, and say that.

Take the pacifer.

2010-02-14T09:16:00.000-08:00

My wife and I over the past few days brought home our much anticipated daughter, Kruzie from the hospital. It is hard to put all the words and emotions to her. She does some pretty basic things that would not make you blink if it were from a dog, or a person, but when it is your own, to watch her sleep, or even push out a "dirty" you can't help but see her as adorable. We are blessed, and so enjoying this new little one. I am excited to see how it will change our life.

There are so many reflections to write. Good, bad, selfish thoughts, frustrations. Great joys. It is a flurry of places to go. But this morning I am starting at my little girl, and she wont take her pacifer. She is staring at me. Frustrated. What about, I could not tell you. I imagine its gas. Maybe she is too tired to sleep. Maybe she knows her father is thinking of other things, and not her. Kids are smart, right?

You see, I like to accomplish things. Do things. And I tell you, a baby is like the anti- of all those things. It is a great juxtaposition for my life. She is staring at me. Beckoning me back, asking me to look at her. She has no words. Just kinda these sweet grunts. She can't even smile yet. Now she is in my arms, as I try and balance her on my chest, while putting my hands to this computer. She is now about to fall off. Hold on.

Ok. better.

I did this the other night, balancing her on my knees. and working late into the night while she was asleep. I was told by Jayne that is unsafe. So I am going to put her back in her little baby seat thing next to me.

It would probably be easy to justify that this is the time of a babies life where momma is only needed. I can go on, and get things done, and try and make more money, so I can pay for all these things coming down the pipe. thats certainly what I feel. what seems the easy thing to do. work more and harder.

but I do love the issue of my two worlds. one that just wants me to stare at her. the other that requires my intellectual thoughts and management. I forgot the other. probably much like how I forgot God is wanting the same. to wait. to sit on the lap. and stare. and enjoy.

And so I want little Kruzie to take the pacifer, so she can be pre-occupied and I can get back to work. and on the other hand, it feels like a great thing I need more of. a baby who needs me. who just wants to stare at me. and I probably, honestly, just need to stare right back more. and enjoy. I can already see that being a great challenge in the years ahead. will I work with her on my lap. will I plug her into a pacifer, a DVD, a flurry of activities at school, and in life, or will I enjoy her. and be in her presence.

so, as you can imagine. I probably need to go do that.

How to respond to Haiti?

2010-02-06T09:56:00.000-08:00

I have been pondering the great problems, and pain, and death in Haiti. And have wondered what is the appopriate response? Of course, mercy, Lord, mercy. But as they begin to ask the question what shall we do? And all the money comes into the country, what is the appropriate response?

There is one side... that this was God bringing judgement. Pat Robertson.

He got pretty slammed for bringing that up. It was a classic right-winger super conservantive comment. It would have come from someone, seems in this moments they are always looking for an uncompassionate christian to feed the angst. Robertson played into it perfectly. And his statements were quickly written off. How dare he?

Donald Miller offered another take. Saying Robertson didn't represent his voice. He offered a very articulate message about Jesus caring, and having compassion. And talking a lot about the issues of christian leaders today, and how they get into their position of leadership.

It felt weird to me. Because there is the old school thinkers of Roberton's era. Then my generation who gravitates to a voice similar to Miller. But as I read both, I felt they each made great points, and yet, they both had some truth to them. Could it be true there was something really dark to the Haitian culture, even propigated by our own colinialism? And could we bring compassion like Miller said, while thinking of this ias something incredibly dark, that Robertson could have been on to something?

I didn't know what to say, because obviously you have to back up it up, to make a response to a response. But then I read an article in the NY Times from a man outside evangelicalism, and who has little to gain in the voices of Christians, but just seemed to offer simple clarity. It was a mix of all the issues of what has happened to Haiti. And to me, would be a great image of what as Christians, those who feel called to go, and serve, and fight evil, would be worth reading...

Haiti and the Voodoo Curse by Lawrence Harrison

Making people.

2010-01-11T08:10:00.000-08:00

Jayne and I are expecting our first little baby in about 4 weeks. There are a lot of things I can relate to in life, and dig up the associations, and feelings, but fathering a child, cleaning its butt, looking at a child with my own reflection, along with my wife, is not one of them. I can relate to people going through suffering, I can relate to people driving Jeeps, guys trying to walk out their story as a man.

I can relate and understand in part many things, but one of them is not being a baby, or having a baby. And I have never been a father. I mean, I guess I have offered in part the heart of a father to the young men we work with at Training Ground. But that is ages 18-25. So I am doing everything in reverse. I am starting with a child in an age I can't recall, and have never had to do. I have never wiped a dirty diaper. Or dressed a little girl. Or gazed at something that is literally part of me.

I went into the nursery the other day, and it just all kind of hit me. This was my future. I looked at all these little dresses and colors, and I saw my impending fate. I am a father. I have been for the last 8 months. But as that head pokes out, I think there it will finally hit me. and as she gets swadled in pink, and we drop her in the crib, it will all rush in. Do I have any idea what I am doing? Have I really read much? Listened to the parenting classes or all the advice? Well, kind of. But since I dont really get it, that this is all happening, its hard to really take in something.

I dont know what to expect. But I tell you. Jayne is ready. and I think I am getting there too. We looked at each other a few months back and admitted we were kind of bored in life. Not that we dont have a good life, but just a bit boring. I get the sense whatever is coming through and peeking out, she will not be boring.

And so I am told to rest. Rest as much as I can. sleep. go on dates. enjoy the last remaining days. your life will never be the same. I toast to that.

A case of 48 books for $48.

2009-11-29T16:11:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, I was given the opportunity to buy some of my first book from the publisher back. They had pretty much stopped selling, and were dumping them for $1 a copy, so I said, hey. Can I get a few? They said, how about the remaining?

Somewhere around 1,300 books.

It presented a dilemma. I am not traveling around speaking, or have any real way of getting the books into the hands of men, and young men at a large scale. They ain't flying off the shelves or in high demand.

But imagine if all your hard work and labor of something was being discounted at somewhere around 90%. Maybe a version of you at a really cheap rate. I'd like to think while many of us would pay more for our own version then most, we do like ourselves. How could you not go in at 90% off of yourself. You would have to buy yourself at that price.

And how many of yourself would you buy at that rate?

1, 5, 100, or 1,300?

I guess I figured if anyone was going to take that price, it should be me, right? So, I ponied up the money, and bought them. Priceless, original, out-of-print copies of my first book. Pretty dang cheap.

And now they sit. and sit. 1,300 of yourself just sitting there with no one to want them but the person that made them. and to be honest, he's not sure if he made the right choice. I think all 1,301 of us are kind of getting bored at staring at each other. while they are pretty independent, this one has to eat.

I figured, maybe I could sell them. so, i offer me to you, the 90% off me.

you could hand them out to a youth group, use them for firewood, or a ministry, or just give the old beggar a few coins in the tin cup, but I am willing to get rid of them for $48 a box. which includes 48 copies. then $10 to ship them.

So $58 for 48 books.

I think Donald Miller's newest hard back is selling for about $58. so maybe that is where you need to make a real economical decision. 48 of xan, or 1 of Donald Miller. those could be some true odds.

If you are interested, give me a holler at xanhood@hotmail.com

Good tidings.

All things come together.

2009-11-10T09:02:00.001-08:00

As a young teenager, one of my good friends was Wade. We worked out together, dreamed of our girlfriends, and in some ways, felt a bit outside of the circle of friends we ran around with. He went to one high school, I went to another. We were dreamers without much to back that up, or without understanding of how that was part of a potential calling in our life.

I just placed my first order with Buffalo & Company with his company that he has built called USIMPRINTS. Ordered some croakies as they say in the south, or sunglass straps for the rest of the world.

I doubt it made much of a dent in their bottom line for the month, but it was a great full circle, and coming around for me. I have watched Wade grow his business, and watch him grow as a great man of integrity, and strength. He has supported our work at Training Ground with some of those profits. which has in turn, allowed me to grow in my calling as well.

In ministry, you can often feel like a beggar. We are in the end of the year giving season, and so our plans begin for how to invite people into our work, and ultimately ask for their resources. While it's more dignified, it is still begging. Asking for something, that you know, will not necessarily return something in return for them. We are begging on behalf of others, not just for our ourselves, but we are begging.

I have had to learn how to walk into that. I am not an easy begger. But God has called me to that, to intercede for others and their journey.

I think that is what felt so coming around for me. I could step in the chain of business. I could trade one item of value for another. He could serve me a product I needed, and I could return give him the cash for it he was looking for.

There is most certainly a difference in the realm of business and ministry. and some of us are called to beg, and others to give. and that goes from money, to counsel, to just about anything. we all should be beggers at some point, it is a gospel mandate.

I guess, I just feel so grateful to be able to give back the market value of what is asked. not to necessarily ask for a donation. ministry folks need that. in fact, i kind of have this brewing theory that those in ministry, would do good to learn the other side of the table for awhile. and business leaders, could do well to learn what its like to in some form, beg. for others, or even themselves.

its too easy to stay on one side of the table. either out of shame, or pride. I feel honored in this season at Training Ground, and for Buffalo & Company, to experience a bit of both. Both needed, both good.

Creativity.

2009-11-07T06:54:00.000-08:00

What does true creativity look like?

There is a self expression inside creativity, that is marked with uniqueness and distinction of all its own. Nothing tied down, or limited. Its a form of making something all new.

Being part creative, and part business, there is always a place between the two I have enjoyed blending. I think for capitalism to work well, you have to provide a service or product needed for people. It has to serve a need. If not, the business fails. So, there is plenty of marketing, and I guess you would are not say, "creative" ways to get people to see something in a certain way.

And then on the other side is the pure artist. They are not bound by conventional means. Production is a negative. And expression and uniqueness is the full means to true art. Fleeing all that business and marketing crap.

It is quite ironic that most of the art, whether it be writing, or music, or you name it, come from very well aware business and artistic types. They know there is a place for both. To get your music to be played in many places, requires some major commitments to be a good manager of your talent, your time, and your pursuit of sharing your art.

I think that is why I love the two dilemmas. the artist needs to eat. the business man needs to create. neither probably are naturally wanting that. the business man wants the bottom line, the quantitative and qualitative analysis of the numbers for his investors. but most people buy, for very immeasurable reasons, often because of something like art. and beauty. and desire.

the artist tends to want to stay in their focused place. not to be consumed by the world of production art, or mass anything. they are purists. but then, the rent payment comes around. and the cost for those guitars.

I think there is a beautiful tension between those two. how do you create honest art that also creates a paycheck. and how does the businessman offer value to his stockholders, while knowing full well that even at the end of the day, when the rich investor goes home, he probably took some of that money to re-decorate his house, with designer chairs, and beautiful paintings, and sculptures that are all one of a kind.

From our friend, Sister Therese.

2009-11-03T12:14:00.000-08:00

I just received this from a lady I met a few years back who teaches at Training Ground the ancient practice of contemplative prayer. She is a benedectine nun here in town. I call her my spiritual grandmother. She wrote this in response to a newsletter we sent out at TG about our time hunting.

Dear Xan: Thanks for the update. You are coming along fine.
I have a question - Why does hunting to kill an animal make a man?
Many blessings on your ministry to young men.
Sr. Therese

Many different thoughts are there. John Muir spent time with Teddy Roosevelt, and one of their more argumentative topics was on enjoying animals vs. killing them. Muir the naturalist. Roosevelt the hunter. Muir thought a man was meant to come out of this place. that killing for sport was an adolescent experience.

Here is a quote I read from Muir,

"All hale, re-blooded boys are savage, the best and boldest the savagest, fond ouf hunting and fishing. But when thoughtless childhood is past, the best rise the highest above all this bloody flesh and sport business, the wild foundational animal dying out day by day, as divine uplifting, transfiguring charity grows in."

There are many sides to this argument, but a look at the fall, tells us death will come. And maybe even God was the first hunter. Killing something in our place for Adam and Eve to put on their shame and nakedness. a shadowing of the blood needed to come. There is so much in this conversation. so much. There are some who hunt for merely trophies, other for the meat, others for the bonding time. not an easy one to try and sum up. but i believe any sane man, who hunts, needs to ask that question. and live from it in the hunting process.

Worship and Sex.

2009-09-30T22:27:00.001-07:00

From what I take on the great metaphors of the gospel, it seems one of the greatest is Jesus as the groom and the church as the bride. The culmination is the meeting of full consecration, and one joining the other together, and forever. I guess, Jesus making love to his church. It is actually very beautiful, despite having to wince a minute at the thought.

It seems that our experience of worship (here and now), of entering into that holy communion has the taste of love making. Some divine experience of opening up, and inviting him in.

I find myself to be a worshiper. but I can't help to think about how we schedule our sex with God. I mean, taking the metaphor he offers us, and we schedule it. 10 a.m. on Sunday. If I take this to a much more practical place, my own wife. I can only imagine what she might say to my weekly invitation.

And that is not to mention the performance anxiety for those minutes. We have ourselves a little baby girl on the way, and with this being the only time we ever really "scheduled" all that metaphor making reality, lets just say, it was a bit difficult.

I guess that is what is hard about sunday morning worship. its kinda of, well, scheduled sex. and while, I am not trying to make a case against church, or planning the songs, or practicing for the act, I just had a beautiful time with worship, over a cigar, some pearl jam, God, and a luke warm hot tub with dirt floating around. Quite an unexpected moment of joy in all this metaphor of love. Jesus just snuck up on me in an unexpected place.

Animal Sacrifice.

2009-09-26T17:39:00.000-07:00

The Training Ground guys spent the day down at a mom and pop butchery and processing place in Fountain, CO. We made sausage, but before we made it, we went to pick up our pig.

She greeted us hanging on a rack. It was my morning coffee.

We spent the morning with Dwayne and his son. They showed us around the place. Goats. Pigs. Chickens. And lambs. All in a holding cell, awaiting their ultimate fate in the wood shack room we went in. It is fun to pet a goat. Especially when it is a pet. But to pet it wondering, here in a few short days, someone is gonna come by and point. And instead of taking it home to little timmy for 12 years of dog food, and extra human loving, not this time billy goat.

I have killed a few deer and turkeys now. so death is not all that new. but when we held down the goat, and it began to "bleet" and "baah" and the throat was slit, it all came to me. I stood back. and struggled.

I think in part because in my mind, when I think of meat, and my daily dose of nuggets and round and square burgers, in my mind, someone else did the dirty work. and I dont have to take in the death, and the fall of man. I like the creation story. I like how beautiful it is. but I dont think much on how when Adam and Eve sinned, God went somewhere and skinned some animal skin, to give to Adam and Eve. the first hint of a sacrifice needed. that for us to have life, death had to come.

I dont like death. and somehow I think even in those burgers and patties I think that maybe they just found their way into a patty. they somehow chose it. decided on their own to do that for my $8 combo meal. but watching the goat, watching its struggle and fight, and even its noise, as they held it down, reminded me that it was a sacrifice.

When you hunt, there is a sense of sport. but today, there was nothing of the sort. it was for the meat. and there is something really horrible about having to do that to anything living. its not how it was meant to go. and yet, God's provision is blood. blood as a sign. for us. I am excited when the day comes when the one who was slain, is in completely in full reign. when the blood is gone, and all the tears are wiped away. and the lion and the lamb are together.

and the little goat, can be what it was meant. no sacrifice needed.

Buffalo & Co.

2009-09-05T21:39:00.000-07:00

I regret not posting in awhile. Life has been quite busy. I actually read a fascinating book, Money, Greed, and God by Jay Richards. a few weeks back. I don't believe a book has ever shaped me more in thinking about money and free markets.

It has taken me down some interesting paths. From thinking about micro-lending, and social enterprise, and eventually to the thought of starting a business. I have thrown together a website that I am collaborating together with a few people. It is in the very early start-up stages. But we are moving forward with it.

It is in some ways, my trying to reconcile my southern traditions of style and class of my upbringing, with a more western experience in Colorado. From blue collar roots to white collar. It is a twist on men's clothes, designing a new brand to speak to those in-between places.

It's online here...

www.buffaloandcompany.com

I would love if you took a gander.

Do dogs have political beliefs? And views on technology?

2009-07-02T13:40:00.000-07:00

I got this from my wife today in an email...

Tacoma (our bernese mountain dog) got a hold of my phone and it's completely destroyed. Yeah, I know. I'm going to kill him. Just so you know, that's why you can't get a hold of me. I'm going to try to find one off craigslist. And he destroyed your Communist book.

Serving the poor by teaching them.

2009-06-30T21:42:00.000-07:00

It is interesting what has been coming out of the news about a new wave of thinking in Africa. One women wrote a book discrediting the beliefs that all the aid that came into Africa over the years has helped. But instead, made them dependent on it. Hooked onto assistance. She believes if change will happen, it must come from within. the old adage, “give a man a fish, feed him for the day. Teach a man to fish, feed him for life.”

It seems to be the issues at hand for much of our country, regarding entitlements. government subsidies, and programs. “handouts.” It is a sad story to see the native American story. An independent people who lived off land without a need for printed money. But over time, as we have given them territories of often, barren lands, and offered them various financial assistance. They received checks for the resources taken from that land (oil or natural gas), which has them hooked onto our system for payments. A sweet Shoeshone lady, Sparky, in Wyoming told me all about it one day.
And I grieved at how we in part, made them dependent upon us.

Behind all this often lies a poverty mentality. No sense of making the way through it. rising up. Often, there is very little motivation. Or reason. Those in power, are in power and in control. I will take what I can get.

Karl Marx believed that we needed to overthrow the powers that be. All those benefiting from the working class. We should take them out. And give over control to all the normal joes out there. But the free market capitalist believes that you can earn your way to the top by hard work and dedication. No one requires you to stay stuck in that position. You have a choice to engage, or lay back on the couch and collect government checks. That is the beauty of free markets. You are free to decide.

One of the all time great best-selling books is called, Rich Dad, Poor Dad. As the website explains, “the conspiracy of the rich” It’s premise is that a rich father teaches his son something much different than someone poor. And that secret really leads him down a very different path. I have some good friends who have read it, and reading it. and for awhile, I always saw it as some hoakie get rich quick scheme. But lately, I have been wondering if in it lies more of the answer to our problems in America.

In my field of work, and with Training Ground, much of what we initiate young men into is the world of hardship, suffering, and hard work. Many of these young men need an experience of working with construction workers, and an experience outside the world of academia. And our entitled culture. It can be a wake up call of sorts.

But what about the opposite side? What do they need?

I wonder if part of that book, Rich Dad, Poor Dad, is offering fathering. Some form of invitiation into capitalism, and business, and understanding of financial systems to get on top of the capitalism ladder.

Getting back to Africa. I wonder what it would mean to father, initiate, and lead these men and women into ways of business, free markets, and economic freedom and prosperity. “teach them to fish.” For people who are poor, and come from poverty, well, they see themselves as always being that. As Jesus speaks of in the parables, you take one talent, and bury it.

A friend, Paul, told me a story of how a project was taking place in Africa where they built a “chicken factory” for thousands of chickens for a village to raise and sell for profit. The delivery of 1,000’s of chickens arrived, and they received a call back in the states with the statement, “they ate all the chickens!”

When you see a chicken. You eat it!

But what does it meant to teach them how to take that chicken, and make a few more, which make a few more, and one talent becomes ten. That doesn’t come very naturally for someone who is just looking for the next meal. Or being handed a fish for the day’s food.

All to say, it seems you have to change the mentality of the people. teach them. Lead them. And call them up. Karl Marx wrote off the wealthy merchant class (bourgeoise) because they did not care but anything but their own profits. Exploiting the lower classes for their own gain. But what if the wealthy class, went and taught this to the poorer class. They taught them their secrets in Jesus. And how to multiply talents.

I just think that would be so beautiful. so redemptive. And to me, instead of dividing the lines further, like all this talk of socialism vs. capitalist, it might merge the two, and make them have a deeper respect for one another. Not to mention what all the rich people would learn from the other side in the process.

Communism or Free Markets?

2009-06-29T22:37:00.001-07:00

I am realizing that I have been writing a few 'political' blogs. I don't know why religious people always seem to end up there. Is it ego, ambition, or where the intersection of so many ideas get injected in the marketplace of humanity? I decided that I was going to read two viewpoints. Today in the mail arrived The Communist Manifesto. I felt very un-patriotic opening it up. And quickly hid it from any neighbors. McCarthy would surely be tracking me a few years back. But I also picked up Mark Levin's, Liberty and Tyranny - A conservative Manifesto. Two manifestos. Two very different opinions of just about well--everything.

I just switched them up. Read a bit on one, then on the other.

What a great new experience. Of course, both is slamming the others side. But the beauty of it all, is that it actually made me formulate some opinions. I got to hear from two leading sources. And I am realizing I am not as much a socialist, as I was starting to believe. It helped by reading from the source.

But I also can't deny that Marxism, and socialism, still has dignity in it, and addresses some issues that are too easily pushed aside. There are class struggles. There is the rich and the poor. Bourgeoise, and proletariat. Marx writes, "the history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles." I think there is a lot ot be said about that. While I don't agree with the solutions formed, I think we need to spend more time (us conservatives) on looking at how capitalism can easily usurp the less for profit and gain. the abuse of capitalism and greed has caused a lot of people to re-examine motives, and control. and ask what is the best economic system.

Fox or CNN?

2009-06-07T22:14:00.000-07:00

What political side do you lean on? Right or Left?

And from that, do you watch your news, or your counter-ideas?

I found it interesting to watch the presidential debates months back, and hear on one side, how Obama missed the point, while the other channel was enthralled by his composure and statements. Same speech. Two sides. Two opinions. Which did you want to hear?

It is intensely hard to hear things and take them in, objectively today. There are always two sides. And with our country so polarized, I find that we would rather just have people affirm our beliefs, whichever side they are, than challenge them. It is so much easier to have people tell us we are right, than question them.

I keep flipping channels wondering, which side do I believe? and which side am I supposed to be on? And while we are there, am I supposed to have a side?

There is a lot of good fights out there needed between the two. What is light without darkness? Good without evil? It will always be the case. Two differing views. But I think that is beginning to come out more and more. We can't just blindly live for the one, and not see the other.

This all really came out of a question of which news to watch.

I am glad to know in this confusion my calling as a christian is to follow Jesus. That's the more clear command. But where he heads and what the spirit is doing, seems to wander a path that is not as one sided as it once seemed with the religious right. maybe that is our greatest problem. we went a bit too far to a side. and an affiliation. I guess, we used each other. Rove and Republicans used evangelicals. Evangelicals used Rove and republicans. But with all that using, what did that give us other than a false sense of power? And control?

I think for now, I will take my meals more buffet style. a little from the left, and a little from the right as I try and make sense of it all. that means having to think a bit more while I watch. and listen. I rarely talk politics to anyone I know, really. kind of weird. But I think I am trying to take it in. seems this blog is my confession at times.

A site for the Training Ground guys.

2009-06-01T20:44:00.001-07:00

For those who might be interested in following along some of the journals of the guys going through the summer '09 Training Ground session, you can visit www.tgcommunity.com. One of the guys from the fall class, Sam Scott, who is our media intern, has put together one phenomenal interactive site to really get a feel for what happens around the place. From videos, twitter updates, and blogs from their week.

Poetry.

2009-05-16T09:10:00.000-07:00

I always wondered why I never liked poetry. I don't know if I have the answers. But some image of a soft man putting pen to words of expressions with meaning, but lacking the necessary experiences of beauty and strength. Mercy and some balls. Why are most writers more artistic? And less rough? I guess we dont want a rough man giving us poetry.

I met a man who just made me cry over a poem. I met him on his audio reading called "Gray man." My friend, John Blase, had me read a few other of his poems, and I have finally found poetry that somehow meets me between the desire to be expressive and an artist, and not lose my balls. And to be a man, and honest, and not have to be cast off as some wanna-be cowboy.

There is no greater tension in this work, then between art and strength. killing a deer, and being sweet to your wife. and people are just waiting to put you in one of two camps. Fairchild is one you might want to read, he seems to have the balance, so sweet.

http://poemsoutloud.net/audio/archive/bh_fairchild_reads_the_gray_man/

Men and Beauty?

2009-05-15T06:37:00.000-07:00

It is has been interesting to step into the hunting world, and learn more about species. From deer, elk, turkey. In moving to a new location for Training Ground, we have inherited from the previous owners their pet peacocks. Three of them that are in a cage made up of two barn stalls, and a large area they can come outside and roost, or walk. There are two females. And one male.

But guess who is the pretty blue with the fancy feathers?

The male. Guess which gender has the racks men love to kill? And the turkeys, the two I killed earlier this year, they were fanning that big spread behind them like a 2nd grade display thanksgiving ornament. Looking in the brush, thinking I was a female, trying to impress me.

The two times I have been turkey hunting, when we have called them over, and the big toms and jakes (male gobblers) have begun their display, showing me their beautiful feathers, I just laugh. Laughed both times. It is such an odd thing.Here I am a man, in a blind, with all these pretty camo to make me look good, and there a few yards away is another male, with all his accoutrements of display. staring at each other.

It is comical. but what is fascinating is that in the animal world, the male is more often the prettier one. he is the one who has to impress the lady. fluff his feathers, or stick out his rack, and be admired. is that not something to pause and think about?

If God makes animals, male and female. some semblance to us. what does it mean that he made the males a little more colorful? and maybe, where has that gone in the male world? well, ok, there is Adam on American Idol in his makeup, and emo, but what does that look like for a rather normal man? how should we offer are beauty? doesn't it sound even bad?

I dont know the answer, but each time I walk by the cage, I watch this male peacock in full feathers, displaying for his two female friends staring at him. he most do this 100 times a day. all that work and effort, over and over again for these two lovely rather plain looking ladies.

im thinking. bud. you have a sealed deal. two women, and you are the only thing they got. your in! no more bravado needed. you are in a sealed cage. but still, there is something in, that instinct that says, I must show myself, I must display and win her affection.

how many days is she ready to mate? maybe 3 or 4? I'm thinking, 360 days times 100 displays a day, 36,000 displays of himself, for that one moment. thats a man who isn't afraid of rejection.

Desire reveals Design.

2009-05-14T06:01:00.000-07:00

I have noticed that when it comes to issues of masculinity, lets say even, overt expressions, maybe hunting or fishing, or men who launch into some of this, there are many reactions out there. One of them is what I want to talk about. It is the one that says, "Oh, come on. That's not what a man is. A man is one who has Jesus as his guide, all that stuff is just external ego trying to earn manhood."

It is very dismissive towards a man's quest. Essentially saying, there is no reason to do that. Just be Godly. Follow Jesus. that is the way to be a man. there are a few books, that kind of lead you in that path, and can be rather reactionary towards the whole "men's movement."

I must admit, I agree. It is really about Jesus. to glorify him, and enjoy God forever. but my question, really, is how do we ultimately get there?

I think that is what is so beautiful, in my opinion, about some of these uber masculine things. they tell us something about what we deeply desire and long for inside. for the same reason, we could ask a porn addict, what are the images you look at? At first, we would rather say, dont look at porn. bounce the head. control your flesh.

but for most, from what I found, even personally, its a band-aid on a grand canyon divide. but what if inside all those desires, was a deep longing for God? And what if we honored the process, and even affirmed it?

Dan Allender says, if you are going to sin, enjoy it.

Most of us deny it at the time, give ourselves illusions of why we are sinning, till we fall, and feel the shame, and then beat ourselves up in the process. But what, if you actually threw a party for your sin? And really named what it was you wanted?

It sounds so wrong, but I think where it takes you is to actually naming what you want. and since Evil did not create our heart, and longings of the soul, to name our desire is to bring us to God, and his desires for us--ultimately. That is where the process leads us. As Chesterton writes, "A man knocking in the door of a brothel, is actually knowing on the door of God."

One thing that I think would be helpful for those looking at pornography is to name what you really want? You are not realy just looking for a naked woman, right? What specifically are you looking for in that moment? Large boobs? A wild girl? Specifically what scene are you after? What are you searching for?

And then, what specifically deeper than that scene are you really looking for? What's in that image that awakens or numbs, or is your heart searching for? Simple beauty? Are you needing to be violent because of some odd reason of life? Do you need to just be taken away by someone in control?

I think our desires might tell us about something even deeper, that ultimately points us to a God who can meet us.

I think it is the same pathway with masculinity. Why does rolling in the dirt men's stuff appeal to many men? Why might a man want to go buy a gun? I think, because there is a need in the heart, that is searching for God. I believe our desires, reveal our design from God. and to tell that man, don't roll in the dirt, is in some form to deny the pathway to which we meet Jesus. Isn't it always in our brokenness, and sin, and mixed in with longing, and desire? Why would God ask us to pray? We need to name our desires for him in its midst.

I am finding, the more we move into trying to awaken, and stir young men's hearts towards the gospel, and masculinity, a very strong current of this negativism, and a thinking, "isn't this cowboy and Indians?" type of thought. While, if we stay there, yes. But, the beauty of the gospel, the beauty of our hearts is we move towards God, whether we know it or not, we move towards our design, even when evil might trick our eyes of why we are there. It is our blindness that keeps us stuck.

But almost, always, almost always, it is a knock on the door of God. and what I pray for, is not more men to dismiss it, but a legion of men, who can honor the process, honor the man who is there for a reason, and move him deeper into those desires. by not dimissing them, but awakening him to a bigger gospel, and a deeper masculinity. we dont need more pessimism, but men who have been through that process, and can honor the young man in it as well.

I find that most of the men who write this whole masculinity thing off, are men, quite frankly, who have never risked stepping into that process themselves.

Old, Sick, Tired, Creative, Broke.

2009-05-04T20:57:00.000-07:00

Most days as I drive to work with Cory (we carpool)there is a man with a wiry gray beard that greets us at our exit off Monument. I don't know his name. But he sits with a cardboard sign. It reads,

OLD SICK
TIRED CREATIVE
BROKE

4 of those words, speak of pain, suffering, hardship. I guess what we might expect in a man asking for money, right? We expect a sad story. But one of them is something very different. This man's dignity. Creative. I have marveled at that sign for the last 9 or so months. Never handed him a dollar, but wondered. What is his story, so that this word remains. It makes me think he hasn't given up. there is something there, waiting to be engaged. It speaks of original glory. of God. of his hands over the six days of creation, of that image into man. what is this man's creativity?

I realized I have never thought to ask. I've been to busy getting to work so that I could create. so that I could start into my day that gives me the opportunity for much of that. and maybe my irony is that instead of holding a sign in my life, that says OLD, SICK, TIRED, CREATIVE, AND BROKE. I sign my signature on my email, Director of Development. which means, I help think through the creation process, and I even have to find money to make that possible. I guess, in some ways, I hold a sign that says only one of those CREATIVE. b/c who the hell wants to give to a dude who is sick, tired, creative, and broke. sadly, I don't want to admit the rest, only the creative part. but its more true than I want to admit. and the old is coming. one way or the other.

Maybe I need to see both the dignity, and depravity a bit more. live in both. hold my sign that confesses the gospel in me, how it delivers on some promises, and a few I have done my part to screw up. and some, I just don't really know what happened, but didn't quite work out the way I thought.

I am not sure, but I have decided to stop and see if I could get him breakfast, maybe pay for my time that he would normally collect some money during the rush hour, and ask him... what does that word mean to him. what does he create. what might he want to create.

I figured if I posted this on here, it will be my accountability. and I can follow up.

Listening to Richard Rohr

2009-04-30T20:49:00.000-07:00

A couple of us went up to listen to Richard Rohr, a catholic priest, who teaches/speaks/preachers on many wide topics, some of which I have been deeply changed by. He was speaking about "The path of Descent."

I wrote down a few of his quotes...

"You cannot see what you are not told to look for."

If you are profiting from your current situation, you probably don't want change (repentance)"

"It is only true religion, that can explain what to do with your pain."

"God creates those who in turn create themselves."

Brown before Green.

2009-04-12T20:55:00.000-07:00

Read this on Mike Rowe's website, (the Dirty Jobs guy) www.mikeroweworks.com

Like my friends who espouse all things Green, I want to live on a healthy planet. I really do. But I’m tired of the guilt. I’m suspicious of the manipulation. And I’m weary of being lectured by people who seem to care more about the planet than the people on it. Hollywood and Washington have shaped the issue, and now, all things Eco-friendly are up for sale. Well, that’s fine. But when it comes to jobs, the people who make a difference aren’t covered in green. They’re covered in Brown - dirt, mud, grime, grease, or maybe something worse. I’m no expert, but if we’re going to save the Earth, the color of Dirt makes a heck of a lot more sense than the color of Envy. The way I see it, if we really want to get clean and green, we’re gonna have to get down with brown. In other words, we’re going to have to get our hands dirty.

Socialism or Capitalism?

2009-04-01T17:11:00.000-07:00

I've been dabbling a bit in learning about social and economic theories. I would have never known I cared about these things a few years ago, but I am seeing how much those are some big forces in the world, and why we fight so many wars. And it seems some important issues we are going to be having to think through.

I've asked a few people some questions about it. And while it is not substantial at this point, it seems the great divide over the last 100 plus years has been this issue. These deep philosophers who have driven us to two polar views. Our cold war, our Vietnam war, and so much has been against communism and fears of the red scare, that we were headed for a socialism. And we hear the rumors of it again. We are becoming a socialist country. What does that really mean?

What is socialism anyways? I admit I am one of the dumb americans who gets afraid, not knowing for so long what it even meant. well, I am probably still on the uninformed side, but trying to get me an edumucation in it.

I have wondered if capitalism says, "we live in a fallen world. lets take advantage of it. and motivate people by some of those fallen needs (and good needs too)" When socialism says, "Lets bring heaven down to earth, now, and, well, forget about God, let's be God (the state)."

Neither seem a right answer to me.

If we look at God's story in a few parts. Creation(past). Fall(present). And then Heaven coming down to earth (future). (very simplified)You can kind of imagine why socialism is not some evil thing, but maybe a desire to bring a community of peace and equality with a longing to make it happen today (all of course, under the dictator and governments control and sway).

I think what we must look at in understanding what is the right model is what will we one day experience in the New Earth. Read the book, Heaven, by Randy Alcorn for some great scriptural views, and Alcorns interpretation of what The Word says about the New Heavens, and New Earth.

The economic model there, is something we need to usher on earth, as in Heaven.

With a world that does not know Jesus, this is where things get messed up. We are living out our desires of the fall, and our desires for heaven. We long in some ways for peace. But as Christians, we know it will never happen apart from Jesus coming.

But the world is trying to make their model work, not knowing God, or really inviting him into the story.

I think for now, I am not sure if I am all for capitalism. but I sure don't think socialism, with the state becoming the owner, and telling us who we are, and what we do (being God) either. And what CEO's to fire (current administration)is the answer either.

But I do find it interesting that capitalism has claimed religion, and been associated deeply with christianity in its banner cry. while socialism tries to kick God out and be God for its people. Its been something I have few answers for. but wondering about that.

especially because from what I understand some of the greatest conversions to Christianity, are not necessarily coming from capitalist governments right now. But those places that kicked God out. China, Russia, Vietnam. And where does Christianity seem to be losing its strength?

I wish this was an easier topic.

Grandfathers and Grandsons.

2009-03-23T21:15:00.001-07:00

At Training Ground, we are a few weeks away from application deadlines for our summer class. This is always a fascinating time to receive the applications, and listen to young men's stories from their application. It is one of the most enjoyable, and humbling things for me.

There is an essay question at the end, where we ask the applicant to interview their grandfather (when possible) and ask what it was like when they were (grandsons age) what jobs did they have, what was life like, school, family, etc.

It is one of the most beautiful moments for me to sit, and read the interaction. Many of the young men say, they were suprised at the conversation, and had no idea about their grandfathers life. While my grandparents passed away too early for me to really sit in their story, I was given the chance to interview a few men from Easy Company a few years ago. And my buddy, Jesse and I, sat in a hotel in Monterey for hours as they recalled their experiences. I couldn't believe they were sharing, all their sacrifice, courage, it was like sitting with kings. and yet, it hit me as we left, that maybe no one ever asked, maybe no one every took the time to hear their stories.

There is something beautifully authentic in the words they write about their grandfathers. hearing them learn about their life of hardship, of war, selected war service, and making 75 cents an hour. living in a house with 12 kids with 800 square feet, or walking to school for miles.

I think what I so enjoy, is the thought that these great men, the greatest generation, for even an hour, hear the call of their grandson who wants to know about their life. while the young men apply for many reasons, what I hear in their stories is I want an experience like my grandfather, I wanted to be tested. I want to know who I am. and have experiences that teach me.

I am at loss for words for understanding how far just three generations live. we are so different. so many different experiences. I imagine that no three generations in the history of this earth have changed so quickly and drastically. I can barely relate or conceive of what they have been through. but I love, that even for a few young men, they can honor both their need, and desire, and connect it to their grandfather, and honor the life he led, and many of the sacrifices he made for his family, and his country.

I think about how many old men are out there, who had so much to offer this generation, but how little we ever ask, or believe it is relevant today. these men are dying, and many of their stories are too. as I look at the past 50 years of culture America has created of success, and with many years of little sacrifice or suffering, I wonder what these grand men have in their life we could learn from. while I dont wish a depression, or another great war, I pray peace on earth. there is something that suffering and hardship that seems the only thing that really teaches a man.

Air Force Training.

2009-03-19T18:49:00.000-07:00

Cory and I were given an opportunity today to attend a character development program for the soon to be graduating cadets from the Air Force. It is called ACES.

We drive by the Academy every day as we head to work, and yet, I had never spent time, or really interacted with any of the cadets till today. I have been pretty intrigued by leadership development, and how we learn. My buddy, Jonathan, is an air force fight pilot, and he has shared how their training, for the most part consisted of him flying against an instructor, until he screwed something up and failed. they would head down as soon as a mistake was made, and spend the rest of the time debriefing what happened, and the mistakes made. day after day doing this.

They learned by failing. then with evaluated experience of what really happened.

The idea is that they will never make that mistake again, and can move into more.

This concept has really made me re-think discipleship. If you look at Jesus way of teaching, 80% of his interactions with his disciples is them doing something wrong. then him explaining what happened, rebuking them, or empowering them, maybe restoring them, like Peter.

I am fascinated to see how much of the time today, was about the older men, many who are retired air force, or instructors, teachers, were sharing their mistakes and failures. many of the activities were experiential, and interactive. they broke the cadets into groups of 3 or 4.

It feels like when I look at discipleship, the way Jesus led his 12, it looks much more like Air Force training then how we are teaching in the church. for the most part, we are given a manual, maybe a book, or spend an hour opening up the word together. we write down the verses, the answers to the questions, pray, and go about our day.

but Jesus takes his disciples out. he pushes them. they fail. time and time again. and he speaks to them, then. he lets them go out, and try. sends out the 72. "you go do it" they cant believe what happened, when they return.

I dont have a lot of answers, but I am intrigued that fighter pilots, probably one of the greatest investments of the military in training, millions of dollars in each man. and flying 15 million dollar jets. they put a lot of hope and faith in these guys, and they do it with money, and with thousands of hours of teachers. I dont know where they developed their program, but the more I hear, the more I listen, it looks a lot like Jesus teaching. makes me wonder if Jesus knew a thing or two about how someone grows, and learns, and their faith is expanded. he could have sat around, and conducted seminars, and large crowd gatherings, but he seemed to pick a few good men (marines) and then pour his life into them, by taking them out. by screwing with their beliefs, with their understanding, letting them fail, and eventually growing their faith to change the world.

Neutering Tacoma.

2009-02-26T21:08:00.000-08:00

So, our sweet dog, Tacoma, while behaving much better thanks to our training classes, and forced discipline, and hot dog treats, is still presenting problems. I watched him walk into the living room, prop up his leg, and take a wiz on the couch. Marking his territory in case any ladies came by.

He has testosterone. And us americans, lets be honest, we have been known to cut that out. Neuter the thing. It seems a metaphor for how we have dealt with testosterone. the answer everyone gives is, neuter the guy.

My wife is screaming it too.

Ok, it costs a few bucks. which is not really something I am that excited about spending. but, there is something in me, that is hesitant. something deeper for me. there is a wild, maybe semi-wild animal, running lose in our house, and I am told to drop his levels so we can live in a normal house, and not deal with it. What should we do? Ok, its a dog. I know. But why does that feel the answer to how America has responded to maleness? And why does it seem we are so in trouble as a culture because of it? What if we learned to live with it, work around it, honor it, and let the boy be a boy, and the dog, well, be a male dog with his junk in tact.

I don't know what we will do yet.

Writing a book with your help.

2009-02-18T21:48:00.000-08:00

Hey. I am not sure who reads the ramblings of this blog. But I appreciate you glancing here every once in awhile. The thing about blogs for the most part are they are a one way conversation. The blog talks, people read it. But as my friend, Jon Dale explains (jondale.com) there are new ways to communicate. Better ways depending on the purpose.

I have put up chapters I have been working on for a new book on this site in past posts. But it seemed a bit impersonal. We really had no way of really communicating. Well, there is a new form to do it in, called Ning. I have started a website specifically for feedback and your thoughts, and conversations about it. My editor thinks that we might be able to put some of the stories in the book, and to be honest, I would really love your feedback as I write. I have a few months left, and I am finding with those who leave thoughts, stories, and critique, that it helps think through these topics, and influences the editing process.

If you would like to join in the discussion, and be in the process, join up at www.bloodanddirt.ning.com

Thanks. And looking forward to making this blog as random thoughts that come.

A quick update, not worth mentioning on a full blog is that our dog is slowly learning a few things. But he did lift his left and pee right on our chest in the house two days ago. Marking his territory. which makes me think that either I have been gaining some territory for him to have to re-mark, or we are in a showdown.

Over our heads.

2009-02-11T20:01:00.000-08:00

Cory and I have spent the better part of almost three years beginning the ministry, Training Ground. I can't think of how many days, and moments we have felt over our head. From the very start, we had to learn everything. How do you raise support? What is the biblical version? How do we build a website? Recruiting? Oh, gosh. How does that work. Then the program, what do we put in it? What does a young man need? We are going into the wilderness, we need a guide to map that out.

I think the grace of it all, is that we couldn't pretend we knew what we were doing. We hadn't enough life, or years, or experience in anything to fake our way through it. Though, that has always been some portion. It has had to fall on the help and support of men.

That has probably been the greatest gift. We meet with some of the most amazing people, from fundraising, foundations, to ideas, and recruiting, and they honestly help us, like a father would a son. They are scattered all over this country. We keep asking them questions, and they keep giving us answers. We have a pile of notes from every man imaginable, and somewhere in all that, is God, and our hearts being directed. as we lean into it, and the Spirits lead.

I am a perfectionist, so I strive for getting it righ, and want to be the best. And the odd thing about throwing yourself in this job is that, you really can't. you can never get the website just right. never fundraise the way you want to. or care for the guides in the way they truly deserve. And yet, the men keep offering, and taking their time to help us.

It is such a gift to live as a son. needing help. and while I am yet to be a father, I hope it is just as much on the other end.

I encourage you to throw yourself into something you have no understanding of, but the heart. and see who might direct you. it would seem that every man just wants to be asked.

Dog Training.

2009-01-28T14:42:00.000-08:00

Jayne has been talking to me for awhile about dog training. Our pup, 90 pounds of pulling strength, Bernese mountain dog, has in a rather puppy way, taken over our house. He has eaten our hot tub, chairs, and while he is getting better, listened to me about as much as the deer do behind our yard, especially when he was at play.

I resisted every attempt to go, thinking that the dog would somehow get his place, after his young years, but that has not proven to be the case.

So we went to dog training.

I am supposed to be the alpha dog in the house. But I am not going to lie. This dog took over probably the day he walked in. As we listened in the class, and had over the instructor for the private lesson, I couldn't believe how many numbers our dog, Tacoma, was pulling on us. She explained how these various signs were his way of saying, "I'm in charge."

And he was.

Chewing on your arm, means I dominate you. Humping you, well, thats pretty obvious. and so is getting in your space. coming up to you, when you dont ask him. not sitting when you have guests over. pretty much this dog said to us, "your my bit&%*" There wasn't an area we had on him. He ruled the Hood house. And I never saw it, or seemed to care that much I guess, minus the humping part.

The dog trainer is helping us learn to put our dog in his right place, 3rd in the family pecking order. She admitted he was a very stubborn dog, and he kept wanting to fight that, and I just thought how beautiful that God gave us a dog, that was pretty close to us. Three stubborn Hood's. All in some form trying to be the alpha in the house.

I found comfort in that I was not alone. We showed up to a basement of a animal hospital like a informal AA meeting of people. The class had mainly couples in it. You saw all the women perk up, and asking lots of questions, and very engaged, wanting to know how to put their dog in place. While the dudes sat back in there chairs, twiddling their thumbs like second graders waiting to get out for recess. No greater picture of the fall, and man's pull to passivity, and women's to control.

It was really comical. knowing, I too, was dragged there by my wife.

I never knew it, but while I try and work out God's grace of restoring these stubborn Hood's, I had found myself as the Charlie male in the house. While my dog very easily submits to a little chunk of hot dog, and can be changed by behaviors, I am going to stick to God giving Jayne and I little treats, as we work out where we fit together, and how we will lead as a family.

Simple men.

2009-01-23T10:41:00.000-08:00

Life is ironic, that those who have a lot, sometimes lack a lot, that those who have little, sometimes possess some rich, remarkable, puzzling things.
Robert Coles

One of the things I most enjoyed about some of the men I was meeting was the simplicity of their lives. They were not as eager and ambitious as me. It was not about chasing grand dreams, and looking for big breaks and ruthlessly seeking the success that could launch them into stardom and power. They seemed to enjoy their work, and the life God had given them. Straight up. While, I am sure there was a time when they wrestled with their life, and the track they were on as a young man—they had seemed to at some point to have settled it, and instead of being upset, or frustrated that it didn’t become all they wanted, they chose to participate with the people, and the events, and hobbies they did enjoy that was around them—and that be enough.

But you had to be careful to just call them simple, as to write them off for being small minded, or basic, because it was to underestimate the complexities of these men. They were simple in execution of their life, and how they went about it, but they also had minds and brilliance that would be on the level of a Nobel Prize mind or a great philosopher. Bob, a builder in Monument, by all means seemed to fit in this category of simple, and go with the flow. He was never up tight. Always pleasant, never upset. But when we went to visit his home, and opened his barn, there were all types of projects contained in it, a trailer he was creating from welding metal pipes, and adding axles and diamond plating, along with fixing a hot tub. He had extended his Jeep out 12 inches, talking about so simply, as if it was like replacing a tube of toilet paper with a new one. All this while he constructed homes, built completely on his own, with just his two hands. Cory and I walked around his barn like we were in Disney World, there was no hay and pitchfork, it looked something similar to the Bat Cave with all the gear, and equipment for his business, and hobbies scattered throughout.

I envied these men, because they were doing what they loved, and the way God made them.

They knew that they loved to fly-fish so they did. They had great pleasure in making wood—so they did that. I envied this gratification. Envied the sense of satisfaction, and peace, and contentment that came with this rhythm of life that I could not settle down, and find. They had this peace, internal rest that came from doing it day in and day out. And not being so easily enticed by the changing waves of the world, and dreams. So much of this collection of activities and hobbies, my pursuit of dreams and goals, and trying them all on, was to understand which ones I enjoyed. And part of it was not just doing them to check them on the list, but ask the deeper question… what did I enjoy? Do I love fly-fishing? Or is hunting more my thing?

They had an anchor that seemed missing in so many of us guys. Moving in and out of jobs, not wanting to commit and settle for something that was a little below us. It seemed that these men never thought that way. They did what was needed, and took it in stride. And found their enjoyment and pleasure through it.

I think it was why I enjoyed being around these men. They had a calming affect when I was with them. I slowed down. Talked slower. Thought about less. And enjoyed more. Looked at the landscape. The trees. Savored the potatoes and meat more. They were not barons of industry, or great musical success stories that I saw growing up in Nashville. They were men that would never be talked about, or made into a bestseller book, or looked to for success stories, and that was the irony of it. Most people were reading and learning from those spiritual gurus in hopes of actually finding the peace and contentment these men had.

In a world, and the American dream that told everyone they were free to pursue dreams, and telling us we could be the next cover story, and with my own personal drive that was eager to find that by reaching for the moon, it seemed these men reached for their tools, and their guns, their fly rods, and their often simple routines, and that was enough.

Blood and Death.

2009-01-22T19:42:00.000-08:00

Hunting is one of few activities that allows an individual to participate directly in the life and death cycles on which all natural systems depend.

Ann Causey

I could see myself in those animals. What had been a game to me was suddenly not one. That’s the worst part of hunting—to pull the trigger knowing what will result: pain, shock, blood, death.

C.L. Rawlins

For the life of a creature is in the blood, and I have given it to you to make atonement for one’s life

Leviticus 17:11

I kneeled down into the dirt, and packed snow, as if praying, exhausted from the steep climb, as my eyes fixed directly on the brown eyes of the elk—laying lifeless before us. I touched his limp carcass, and ran my hands across the thick fur like you might pet a dog, feeling his warm body with my fingers. He was dead. The blood was cast around the area, like a massive oil tanker spill of a deep rich red, and while horrific, I was still more fixed on the magnificence of the elk. He was much bigger than I had expected. Much stronger, and noble an animal than the earlier glimpse in my binoculars, and hunting videos had revealed.

PJ had invited me to go along on his afternoon hunt, to an area, called 511, according to hunting units, just outside of Woodland Park, CO. We had hiked a few miles with our packs, and while I had known this was where all this was headed, it all took me by surprise. He had spotted the elk from a lookout atop a high stone ridge, and ran about 250 yards to a clearing that gave him a visible shot across the valley, and hit the elk from the opposing ridge about 150 yards from the elk. I heard the thunder, then crack, and the ripple echoing in the valley. After some confusion on the radio, and if he had a good shot, I ran to meet him, and moved towards the location of where we last saw the elk—separated by the deep ravine of jagged rock we had to descend, and climb to the other side.

I came upon the cow elk, through smelling the foul odor, and putrid scent during their rut (mating season), which is so unique to their kind. As we moved him around, I was feeling his body, and legs become stiff, and getting stiffer. I had never felt so many mixed emotions of remorse and excitement before. It was such a moment of joy, and celebration for PJ, along with a soberness of what had just occurred. A life had been taken. I had helped. A soberness slammed into me. The ambivalence of joy, and death, pain and life all lying here—900 or so pounds of it being brought down by his gun.

There was not time to be Thoreau, and ponder. PJ wanted us to get to work as darkness set in. He explained as we went. With only the two of us, it was all hands on deck. We tied the elk’s rear legs to a tree with some rope, spreading his legs wide that gave us access to his belly. PJ began cutting into his fur, and then hide. He made one long incision all the way up, to near his neck. He cut some bone, and then pop. The rib cage expanded, fanning out like a cinnamon role tube being cracked open. His hands went deep inside, as steam and blood poured out with body fluid dripping out as well. I would have been fine just observing, he needed my help, and within a minute my hands were deep in his body, feeling around for the esophagus to cut, and yanking together on the gut bag to break it free from the body. It had the look of a massive water balloon that contained all the organs and intestines trapped inside. A few cuts, and it dropped right out of the elk and into the snow next to us.

It was too dark to continue. And we needed more help to hike out the hundreds of pounds of meat anyways, so we took off, and PJ made a few calls to come back in the morning with more help. As we hiked out in the dark, I had time to think about it all. It was so weird, what we had just done. There was such an odd sense of feeling in it. I had just experienced my first animal death, and had my hands two feet up the body of it, with drying blood covering my arms and legs. I did not know I had it in me, and that I would actually be able to do that. There was always this deep fear of blood, and guts, and death. But I did it, and really, while it was much as there was a deep emotional experience, it felt part of me—almost instinctual.

Over the past year, I had thought a lot about taking an animal’s life. The questions that it brought up. A living being that was being hunted to shoot a bullet through, and stopping its life in a rather unnatural way. I would put my scope into the air, and imagine a deer or an elk in its sight. Could I pull the trigger? I would watch the deer that came into our backyard, and imagined raising a rifle to their body, and it just seemed cruel, and I wondered if when ready, I could actually pull the trigger. And kill an animal.

You see, I never liked the sight of blood or death. I never had any blood lusts, or attachments to it. Never had the addictive pull to kill soldiers in video games and watch blood spew, or rent horror movies and see the display of blood. And I was really not one of those risk taking kids that was getting cuts and bruises and stitches every few days like some daredevil junky on Mountain Dew. I seemed to plan my moves, and decisions more precisely, a little more meticulous to avoid that. I was not sheepish, but not reckless either. I was more calculated. Even my time on a mountain bike in Colorado kept me pretty clean, in the midst of all my friends getting major thrashes, I found a way to avoid them. I think I just hated the thought of all that mess, all that blood, and pain, and broken skin. My life was spent in some form of avoiding it.

I had never been around blood. Or death. Never experienced it in animals or in people really. Never come on a horrible traffic accident with an arm hanging out, or ripped opened my flesh to see bone sticking out, or watched a butcher cut up an animal for food. Blood and death was very foreign to me, and the way I saw it, probably the best thing for me. It seemed a good exchange of paying for that meat in a little package, to avoid all the rest. Just wrap it in a nice plastic wrap on top of styro-foam.

Even as a boy, blood meant one thing, pain, and hurt. It meant you were on the path to dying. Blood was what came out of the body when you were wounded. A scrape could bring pain, but as a child, when you saw that red coming out—huge screams of terror and wailing.

I also had this great fear of the day my wife would give birth. I knew it would be a bloody mess. I just imagined the baby coming out, this moment I was supposed to be such a proud father, eyes gleaming, but all I could think about was this disgusting pool of blood, and placenta sack that was around this baby coming out, and wanting to leave the room. Or maybe even pass out. Instead of seeing this beautiful baby, I would be disgusted in shrieks of some horror movie. And imagining it was the last time I could ever look upon my wife’s body, as intimate, and lovely after a haunted house had just been pushed out her hole down there. I would never want to look there again. Blood was bad. And I was doing my best to avoid it. Maybe we could do an emergency C-section, or even better, find a stork to deliver it.

As we woke up early the next day, we had to head back to finish processing the elk. We came back with some more help, Cory, and Morgan, and hiked into the valley to cut up the elk and haul the meat in our packs. I was feeling more confident, like I could really do this. We seemed to have with us saws, buck knives, gut hooks, like a portable butcher shop. We started by peeling the hide and outer layer of fat. It was just like pulling up an old shag carpet from a home. It was not as disgusting as I thought. Before us were all the muscles exposed, tendons, ligaments, and joints, the fleshy red color, revealing an entire mass of meat to be cut.

We began the process of quartering it, and cutting the elk into sections, and extracting specific pieces to pack it out. We started sawing into leg bone, cutting off the feet, and then removing the ball joints to make the meat into hindquarters, separating it while ripping muscles, and tendons, then placing them in large 60-80 lb. cotton bags then in our packs. It was fascinating to see the legs, and tendons, and to have pulled the organs. It was not like cutting up a cake, or slapping together hamburger meat into round patties. I was looking at my own form, seeing the resemblance of my own body that made me so much aware of this as a real living being. This was not a tree, or dirt. It was a living being, a creation of God’s kingdom, now split into chunks, and quarters, and half pieces lying on the ground, bloodied, and drying darker on my hands and pants. But the more we cut, the less it was an animal, and the more I was seeing it in parts, and chunks of specific meat that could be sold as Safeway or Krogers.

I relate to George Wallace experience, “I see him as meat for the first time. Component parts—meat, hide, antlers, cape, divisible into quarters, loins, ribs, in turn divisible into steaks, chops, roasts, stew meat, sausage, and hamburger.” (David Petersen, p. 100) It was true. I began seeing parts of meat. The beef brisket that I had enjoyed barbequed with vinegar base at Stroud’s B-B-Q in Nashville, I was slowly slicing off the rib cage, and thinking, I never knew this is where it came from. The back straps, and inner loins, that came off the spine like a long tube of meat. It was the most tender and delicate of meat due to its limited use on the animal. I had always eaten beef tenderloin, and the filet mignon, which had come from this place on a cow, and it made sense why it was such a delicate and delicious cut. I was slicing off neck meat, and PJ explained how that would be ground up, as hamburger, because it being the toughest part of the meat. It was fascinating to see as every cut of meat, that I had eaten, or ordered, was actually somewhere on the animal, and named because of where it was taken. I had never thought about it. A rib-eye. Brisket. Filet mignon. T-bone. Ribs. Tenderloin. All were named because of where they had been taken. I somehow thought they were just fancy words made up. My friend, Wade, who would join us on a hunt months later would say, “Who knew that $40 steak from Ruth Chris began here.” I felt the same thing.

While blood was something to be outlawed for children, most cultures before us so it as very different. They were surrounded with it. There was not a processing plant to kill all the meat; it was done in the house, or on the farm. As a boy, you were probably part of helping out, and getting the meat slaughtered. Even a nasty deep wound might have been dealt with right at home, and opened up, with medicine put in, and patched up over the kitchen counter. No doctors, or white surgical gloves and cotton swabs.

In many cultures, blood was a ritual that meant nourishment and life. These tribal cultures seemed to draw on the symbol of blood as nourishment, like food. Robert Bly shares a story of an initiation rite for boys, “One of the older men takes up a knife opens a vein in his own arm, and lets a little of his blood flow into a gourd or bowl. Each older man in the circle opens his arm with the same knife, as the bowl goes around, and lets some blood flow in. When the bowl arrives at the young man, he is invited to take nourishment from it.”
While disgusting, and pagan, what it brings is a belief that blood is not bad, it is needed. A part of life. What the story shows, and what had been happening in my own life is escaping blood, and escaping the thought of death, and how those two are connected.

Even for women, blood is seen very different. Blood often means life. To have your period, and stream blood means that you can fertilize an egg, and bring forth a baby. Flowing blood means life. It is so fascinating as I write this, because my wife for two years had lost her period because of health issues. She had spent two years dreaming of the day blood would flow again, and that we might have the chance of having a baby. Today, she comes home with joy on her face and says, “I have good news for us!” And when as I ask her why, she says, “I started my period!” Meaning, blood is flowing. There is a chance for the creation of life! Richard Rohr says that a women is initiated into blood. She grows up with it. It is part of her life. As a teenager, she experiences blood. And it is seen as a good thing. A sign of maturing into womanhood.

It seemed for a man though—he needed to be taken into it. He needed a man to show him. It seemed that part of many boys fascination with blood was the need for initiation. That somehow we know inherently that blood and pain needs to be involved to make us men. I have read where often war, is some sense of self-initiation. Taking it with our own hands. Think about even video games, and the over and excessive violence and blood. Why? Well, what if we need to experience some form of blood, and with no one taking us out, or teaching us, we find it on our own.

While much could be talked about here, the irony of all this bloody mess is that the bible is covered in it. More so than a horror movie. You can barely find a page where something or someone isn’t dying, or blood isn’t being shed on the account of the Israelites in the Old Testament. It’s not one of those things we like to highlight, but it is there. In fact, God seems to be obsessed with it. Blood and death, and the sacrificing of animals might be argued as one of the major themes of the bible, and especially the Old Testament. Alfred Edersheim, a Jewish scholar writes, “Every unprejudiced reader of the bible must feel that sacrifices constitute the centre of the Old Testament.” (Edersheim, p. 75) The center? That is a big statement. This is no G rated Disney Special with Hanna Montana. It seems more like a horror flick. Here is where the words rank with a few other big words of the bible…

Love – 700 times
Life – 589 times
Death – 452 times
Blood – 389 times
Hope – 174 times
Birth – 153 times
Money – 114 times
Sex – 56 times

So what is the deal? Well, it has more to do with us, then it does with God. It all started with Adam and Eve back in the garden. We were made for union with God. God creates this wondrous landscape of gardens and land, and beauty, and gives us the entire place to take care of, and enjoy. Life is everlasting. Our hearts are forever cared for, and in love with our God. We are in union. There is no bloodshed. No death even. Just un-ending pure joy that is hard to even understand. Even the animals are in union with man and God. Everything is perfect. The way God made it to be.

But this wasn’t enough. Satan tempted them with the fruit they were commanded not to eat. And they ate it. They disobeyed God’s plan, and in choosing to be like him, knowing all good and evil, their sin took them apart from God. There is a spiritual death and separation that begins, along with the death of the body, while opening their eyes to shame. “They realized they were naked, so they sewed fig leaves together and hid.”

As scriptures say, “Death reigned from the time of Adam. (Romans 5:14) It is right there just a few pages into our story with the first sign of blood and an animal dying. But it’s not real obvious. You can easily miss it. I never knew from the story, but God replaces the fig leaves. They aren’t left to wander with green leaves on their bums. God replaces it with something else. Here is the account… “The Lord God made garments of skin for Adam and his wife and clothed them.” (Genesis 3:21) It is fascinating to think. He replaces the fig leaves Adam and Eve made with garments of skin.

This can only mean one thing—first hunter was God.
I don’t know where he found it. But he went around the garden, and killed an animal, and skinned it, and put it on Adam and Eve. It was the first bloodshed. And it happened because of sin in the Garden. Sin brought the spiritual death of man, and his separation from God. This death brought blood. It was this subtle sign, but this blood, this death and sacrifice of an animal, was going to be God’s great sign to all the Adam’s after this, letting him know that he had sinned, and needed blood to bring forgiveness of his sins. It could be argued one of the greatest most important elements of the entire biblical narrative. Blood came from Adam’s choice, but God was going to redeem all that by giving his own son. The story of Abraham and Isaac is that representation in a more full way. He asks Abraham to sacrifice his son, then at the last minute pulls it away and replaces him with a ram from the bushes. It was a sign for us. A son was going to die for us soon. God’s own son. But before all that, it seemed God felt it necessary for us to get all covered in death, and blood, and sacrifices so we would one day see it.

And yet, in this culture that avoids blood, how easily we miss it now. I can remember a few years back performing in our Anglican church communion, administering the communion cup. I would say reverently, “this is the blood of Jesus, shed for you.” A whole line of people I would pass the cup to, and say this, but I tell you, I did not really connect to it. It never really hit me. To me, it was a cup with wine in it. And while I understood the meaning, the whole blood thing was just not an analogy I really never connected to.

God gives Moses in Leviticus one of the most detail meticulous, and maybe even anal, instruction plans for all this sacrificing, along with the duties that were to be performed in part by the priest, and what is to be done by the person. Read through Leviticus, if you can make it without falling asleep. It’s filled with directives, information, and commands on how to sacrifice these animals, and how to atone for all their sin. God was brilliantly setting up a system of rituals. But in high school bible class, I specifically skipped over this part, as did my teacher because of how boring, and unrelated it seemed to today.

But the people would have to come to the temple and offer an animal. There were a few choices. An oxen, a sheep, goat, or turtle doves, or pigeons. (Edersheim, p. 78) Without the shedding of blood there was no forgiveness, and no atonement for the wrongs. But it was not forever, but just a substitution, so they constantly needed renewal. Meaning more death, and bloodshed on a regular basis. Tradition has it, that on the Day of Atonement no less than five hundred priests were [needed]to assist in the services. And we are not talking about priests walking around shaking hands and drinking coffee, they were busy catching blood, sprinkling it on holy items, and collecting the blood in massive vessels.

Maybe the bloodiest day of all was at the dedication of the Temple that Solomon built for God. He sacrificed 22,000 cattle, and 120,000 sheep and goats. In the midst of their celebration, it was a bloodbath. While the priests wore white, I can’t imagine the people came in their Sunday’s best coat and tie. The people had to perform, “laying on of hands. Slaying, skinning, cutting up, and washing the inwards.” (Edersheim, p. 80)

While I was cutting up the elk with PJ, Morgan, and Cory, there was something related. While we are free from this system because of Christ, and his atonement, I can’t say I did not feel something holy, and in awe of what was occurring that helped me identify with what Jesus did. Some deep appreciation and understanding of life, and pain, and sacrifice, and blood. Many of the people I know would kneel down next to their kill, and pray. They would thank God for their blessing. Other men, not even God fearing, would still connect to the cycle of life and death, and with a respect for God in it.

I remembered a story Eugene Peterson shared about it…

"My father was a butcher and owned his own meat market. I always thought of my father as a priest. He wore a white butcher’s apron as he presided over the work of slaughtering heifers and pigs, dressing them out, cutting them up…My father was a priest in our butcher shop, and I was with him, doing priestly work…I grew up experiencing the sight and sound of animals killed and offered up, the smell of fresh blood and the buzz of flies. A bull on the altar of Shiloh couldn’t have looked or smelled much different than a shorthorn heifer on the butcher block in our shop on Main Street…It never occurred to me that the world of worship was tidy or sedate."

Leaving that day from the trail, blood drying on my pants, and on my hands, blood meant something different to me. From an understanding of the blood of Jesus. And as I turned to look at the guys, I laughed and said, “I think I am ready to have a baby.”

Axe for young men.

2009-01-20T09:44:00.000-08:00

You might have seen this in an advertisement? Axe body spray. Axe cologne. And now their newest product, Axe Hair products.

It is marketed to a specific generation of young men, ages 18-25, give and take a few years. What is fascinating to me, is how they market this stuff. It is always with very sexually imagery and women oogling themselves at the guys who put it on. Here is an image from their website...

It seems to be a cave woman, sniffing around for her man. Bringing us back to prehistoric times. Its pretty dang sexual. There are bunnies in front of her, umm.. another suggestive thought.

So why is this brilliantly evil? Why do millions of teenagers go for it? Well, I think it has to do with young men, and what they need.

Richard Rohr tells a story in his book, Adam's Return, how young men in the aboriginal culture were taken around the age of 13, away from their mother, and into the community of men. They were taken away, sometimes up to a year, and taught the ways of their warrior men. Part of this ceremony was taking them to the place of the stone axe. When the sons had completed their initiation rites, they were allowed to wield an axe. But up until that point, they were not permitted a sharp weapon. Only for those who knew how to use it, were given permission. Only those who had been initiated. A man needed to be taken into his power, before he was given some form of it, like an axe.

He took it back into his community, and used that axe for the good of those around him.

With the loss of initiation rites of passage, and without the men doing this work for their sons, a boy needs that symbol. Regardless of who gives it to him, he will seek it out. We were made for it. for strength, power, and drive. It is a good thing, that as Christ taught I believe, through suffering, hardship, and knowing your Father, was to be wielded for good. Love first, then power. But power, as Dan Allender says, was meant to be sweet and enjoyable, and good.

But when men dont come around, Robert Bly says that often a boy becomes naive to women. He sees no connection to his need for men, and women seem the promise to hold the key to this power. In a culture where men do little of the initiation, hence, we are vulnerable to be exploited by this promise that women could validate our manhood.

Even the spokesperson for axe seems to explain it this way...

“Our products are based on the consumer insight that guys groom to get the girl.”

I am amazed at how this symbol seems to be still coming out. The promise of Axe, the body cologne, is more than a scent. It is manhood. Power. The ability to get a woman rolling around half naked in the woods, looking for you. It's as if this AXE, is really what we need to find, again. Power. Strength. Validation. The latest commercial for Axe spray has them saying, "Get girl-approved hair." Completely taking it to mean, a woman will do these things for you.

I grieve this. Because as young men, they need AXE. But they dont need this false form of it. And they dont need some exploited woman in the woods, to give it to them. They need the men to rise up, and take them out, and offer them the deeper need behind this. They need a man to give them a gun, and then take them out hunting with the men. They need a man to give them they keys to an old beat around Jeep, and then go spend a few days learning how to drive it together. What we need is power, men, and Jesus who leads us into power, only to surrender it for the greater good. Until a boy steps into some real power, and has men offer this, will he ever then choose and be given the chance to use it to serve love. And Jesus.

Stories from work. and Mr. Grace.

2009-01-09T13:30:00.000-08:00

I have been thinking a bit on wholeness. From a conversation with a man in Chattanooga a few days ago, and an article I read from Tim Keller on hell.

What makes us whole, and full, and complete as humans, and followers of Christ? If the opposite is destruction, and hell, which Tim Keller describes as "decay and decomposition," apart from Christ. Well, then what makes us whole? And moving towards restoration.

A friend from Milwaukee who sits a few stories high in a beautiful rising office building looking out to Lake Michigan, sent these words. It was such a great capturing of his days as a young man, and his background, I wanted to forward along, used with permission.

I think about this man, and his places of working with large calculations and strategic formulas on market timing, and then these stories, and I am left with some version of whole. Or complete. and least partially on this side of heaven....

This is some of what he wrote...

I recall working for Mr. Grace one summer on his farm. The elder Mr. Grace everyone referred to as Pappaw, even though he was not my grandfather. Pappaw's son was known to everyone as "Happy" or "Hap". Hap was my father's age, mid-40s, when I was in college. The farm they owned was multi-purpose. The only "crop" they grew was hay. The other sources of income were raising Holsteins to sell to beef processors, selling sand, culverts, backhoe and dozer work and a few small oil wells. I was always intrigued by the work ethic which permeated the place.

I remember the smells of the farm: the musty smell of the hay barn, Levi Garret chewing tobacco, Miller Lite and Old Charter bourbon. The fence around the barn and office area was made from oil well pipe and "sucker" rods. The fence required painting at least once per year. It was a tedious job because it required prepping the fence with a wire brush to remove all the rust and old paint. Fortunately, Mr. Grace was not too particular and allowed me to apply the paint directly with paint "gloves". It was honest, hard work that paid well. We always had a break for lunch, ham sandwiches and tea (sweet, of course).

I remember one day Hap telling me we were going to deliver sand. I was excited about getting a reprieve from the painting. I was more than excited when Hap said that I would be driving the dump truck while he handled the backhoe. Happy would fill the truck with sand while I waited in the cab. I would then drive down the road several miles to dump the sand for the client. Looking back now, I realize what a gift that was from Happy. His trusting me with the dump truck was an invitation of sorts into the world of men an of work and machinery.

Every summer, Happy bid for a job clearing a portion of a levee on the Red River. This particular summer he was awarded a job to clear 9 to 10 miles of the levee. Brush and small trees had grown on the levee since the last time it was cleared. The Corps of Engineers is responsible for maintaining the levees and they prefer to keep them clear of undergrowth.

This was a team effort, my father, Ross, drove the bulldozer while Happy drove the backhoe. I led the way with a chainsaw, cutting down the trees that were too large for the bulldozer to snap. We worked hard for several weeks in the sweltering heat of an Arkansas July. It was hot, dirty, grimy, sweaty work. But, it was great! Being invited to work with these men and being trusted with a chainsaw was very affirming for a young man. We ate our lunches together under the shade of a tree. We shared ice cold Miller Lite's at the end of the day.

On Friday's we would stop by an all-you-can eat catfish restaurant for dinner, swapping stories from the day, enjoying a good meal and a pitcher of beer (Miller Lite, of course). I remember those days of hard work vividly and fondly recall the good times we had. Those weeks were some of the best times that I had with my father. I definitely took away some good lessons of hard, honest, dirt-under-your-fingernails work. The money, which was great for a 20 year old, is long gone but the affirmation and validation as a man still remain.

The Holstein cattle arrived on the farm as bulls but departed several months later for the processor as steers. You may or may not be aware of what is required to turn a bull into a steer. Shortly after the bulls arrive they are marshaled into a corral. Lots of mooing and bawling in the corral as the young bulls seem to sense their fate. Each bull is funneled into a narrow chute. At the end of the chute the fence tightens so that the bull is held stationary (they don't like this at all). Lots of bucking and moving, even though the chute is supposed to hold them steady.

The first step is to cut the horns, which are only a couple of inches long, with a device that looks like a pair of large bolt cutters. Getting a firm grip on the horns of a bull with the bolt cutter is difficult. Once you get the grip you pull the cutter together quickly and after a gruesome crunch the horn flies off and the blood spews straight up into the air with every heartbeat from the bull. The last step to transform this bull into a steer is castration. The bull's boys are removed with a large, sharp knife. Lastly, antiseptic is sprayed on the wounds and the steer is released into a separate corral. Blood and snot fly everywhere as the newly christened steer shakes off this experience. It is a messy, nasty job. After the first one, the jig is up and all the remaining bulls are bellowing loudly because they know their time is short.

The desire for the dirty, and the original.

2008-12-28T18:43:00.001-08:00

I was fascinated by this tag on a pair of $89.95 white painter pants today at the Polo Outlet. I think the tag says it all.

We hunger for our clothes to tell the story of us as a man.

The gifts.

2008-12-25T06:39:00.001-08:00

Have you ever wondered why we give so many gifts? I mean, its easy to go down the road of we are a consumeristic, selfish, and fat bellied American thing. Ok, I have heard that alot, no doubt, has great merit. But what if hiding in all our attempts to give so many gifts, is our flat out denial of being able to receive one?

We are given a gift by God. Wrapped, yes, swaddling clothes, in a manger, no fancy bow. A gift that cannnot be bought. It sounds so easy, I dont have to buy it. It sounds too good, with all the economy stuff, you mean, there is a real gift that wont cost the family anything? I'm in. We are all in! But isn't that the dilemmna. I received that gift like a child, like Santa hand delivering it to me, so grateful for that little baby and his life. I held onto that gift when I was younger. But why do I wake up feeling more like scrooge these days? More life, more reasons to be mad, hurt, or seeing corruption. But there we are, again. And where does God ask us to move but into the gift. To see, to look, and receive from Big Poppa Santa.

I wonder if one of the reasons there are so many gifts is because we know how hard it is, to just reflect, receive, and enjoy the gift from God. It is so much easier to spend money on gifts, and tear through them, we send gifts, buy gifts, and open gifts, because we know a gift is what this season is to be about. Lord, how do I enjoy your gift, like my big wheels, or Masks, or Transformers, with such delight. That was a plastic toy, and I was over joyed, you are a man, sent to save me.

May you Lord, teach me to receive that one gift. To be joyful. And full.

Stock traders in limousines.

2008-12-23T02:29:00.000-08:00

What if how we might get out of this financial mess was by getting in it.

There is a bronze statue that stands outside of Wall Street and the New York stock exchange. A giant icon of the hopes and futures of Wall Street and American capitalism bucking and fiercely echoing to us as a glaring reminder of what we need to find again. And while a bull market seems to be fading away, I think it brings a good time to rediscover where it came from. Back to the roots. Or, I mean, back to the bulls.

I always saw my uncle as a blue collar farmer who dealt with animals, and nasty smells, and constant mud on his Ohio farm. A little more on the rough side with his cowboy hat, and occasional fowl mouth, with Garth Brooks playing, always chirping off at those men in boardrooms and business deals—who I saw as the more fortunate souls, like my white collar roots. As a kid from a private school, and a college education, I was told indirectly to avoid this type of life through my business degree. It was for the more poor and unfortunate souls. What I never knew, until a recent visit, was that he was the real stock broker in limousines, and the type of business man who knew his way around the bull, much better than any concrete executive in steel buildings in a city.

If you want to understand where America went wrong, all you have to do is go visit a stock broker. The original ones—like my Uncle Mike.

Mike is getting older, hair is fading, and his life is into what we could call retirement age, sagging a bit, and a little less amiable. But when I showed up at the farm, he was out demolishing some old concrete, pounding under the wooden rafters of his barn with a metal mallet that most men could barely swing into position a time or two, much less a full day of breaking hard concrete into pieces. While he might get senior coffee at McDonalds, he could take out the whole restaurant in one blow if needed. And you don’t have to tell him that, he knows it. He is a quiet strength type.

It wasn’t till I actually went to spend a day with him that I realized he was a stock broker of the finest quality, and highest reputation. A genuine bull trader of preferred stock. These words first taught to me in classrooms and business school.
But it all began to make more sense out here. And the origins of it all.
Mike not only sells the stock, he also picks up its poop, gives them shots, and feeds them feed and hay often in ten degrees of frozen ice. The problems on Wall street are obvious, we don’t have any more cash cows. The problem is not the cash, as people think, it is the fading understanding of the cows.

The word stock came out of a term to describe tangible goods and supplies used for thousands of years. A stockroom might be filled with cans of Yams. A stock yard might contain a whole mess of cattle mooing, and eating hay on route to be slaughtered. Hundreds of years ago, when business was about trading these stock, it was often directly for goods and services. Lewis and Clark trading their guns and supplies, for furs and food with Indians.

But as Americans, we found our way, as any progressing economy, to separate jobs and labor, and different classes to avoid such cumbersome transactions. While stock was good to trade, it took work, and it had to be stored, and it often pooped, and made a mess, and so we replaced items and stock, and turned it into paper, and separated people into professions and classes to do the different labor. We were able to exchange real stock with the paper, and could print it, and make it more abundant, and stack it, and fit it neatly onto balance sheets, and books and sell it more easily to people who wanted a part.

Instead of item for item, an exchange of one good for another, we had all these sheets of paper, and money, from all these treaties, and contracts to disperse and distribute, and hold onto in vaults. We needed bankers to hold the paper. We needed lawyers to figure out the contracts, and accountants to count up all the numbers, and then found businessmen to sell it and advertise how good the stock was. It was working great. We soon realized it could also be digitized. And deposit our paper directly into our online accounts.

We could transfer and trade it online with a computer, and buy stocks so easily that a caveman could do it, or wait, even less, little babies on E-trade could do it. Stock trading was no longer reserved exclusively for some rancher in Ohio with land and hay, it was for babies.

Before long, like wandering cows in a field, we got all scattered around, and gone astray and we forget what it was to know the stock, and interact with it, and pull out a baby cow, and help nurse it and feed it milk. We did not know how to tend to the thing when it mooed, or cried, or was hungry. And we are even finding, when we thought we had stock, we had nothing at all—some dude on wall street just gave us a blank paper, instead of one with some official writing on it.

We talk about numbers, thousands, six figures, millions, billions, and trillions. Numbers that were just that, numbers. No real meaning behind them. And so we could pay people large amounts, and stock options and they never met much since we were all getting bigger numbers too.

If you tell Mike we are going to add 4 more to his stock, he knows what it means, and how it relates and affects him. He understand he will have to shovel more crap, that it will eat more food, and take more space, and break more fences and require more shots. A number means something to his stock. It means more work. The problem with our economy, is we have lost the value of that. Throw in a few more hundred billion to the economy, sure. Whatever we need, in some part, because we don’t feel the pain in it, we aren’t connected to numbers anymore. They don’t carry a cost, like Mike.

Since we don’t shovel the crap, or collect the hay, we let some poor and unfortunate farmer in Ohio do it for us-thinking we had avoided such petty work. We could get back to watching the Super Bowl.

Before long, the executives were eating the meat, maybe of their own stock, and they didn’t know where it came from, what the cut of meat even met, or that an animal was slaughtered for their meal. And that is where it all broke down. Being so disconnected from it all. Expensive jets, and weekend excursions from all those big bonuses for raising the stock price. But, often, there was nothing much there. And more often than not, we were eating ourselves from within, like cannibals, only our meat was our inflated stock. It was not fat from too much grain, but our own narcisstic egos that somehow believed we had got away from the hard and rough life of a rancher. We had avoided it all.

No one knew that while CEO’S drove up in Limousines to cheeky restaurants in luxurious New York city streets celebrating their stock prices that the $100 Ruth Chris New York strip steak served so delicately and deliciously before them was the bull, that it lived and breathed, pooped and chewed cud and was traded by a stock broker like my Uncle Mike. It was just presented each time, nicely prepared, and cut to size, and served with butter, and some crisp, but not too hard mushrooms on a warm and delicate white plate.

And so we lost the real value of stock, of what it meant, and where it came from, and to put it simply, our cash cow was gone. We simply ate it, not even knowing it.
I never knew it, but my Uncle Mike was the original real businessman in Limousines.
You see, he is a trader of real preferred stock too. He is a stock breeder that takes his best cattle to shows across the country. And if you asked him what type of stock he trades in, he would tell you limousines.

Mike has no glamorous job. He admits that he has made his living by using a metal contraption and ejaculating the bull limousines, and collecting the sperm, then breds the viles into the egg of another prize heifer by shoving a metal tube up through the heifer’s asshole, and into the cervix.

Before he ever takes his preferred stock limousine to shows across the country, he has actually created the stock from a sperm and egg with his own hands years before. And with these limousines, he doesn’t get the pleasure to ride on, but drives them in a trailer across the country.

What I never gave him credit for is that the man is a smart guy. While he still deals with dirt, and mud, and sweat and hay, and freezing winter months, he also has real estate investments and made land purchase acquisitions along the way. He makes trades on leases of hay, and the crops on his land.

At one time, his father was a Ford car salesman, but at some point sold it all, and was sick of the work, the haggling, and the sales techniques and dealing with people. And so, he sold it, and traded it all for this 250 acre farm outside of town. He didn’t go out and sell the farm, he bought it. Traded what used to be an American cash cow, the car industry, overpriced and bulky from fat union wages and the bellies of bad decisions along the way, and traded it all in for real cows.

The cows taught Mike what we have failed to find, and learn. We forgot what it meant to care for it when it cried, to nurse the calves, and bring it hay each day, and give it yearly shots, and shovel the bull shit ourselves, not let someone else do it for us. Everything was inflated in Wall Street, and home prices, partially because nothing could be really measured for a real value. We seemed to all benefit, so we never asked questions. But for Mike’s stock to rise, for him to sell his preferred stock, sometimes in upwards of $100,000 a prize winning cow, he has to get him to the right condition.

Through feeding, and breeding, and taking care of the animals to produce the great muscle structure they need. “He fattens the calf.” Literally. And when he trades the stock, people can see just what that bull stock is worth.
We forgot how to raise the value of stock. By feeding it, and giving it corn feed.

Real stock comes from work, the kind of work where you are connected to the people, and to the land, and the animals and the places you are around. Eventually when that work is added up, it produces a harvest. The kind this country needs to rediscover by getting its hands in the dirt, and back to the farm, and to economics 101.

And so, while wall street crumbles, and our economy falls into itself by printing more money, and letting the government buy up all the bad stock, I’d like to suggest some of the men who claim to be fixing our economy, get back to the basics, and discover what a piece of stock really is. If we are going to save this economy, I say find some of those bull traders, and have them pull up with their limousines and release them on Wall Street. We could use their inspiration.

PJ - Elk Video.

2008-12-19T10:26:00.000-08:00

One of the friends I met in Colorado was PJ. He was a transplant, near my age, and was a native from a small town in West Virginia. While PJ and I shared our faith, and my now emerging love for the outdoors, we could not have come from different places and town from back east. He had grown up in a mining area and from a place where the school systems take off an entire week at the start of hunting season—the whole town closed up shop and took to the woods. Gun shots echoed in the valleys and sung in harmony like you might find at a Broadway musical. Style was different as well. You don’t wear multiple jackets in Wheeling. Not cold weather, rain, warm, fleece, and designer coats, and as far as style? That was absurd, and wasteful. You have one all function jacket. A Camo one. It serves all purposes. It can be worn out on the town to shop, in a tree stand, or even to a funeral. And that is where he came from. Hunting wasn’t just a luxury, it was part of how you survived, and the food you kept for meals.

It was this man, who one day invited me to his place with the words, “I have a video I want you to watch.”

It was titled “The Truth Big Bulls 10.”

If you would have asked me to explain what it was without looking at the cover, it would have been quite a challenge. Sounded like a cross between a black gospel choir and a sports team. But neither. It was a hunting video. Elk hunting. Men hunting right here in Colorado.

While I was into gear, and trying to understand myself as a man. I just wasn’t bred to hunt. I had never wanted to, and had a hard time seeing the transition from the kind of man I had been to any form that included camo or killing. Never had any reason to go kill, meat was plentiful in the stores. And there was definitely no real interest in any form of sitting in a deer stand. Or putting on camo and waiting for it to come to me. I was quite comfortable in going to find it in white and blue Styrofoam.

I had a friend similar to PJ in high school. I would always make fun of my friend, Jeremy who liked to hunt. He was the only half-backwoods friend I ever had who was living in the redneck south, but also at our posh little private school and living in Brentwood.

Jeremy like PJ, had came from a long line of hunters. Hunting went deep for all of them. It’s tradition in their family to hunt. He hunts on the same land where his family moonshined years ago. An old truck blown up by the police still sits in the middle of the woods rusting away. It is this same land where Jeremy spent his mornings sitting in a deer stand.

While some were born into it, or had the gene, hunting was not in my DNA, and the way I saw it reserved exclusively for the people of the world who had trailers, and who liked to put old cars as yard ornaments in the front lawn. Deer jerky and venison makes Jeremy drool, while I’d be fine and happy with a Bobboli pizza. I dismissed Jeremy, went on to college, got married, moved to Colorado, seemed very fine with how things were turning out, apart from my past, and all that sort of stuff. I didn’t see my need for rednecks, or this hunting thing—until the evangelism of Big Bulls came. I was about to experience in the best explanation of words—hunting erection. Or as some call it, Buck Fever.

The video didn’t start that way. I was quite skeptical of it. I watched as what appeared to be a classic scene of Bubba, and his buddy filming an elk hunt in Colorado with poor video work, a shaky camera, and horrible wind blowing into the audio that made my head spin. It appeared homemade, and while their best attempts had all the expectations of some southern drawls that I had known so well that bordered the towns around me growing up.

But as I started watching, I was blown away by these massive creatures they were stalking, the structure and size of them, like horses roaming wild around backcountry grasslands and deep timber. They were magnificent. Large and mystical animals with the males having these massive antlers extending in all directions. And the men, the guides who were talking seemed to understand the animals and the land, and how the wind would affect their approach. They would share secrets, and this amount of knowledge that was like some great teacher of wisdom, like Gandalf talking to Frodo but about hunting. I kinda got into it. And then they started blowing in tubes, and mimicking this bellowing sound that drew them closer.

These giant bull elk were bugling back and forth, to these men blowing in plastic tubes as if they were having a conversation. The elk drew closer, slowly approaching. I started moving closer to the screen as well, inching nearer, while I waited and wondering what’s next.

Then there was silence. The rifle was raised. Then a shot. And then all of a sudden, the men were staring at each other. Faces of ghastly horror or amazement. Eyes were wide. Mouth was open. Their hands were extended out to each other within seconds of the shot. These burly men looked like little school boys who had just been given extra time for recess. These burly men who we would have type cast as emotionless brutes of another era with their country accents, and sausage gravy biscuits still in their beards were now not only acting like kids, they had just turned jumped genders and looked like little school girls jumping at each other. They were frantic. Almost dancing, and hugging, and smiling. It was everything these men were not supposed to be doing considering their personality and what I had thought of them. But they kept trying to squeeze each other, every part of their body hugging and extracting love or happiness between them. Then, Will. The guy who shot the elk started crying, broke down with emotion to his camera guy, sharing what he was feeling.

I sat there, and could not believe what I was witnessing. Like I had seen alients. I was like… what is going on here? Looking at PJ a bit funny. Should we turn this off?
As I left his house, and had days to play the scenes over, and over, I knew I had just witnessed something deep. And as weird as it sounded—very spiritual. I don’t know what it was, I didn’t have words, or great thoughts, but there was something in it that I wanted. Something the man shared. Something the elk had awakened in me. Along with the land. The camo. The gun, and all the hugging. I started thinking…

I wanted to hunt.

The American Man. Or so I thought.

2008-12-09T14:32:00.001-08:00

I grew up right smack in the suburbs of America, and in the central south. A town called Brentwood, right outside of Nashville. It was if Normal Rockwell had taken a large tube out, and unrolled and tacked down a beautifully painted canvas flat to the ground. It was full of soft rolling hills and private collections and communities of nice one-acred picket fence home sites where you could raise your families, and feel proud of what you had made of your life. The southern accents were perfect, a little southern drawl, but not too redneck, or harsh, or uncomprehendable. The tea was sweet, and so was the charm of the place. Business was also bustling with eight story office buildings filled with white collar workers.

Like bees coming in and out of their buildings in suits and ties.

I don’t know how it worked, but the concrete never grew weeds, or cracks, or collected dirt. It seemed always fresh, and gray like the day it was poured. Even the grass that lined the homes, and the streets was so green, and watered, it looked more like soft carpet you could sleep on. There were not trailer homes, or trailer parks, or busted and broken down vehicles cruising the streets. The land was too valuable for that, and the Police would pull over a car with any sign it did not belong. Open land in Brentwood was scarce too, limited to the wilderness that we called golf courses. Impeccably manicured and exclusive to mostly men who could afford their membership.

And the churches, and God, that seemed the best part. We had the greatest places, almost like great plantation mansions that lined the roads, and swallowed the entire town on Sunday mornings into rows of pews from churches of every kind. God was doing quite well in Brentwood. The men were well-dressed. Polite. Behaved. Well-to-do. Courteous. Successful. And while busy at work, always showed up for Sundays.

You might say I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth, but I would say I was given the life that most all parents were hoping for their children, and sons. A good education, even private. Didn’t have to quit school, or earn income to help pay bills for the family. Or even worry about paying for college. It was provided for me, as part of being in the family. I didn’t have many expenses. Food, and shelter, and all the bills just seemed a parent’s responsibility. Health insurance, car insurance, those were somehow all covered as being a son, and having a father who wanted to make sure all that was provided for his sons. They did their job, as I understood mine. To study, and have time to study, so I could get the best education. And find a good job, and have a good life for my kids. And repeat it all.

In a town with a whole lot of money and success, came a whole lot of expectations, spoken and unspoken on the children who came from it. Social status and income was very important, and you got the idea that if you did not match your families place, you hadn’t really made it in life. No one ever said it, it was just assumed. Many of the kids, like me, were sent to the best prep schools in high school to prepare them for the big college schools around, and to be launched in their careers. You just kinda were expected to take your degree, and move into a similar life—do a little more than the family. Serve God, and live well.

The way of Brentwood, like the way of white collar was “you work smarter, not harder.” Education and getting on track of how you could use it, was the key to becoming that man. All my friends headed in line, and before long we were prepared, and ready to launch out into the world of white collar, business, and success.

I had entrepreneur in my blood. Mowed a few yards a week so I could make big cash.

As my friends went to work for construction companies over the summer, or busing tables at a restaurant, I stayed on my lawns. 5 yards a week, about 8 hours total, could bring in about 225 bucks. About the same they were making for a full week. My dad would always want me to go work forty hours a week in the summers at construction sites. But I never saw the reason. I had enough money, more than even them, and I could work in 2/3 less the time. I was smart, white collar smart. And convinced I was on the track for great things. Even at 16, I had outsmarted the system.

When it came to Jesus, and God, it was about studying and knowing the word and scripture. For a few years of college, I devoted myself to it. Reading it on my own, being at many ministry nights, of worship, and study. Memorizing scripture. Learning the attributes of God.

Academics were stressed in Brentwood, and at college. You didn’t make something of yourself by sitting around. You had to work. Make grades, to get into a good college. So you could have a good major, and find a good job. The pressure was in your studies. Everything hinged on this year. This report card. This class. It was the key to the future, which involved studying. Listening. Taking notes. Parents said it. Teachers repeated it. I had done all that, listened to them.

I did not see it, but I was born as a young man of privilege, and class. Given things at a young age that most people up to this point in the history of the world, had to work for themselves. I had worked out a system to have my parents pay me a stipend while in college. If I worked, it would hurt my grades, I explained.

Through my father’s hard work, and his growing business, he was able to afford a private education, and pay my way through Brentwood and school. I never thought too much about it, but there wasn’t really ever a question that the kids from Brentwood would move into something great, and into a large home, and into a similar life, it was just a matter of time. We came from these families, and we were to become much like them one day.

Business parks rose up, new banks, and new churches grew with the sprawl of the town. Men wore suits to work, and to church. White collar was king around our parts. And people were driven. They knew what they wanted, and they pursued it. With that, came a sense of security and confidence in the place. People were doing well, and had made it. Churches were big, and on the mega side. Brentwood was the place to be, and where people settled down who were successful, had done something, often in music or in business.

Those who didn’t have the luxury of living in Brentwood, came in to Brentwood to landscape our yards, work in our restaurants, and clean the homes, and streets.

I just assumed with so much effort put into an education, and college that these men had missed something. Not quite made it. Lost out on America’s dream. Maybe through their own shortcomings, or to no fault of their own. Maybe a bad background. Problems in school. Not given many opportunities. From what I could tell there were two worlds, and two tiers, and two color choices before me. The path of education, and then the laborers that fit into blue collar work. A life of Brentwood, or a life working for people who lived in Brentwood. The white collar world of business suits, and making big deals in the corporate offices which I grew up around. Or a world outside of building homes, and putting in a good days sweat through labor and moving dirt.

I was a natural for the white collar world. I was a son of it.

I could tell my dad was struggling with it. He wanted me to work. As a boy he was forced to work hard jobs in the steel mills of Ohio, on his father’s demands. He responded by being obedient. But when it came to him asking me to work 40 hours a week in the summer, I asked why?

Why go through that? Why when you can make 10x that in my own private business. I don’t think my dad was able to answer that question, he never asked, just obeyed.

It wasn’t enough for me. I needed to know why?

The way I saw it, we had come a long way since then. Technology. Internet. Machines to do the sweat for you. Thanks, Dad. But no thanks. I will work my job on the side, and play in the summers. I had all the money I needed, working part time.

If I looked at where most of my days were spent, it was surrounded by white blocks, and chalk boards, and books.There was plenty of life and sports outside of that, but most of my days were around teachers. My learning came through studying. Knowledge was passed by learning through a book and a chalkboard. Mostly Sitting. I didn’t fight it. Or ask too many questions. I just trusted this system. Kept progressing.

And moving up.

It all came together to be well, in rather perfect harmony.

One day my parents brought over a photographer. I had always seen the pictures up at malls and places. Southerners love to capture their family in a picture. Take a shot of the family, and dog in the yard, and display it over the fireplace as a lasting memorial to the family in a large golden ornate frame. And that is what you did in Brentwood. You took a family picture by a photographer, and took that large picture and hung it on the wall in your house. Every house in Brentwood has one of the family.

And without even knowing it, we were sort of one of the pictures of the Brentwood family success story. After getting the photo taken from our pool deck, the photographer hung it in the glass window of his studio in Brentwood. Little families, and nice cars drove by each day in Brentwood, as they busily were in search of doing the same thing with their families. Repeating the cycle, and having their family hung up in the picture too.

Without really knowing it, we had become the American dream, and I figured that I was well on the path to becoming the American man.

Youth Convention.

2008-11-21T06:03:00.000-08:00

This week, Cory, Josh, and I are at a youth convention in Nashville. 5,000 youth pastors. And we are one of around 300 exhibitors in the booth area representing Training Ground. I have never been part of a trade show before, so it is quite amazing to see so many ministries represented.

I became a christian in high school, but it wasn't till college that I really become aware of all the ministries, missions, and activities, and events around the country. It is quite eye opening to see how many are focused, and targeting youth in everything from frisbee evangelism, to missions.

We really wanteed to come, and explore, and be amongst those here as a place for young youth pastors, as well as their high school students with a high school summit at TG, that we are doing in 2009.

One thing on opening night was looking at the booths. Some seem 3 stories high. Others are 4 booths wide. There are some with huge banners, and colors, flashy things, and tons of big screens. Others like the father and daughter next to us, that lead youth groups to do inter city missions in a town in Florida, they have nothing fancy, or bright or expensive. just the words on a banner, and a few pictures. and some of the finest people we have met. with huge hearts.

another great one, probably my favorite is the compassion international booth. they have an interactive booth where you walk into a typical hut of a family from a country in africa (not sure which), and see how they live, and what things they have inside. i love that. 20 years from now, I think I will remember walking in there. mainly because I have not walked into a condition like that before, and they brought one persons living condition in africa, right into a convention hall between all the flashy stuff.

It is easy to judge, critique, evaluate, and ask what is the best booth, or did we do it well compared to the rest, does our booth speak to our mission, or catch peoples attention? Since we never have been to a convention, we really didn't know what to compare it to when we built it, and by God, that is probably our saving grace.

Josh labored weeks back on a 8 feet by 8 feet fake log cabin style building, with pictures, and a few items that get used while the young men are out there.

looking around at the other booths, it is also good to be reminded there are so many ministries out there. similar. different. and thank God. being part business minded, there is always the pull to try and differentiate your product, and make it sound like the best, and when you are away from others doing the ministry, it is very easy to feel that temptation rising inside. while there is always the good, the bad, and the ugly, i must say, it is good to be around our neighbors here, from light and sound, and big and small, and see there is some mighty good work being made, by some mighty good men and women for God in all arenas. different, and all part of their way of seeing God's Kingdom. and being one booth. I think booth #126, in that family.

Or also described as...

"that booth in the corner with a dead animal somewhere on the wall."

Earthlink. Woes.

2008-11-03T16:43:00.000-08:00

I recently was charged $21.99 to my account from an earthlink account. I had signed up for the free service awhile back, used it for about a week, and stopped. Problem was I never canceled. It was a 6 month free subscription. Till the 31st of this month. Thus, my regular charge kicked in. $21.99. I have not used the account for 5 months. But I never canceled. So, I called up to cancel 3 days after being charged for this month's service, and with the hope they would consider my request to refund my money.

I spoke with a gentleman, and then a supervisor named Jeremiah. He was a gracious man, explained the policies, and how he would not be able to refund the money. I understood their dilemmna. Why give money back to a customer who is leaving? He should have read the policies, etc. I understand. They would rather keep my $21.99 then see my side. And to be honest, I can at least respect that as a business model. I clicked that little box thing with the million words that somewhere in there had their policies. My fault.

But what they lost, guaranteed is a customer for life. Maybe I would never come back to them, anyways. they are probably backing on that $21.99 gamble, than getting me back one day. it was worth it to them. but what I mentioned to the supervisor as they send it on, is to put my blog site, and let them know that I would be sharing their policies on my blog. and that I will be recommending to everyone to choose another internet provider. not earthlink. they have their policies, and well, this was mine. share it with a few of you.

The power of the internet is we actually have more of a voice. and I would love to see Earthlink help a brother out, and show some grace. We could all use it in this economy.

I hope they respond. I would love to share that with you.

Cold blooded killing

2008-11-02T14:41:00.000-08:00

I began to ask myself, could I kill an elk, which I had grown to love so much, and had brought me so many things?

It felt close to the likes of murdering a good friend.

Would I be able to look deep into my sight, and squeeze the trigger of my rifle on a helpless animal that’s only defense against me was simply running for its life? Could I spill blood, and take life, even, should I? Was it moral to kill? Christlike? What Would Jesus Do? Oh gosh, did I really say that?

But it was a good question. Would Jesus chamber a Remington bullet, dressed in 3-D seclusion camo, and creep around the ground, and kill? It had all been fun and games, and very nostalgic, and romantic up to this point. But these were some serious questions.

My dad was not a hunter. He shared a story that while he was a boy he watched his father out hunting, and remembers one moment in particular seeing him mercilessly kill a raccoon in the tree at their house. He was a young boy, and watching what appeared as a pet get shot down, did plenty of harm to his soul and for good reason.

He decided that for him, hunting was not an option. And as I began to enter into this scenario, I began to see those scenarios too.

It would hit me in moments. I would sit outside my house that backed up to a bluff called Ute Valley park where I had made a little shed for reading and praying. A doe or buck mule deer would stroll by with its family of little bambis, gazingly slowly by, and looking at me in the shed, almost peering into the glass to say hello, so kind and gently. I would pretend to raise a rifle, and pull a trigger, and the feeling was close to a mobster going on a killing spree with his tommy gun at a spaghetti joint. It felt so cold and dark. How could I kill Bambi?

I would watch rabbits munching on grass as well. I starred at them, and seeing them like I would a family at the mall, enjoying themselves and out for a day of pleasure and fun. It brought such odd and mixed feelings. I so deeply wanted to hunt, and yet how could I kill these furry innocent things?

This was going to be a big decision. Going against the family beliefs. It appeared, to hunt was to turn my back on my father’s opinions, and some of my own, and join the company of men as Al Capone, Jimmy Hoffa, Jeffrey Damer, and Charles Manson. Killers. And yes, there killing was with humans, and mine being an animal, but it was pre-meditated, and it was a life, and a bullet that I had aimed to take it with.

It brought up many more questions. Especially the really spiritual ones.

As a Christian, I knew that God’s order was about life. Jesus words, “I came that you might have life.” The gospel was about resurrection, being raised from death to life. Eternal life. Restoring life. Healing life. It seemed hunting was moving in the clear opposite direction of that. From peace and unity to lawlessness and murder. Death and destruction. From Ghandi and Martin Luther King back to Rambo.

As I drew closer, and kept going on hunts, and watching things get shot, I knew it was just a matter of time before that moment was going to be at hand for me. You didn’t just go to watch, eventually that trigger of death would be with my finger on it. The beautiful scenery and landscapes, and comraderie amongst men, and God in still silent meadows that had been so surreal, would all change with the thunder crack of a rifle, and a bullet through the heart, and my hand on a knife digging into fur and hide, and straight through into red fleshy meat with my hands covered in blood.

It seemed a gruesome sight. And it was sobering. This was not paintball, or video games where things were safe, and there was always the reset button. These actions were permanent. And I could not take back what I had done, once I had taken the shot.

A man and his feelings.

2008-10-31T08:40:00.000-07:00

In the middle of this, I began to feel. Yes, feel. That word that seems attached to women, like ornaments stuck on a Christmas tree. But with men, it was the opposite. Men were tough. Hard. Thick skinned. And more like motor oil, and Evian water, that didn’t mix. It hadn’t really mixed on me either. And while I was bundled and boxed full of them, I never knew it. Never knew it was part of God’s hardwiring in me. And really that I even had them.

I always saw feelings as soft and warm. Feelings were for those who could not handle life, or push through and deal with the circumstances of around them. They felt, because they could not act, or move. They cried, or were sad, because they were weak.

You could feel sitting around coffee, or with friends, which seemed to be what women loved to do. And as a struggling boy trying to make it, I got the sense, to not get too close to that world. Afraid I would get enveloped in it, and never come out a man.

For me, when something started rising up in me, some emotion, undefined, there were always two ways to handle it. Either I ran from them, tried to avoid it, by distracting myself, getting busier, or the other way. Or the other way of trying to prove them wrong. Working more, fighting more, or doing all I could to kill or defeat those giants within me. I faked it, or moved into high gear.

It came out most directly through pornography. I would be sitting on the screen, and something in me, or in God was asking, “what are you looking for?” And while at first, it seemed to obvious. The question always turned back to my heart, and what I was feeling. That I had not asked, never thought to even consider. And the thought came, “what is going on inside?”

I can remember one early evening thumbing through pics, when it hit me what I was doing. The sun was golden orange, and the evening was cool from the window near me. The sunset was just a few hundred yards up the cliff in our backyard, easily discovered and enjoyed.

I sat there, going through screens, only realizing what I wanted, what I was feeling, was my need to enjoy some beauty. Sit for a moment, and be overwhelmed by something bigger than my day today, admiring landscape and form, and having nothing required of me.

I had chosen that through these pictures on the laptop. And yet, it began to emerge just as much was the desire to go outside and take it all in with God. I sat between the two, wondering what to do. I was tired, it would take too much energy to walk up the cliff side. And have to sit, and be still, and rest. I saw that as too much work. This was so much easier. In the weirdest way, they seemed to give my heart the chance to feel. To rest, to admire, to be still, and lose myself for a little while.

Another time it was different, in looking online, and through these pictures, I found myself in a different place. I was not wanting to rest, not wanting to admire. I was angry. Frustrated over the day. Overwhelmed, and ready to take that out on someone or something else. I couldn’t feel it, and in some ways, wanted to transmit it to someone else. Here I was, playing out that anger, and feeling, through the internet again.

And so many times, just lonely. Not feeling that emotion, not realizing what was taking me there, but that I had not opened up much that week. Not with my wife, not with friends, and my whole internal world was trying to find a place to connect again. There it was, the chance, and opportunity.

All of a sudden pornography became less about my lust for women, and more about a quest to feel, and have emotions. It was the place so much of my bundled, and boxed heart took its need to release, and feel, and be alive.

I found God taking me to before the actual sin, and act. When I was tempted, the question would come, what am I wanting right now? What am I feeling? What is going on in my heart? The temptation, was almost the sign something was being triggered in me. I was needing restored. To be loved. To feel the day. To sit still. To hurt, or grieve over something in the days events.

It made sense, why did so many men struggle with feeling, and with their emotions, and their heart, and yet, so many struggle with pornography. It seemed a direct correlation. That something deep in our hearts was repressed, or locked up, or whatever you want to name it. But it desperately was looking to get out, had to find somewhere to go. No matter what the cost.

We were trying to feel. The thing we so desperately wanted to avoid.

The Land, a moustache, and the GPS lady.

2008-10-29T09:22:00.001-07:00

The location for our hunting trip was in Medino Pass near the Sangre de Christo mountains. It was just past Westcliffe, Colorado, a small town for farmers and ranchers. It took us about two hours to get there off I-25, and down the highway 20 miles, that ended with a five mile drive on a washed out, and washboard bumpy dirt road that jagged through some scenic backcountry, and ranches on both sides as made it up in the high elevation of Colorado wilderness.

The Colorado Department of Wildlife had marked it off as Unit 86.

We pulled up to camp passing through mile markers, and marked signs, but once in the land, that all stopped, and faded. The unit, the markers, the mileage, the names, and borders and boundaries. It was just unmarked land, wild and free. Natural wonders of meadows, and aspens, and pines that rolled, and hugged the landscape but with no marking but the places themselves.

I wanted to get the land straight. Get my bearings on it all. I was so easily prone to get lost. My topo map, which I was beginning to be able to read, had elevation gains, roads and trail markers, mileage units, and north-south coordinates which I brought to the men at camp.

In approaching Earl with this desire, he looked at me with a smirk, as his moustache moved a little up and to the left and said, “I’ve made my own map.”

Woody and Richard laughed.

I would find out what he meant by their stories. Descriptions like red gate. Upper Road. The fingers. Baldy. Buckskin. The zoo. Lower Road. And moeller were inserted in their stories as locations for events. These were not on my map. Not in the portable GPS unit. Not known by any hunters. Only known by these men. Like a secret tribal Indian language spoken by these guys.

Richard would say something to Earl commenting about the place where they shot that bull eight years ago, the 5 X 5 near the fingers, down through the meadow on the fence line. Earl would shake his head, and just agree, “that’s right, it was the same year I bought that suburban, 1985.”

I looked at them like aliens. These places were not on my map. And these memories were not within my head.

I was sitting with a map, filled with information and lines, and co-ordinates man had created to rule of and measure things for ease of use, and universality of all so we could speak a similar language, and I had never felt as lost. I had no memory, no experience, nothing to plug this terrain to understand these men. Just a red gate, and a meadow.

I asked Richard where the names came from. He looked at me a bit suspicious, wondering why I was so curious. Why I needed to know. He said he did not know. I wasn’t sure if he was lying or telling me the truth. A few hours before he said to me, “some secrets you don’t get to learn on the first trip.” I took that as my need to be careful on what questions to ask, as a young green horn hunter, but I fired this one away hoping to move into some more answers about this place. I took a risk.

He then paused, and said, “Maybe the cowboys taught us those.” I wasn’t sure who or where the cowboys came from and were. If there were ghosts, or real figures, but I looked at him, not sure what to say. And he seemed find with leaving me with that. Another que to let some of that go.

The thing about these names is that you couldn’t google “red gate” or “the fingers,” and get a nicely printed out map, with time of arrival, listed directions.

It was some place unknown to all. And I believe they wanted it that way. Whether the names either they had made up or been passed down by those they had learned the land from, the cowboys. The men they had been hunting with them, and using them for 25 years. One of those words put them right in that exact place in their head for the story, no map needed. The memories of days of walking the land, and knowing trees, and meadows, and turns in each valley. If I were a guessing man, it appeared the land had made its own markers through by their own memories of them for the last 25 years. They didn’t need the universal units made by scientists and mathematicians.

They had their own. Universal to Richard, Earl, Woody, Mike, and the Colonel. And foreign to hunting tourists like me.

It came up when I was fishing too. Ron would talk about his favorite holes in Eleven Mile Canyon. It wasn’t mile marker 5, it was called the Campbell Hole. Or the Meeker hole. Named after some very personal event, or person that had caught a fish in it, or by some image the area looked like to him. The entire Arkansas was filled with these places, only known by Ron, and his fishing buddy Vern. And whoever he decided to tell the secret too.

It seemed universal for man to name his world. In fact, God called man to rule and subdue, and name the animals at the beginning. He put that hardwired in us. And it wasn’t too long before man was doing just that. Naming and measuring away. We developed systems to count, and we laid out mileage, and borders, and boundaries, then genus and species, GPS coordinates, and before long, we had ruled and explored and named it all. We staked it off, started countries, fought over that land, and
those markers, redrew boundaries to name them and claim them as our own, again.

By the time most of us had come into the world, everything had been explored, and there was a place in the system we had created to rule over. It seemed the only remaining area in my childhood in the backyard of my neighborhood, but it was only two years before that got bulldozed for houses.

There was simply nothing more to discover or name or wonder about. We understood it all, down to the protons and neutrons from which we came. We had named and ruled it all. The world has been mapped out, with some lady now telling me what to do, where to turn, and somehow I just followed. Followed my entire life the names created for me, until I pulled into this long dirt road, and into the area called “the zoo.” I think it was the first time in my life, I was really lost in land. And it felt like one of the most freeing moments of my life.

It is one thing I came to appreciate about the men I was around. They did not abide by these rules, and others methods of measuring and naming. Those got thrown out. They found their own. Recreated them to fit their own needs. And what they saw and experienced. All of the rest of us seemed to be missing out, following some computer chip in a car, or on a map telling us where to go. For convenience sake.

Writing...

2008-10-28T20:42:00.000-07:00

I have spent the last year or so, writing a book. I have been adding those different sections on this blog. It has been a great joy to put them on. You can spend hours writing words out to just yourself. It is very lonely, and while rewarding, has little treats after each completed sentence. There is a great satisfaction in the labor itself. But what good is it to make something that you, yourself can only enjoy, and not let others partake in.

I dont know who reads this, but I enjoy the thought someone is, and I take delight in believing that one work, inspires another. To tell my stories for their own sake, is narcissism, but to tell them, to help and serve others stories, is more like art. and while I am probably no great artist, I do enjoy sharing the work.

With that said, I thought it would be helpful to explain that. I am hoping to put many of these essay/blogs into a manuscript do in a few months. And so this has become like my chalkboard, and rough sketch of some of that.

I had been thinking, as most authors do of how do you begin a book? which story tells it all. sums it up. awakens longing, declares the mission? It is the hardest task in the world. and up to this point, I believe that teh intro is not something you pick out, but that it picks you out. In that effort, this kinda came to me tonight in some inspiration.

as we still work on the title, the words that seem true in there would be:

oil, sweat, blood, dirt, dust, tears, and roots. not sure which, not sure which are better, but in that I kinda played with a real short opening...

They say oil does not mix with water. And that blood is red. And dirt from the earth is brown. But when blood dries, it is dark like dirt. And when my tears finally came, it came through oil and things I did not expect find it in, nor were supposed to merge.

I would have never known this. I had just listened to people, and books, and the talk of those around me. Oil, and sweat, and tears, and dirt did not get on me. I was a bit more educated. But when it was all said, and when God was done, they did come, and all bled together in color, mixing like a tray of oil paints into one textured color that I cannot describe by describing the color, but by telling you this story.

Elk camp, video.

2008-10-27T21:47:00.000-07:00

We just posted this to our website today from our hunting trip...

A good shot of Earl in the tent, with Dwayne cooking. Then Earl and Woody talking construction.

2nd video is from the first night before our 5 am wake up call for elk. A pep rally you could say, with Dwayne and Earl as our cheerleaders.

Elk Camp.

2008-10-25T16:09:00.001-07:00

Life is ironic, that those who have a lot, often lack a lot, but those who have little, often possess some rich, remarkable, and puzzling things. -- Robert Coles

We pulled up to the elk camp which looked more like a village. A flat meadow of land hollowed out from the many pine trees, that for most weeks of the year, was completely uninhabited. It had become a buzzing whirl of activity and portable buildings constructed by these men. There was a cook tent made up of canvas that was the center for all the food, and stoves, and eating activities. The mess hall. It was similar looking to a circus tent, just smaller.

A pop-up trailer sat near the trees that housed the men to sleep. A bathroom had been setup in the woods with a plastic tarp to the north, the blue plastic blocking our view and the wind. A hole had been dug deep in the ground with a real toilet seat mounted on 2X4’s and some cut wood logs. There was another canvas tent for all the men’s gear and storage, along with two more tents used as they constructed it all.

In the center of it all was the fire pit raised up with rocks, and dirt, and a huge tripod with a round grill that moved up and down for food. The official name for the place we camped was “the zoo.” It was named that by Earl and Richard because of so many hunters being in the one central area. It is not that way anymore. Not these days. This day, we are left to our own. No tents, or hunters, or camps around us. A growing sign that the sport has been losing its men to death, and not picking up any to replace it. I grimace at the thought, but realize for this day, it means better hunting.

When you looked around at all the tents, and vehicles, and objects, it was for good reason.
The men at camp had been doing this for years. The items around camp were proof. The canvas tent was Richard’s which he bought at Cabelas years ago. It was originally a white canvas, but had since become brown with dirt, and smoke with the years of heavy use. The grill over the fire was also a custom piece by Richard. It was metal poles made into a tripod structure over the fire that hung a huge circular grill grate through a metal wire on a pulley system. That too, was made by Richard, along with the aluminum cooler. They had built custom trailers, and stoves too. And most of the gear, as I asked about each piece was about the age of me.

The whole camp was a fixture of their own creativity and use of materials to meet their needs. Down to the toilet seat that was screwed into some wood boards, and propped up by fresh logs they had cut with a hole in the ground. It wasn’t fancy or flashy, just practical and useful. It served its function.

Their gear was so well made, I didn’t know they made the stuff till near the end of the week hunting. No one was bragging about it, or making a big deal of any of it. It just was. And my fascination with the cooler made of aluminum and custom foam pieces and joints, and hinges had Richard looking at me like I was crazy for thinking it was such a big deal. Earl’s pants looked more like a painting than they did jeans. Spills and colors, and oil stains throughout them. They had signs of use, and function. Even the wooden folding tables looked as if they came from the civil war.

I had come from REI, and stores loaded with gear advertising about the newest, most improved, and added features to sell the next year’s gadget and clothes. Flashy signs, and stickers promising lighter, harder, you name it. These items had none of that. No logo. No design and style in them. They just worked. And served their use and came with character. Similar to the men who had made and worn them.

Everytime I walked into the brown speckled tent that was the mess hall, I found myself entering into something much larger than myself, and part of this hunting group that had been going on as long as I had been born. There was something comforting in that, it didn’t start with me, and wasn’t going to end with me either, there was tradition and rituals that continued on—passed down. The men, and the stories they had. I had joined in for a moments time. It was this moment of wondering if I was going to be the next generation to uphold the place. If I was going to someday inherit these old pieces of gear, and stoves, along with the younger men I was with.

There was no talk of that. It was my first trip. I was getting to eager as I thought about it.
You couldn’t get this feeling of the camp at Starbucks. It was old and aged, weathered. And while I thought I liked the new and flashy, the dust and dirt was starting to get inside me. I was enjoying breathing it in, and getting it on me.

I don’t know when it happened, but Richard seemed to have his eye on me. And every chance he could, he would make a little joke, or tease. I soon became his “little buddy.” Whether he was working in the kitchen, or gutting an elk, he would call to me, “Hey, little buddy, take this to the trash, or so on.” At one instant, it felt a bit shameful, or discouraging. They guys would laugh each time. But it wasn’t the name that I wanted to be called. But you could see in his eyes, there was a respect, and almost desire to engage with me when he said. It wasn’t in anger or shame, but in fun and interest. Even at one point when I was going to be in a section of the woods on my own, he wanted to make sure I was going to be safe.

I began to play into it, and fire back some comments back.

This was a way of showing affection, without saying it. While my generation was great at expressing themselves and sharing their feelings, I knew these men did not grow up in a place, or time as this. But while I would have written them off years ago for not being able to relate like this, I began to see what was happening between Richard, Woody, and Earl was just that. Love.

It took on a different form and expression, but the exchange was just that. And the teasing was
Richard’s way of drawing near to me.

While I would tease Richard of his old days of dragging whole elk out of the woods, he would fire right back. On, and on we would go.

It happened in many of the places I was in. Men loved this sport. Whether it was at work, or in the woods, men were constantly ragging, and picking.

It would be pretty easy to dismiss this stuff as unspiritual. Foolish talk. But the story of most young guys is they have never been around men at all, or related, or been in the midst of a teasing match. I felt there was something much deeper going on, when we would fire back at each other. Like elk rubbing antlers testing each other, determining the stronger elk. A young buck taking on a bigger one. I felt the feeling of rubbing against masculinity, that was old, and weathered, and as I picked, I found him rubbing back. Like a mutual experience between the two of us. Something felt right in the world as it happened.

I found that you could not expose this. I could never say Richard, do you like me? Or even think of putting the words to it. It seemed best, left as it was, and a sort of code.

The big rack. And Goliath.

2008-10-16T09:27:00.001-07:00

When you hang around outdoorsmen, and really men, you inevitably get into stories, and sizes of things. Half of it is catching or killing the things, the other part is telling the stories about where you were, and bragging about doing it. Actually, more like 90% of it. You experience it once, and tell it maybe 10 or 25 times, or show it through pictures, often telling the stories to the same people.

Walk into any outdoors store, and you will find pictures plastered on the walls of deer, elk, bears, and fish with a someone next to it in camo, or gear. Thousands of pics. A man and his kill. People come in to put their picture up and show the world. I always thought that as so foolish. So redneck, and ridiculous. Who would want to do that? Why?

As I hung out with Earl and Ron and the other men, I was starting to notice that I was hearing some of the same stories from them. At first they all run together, but I was starting to hear the same ones, and pick them out. At first it seemed so unusual. “Earl, I heard that story already!” I would want to blurt out. But I began to see it was part of this world, and men. There was a chance to go back, relive and talk about the time like you were there again. Feel that moment, and look at each other with smiles of joy. Let everyone take it in, and oh and awe.

You would hear, “I caught four fourteen inch brookies.” Hands would go wider than fourteen inches, and inevitably the stories, and the hands would keep getting stretched out a few inches farther each time the day went on, and the story was told. The 4 would turn to 6 by the end of the day, and grow in size too. I can remember one day at Rosemont, the fishing was hot. I had about 12 trout in the morning time while we were there, feeling proud. I watched from the other side of the lake bank, while Ron, my fishing guru, pulled in what seemed about the same amount.

I thought I was tracking with him. As we gathered for lunch, his number was 30. And when I
pressed him, he admitted he didn’t actually keep count.

The numbers and size had some important part of why we had come out there. Although I could not understand it. Meanwhile the stories once told a few times, became legends, and somehow that was ok, all part of taking part in the moment. A 6 point elk, after a few years became 8 points. A 250 yard shot across the field, becomes a 350 yard shot across a valley in the snow.

And while many of the people were actually at the place, and knew some of it was a bit off, they never said anything. It was just part of what you did, and how you told the stories.

I found it so interesting that a man had the need to measure things. It was not enough to hunt and stalk a bull, the next question is how big? What did it weigh? How big were its antlers? How many points? All things that mattered in telling the story, and helping people fill all the details in.

Look at the story of Goliath. You know a man was retelling it.

“He was over nine feet tall… wore a coat of scale armor of bronze weighing five thousand shekel (125 lbs.)…his spear shaft was like a weaver’s rod, and its iron point weighed six hundred shekels (15 lbs.)”

Now, I am not saying he was lying about it or stretching the truth, but his height is debated amongst different texts that have him from 6’7” to 9’6” tall. Again, whatever it was, you can bet as the story was told, he got bigger. I understood why the text was confusing. Whatever was true, man wanted to make him bigger. And score him on a Boone and Crockett scale.

The author, Samuel made sure to tell us the weight, and size of everything. It seems even then, we understood the importance of those things. So it should not surprise you that find most men on the river, and they have a scale, and a measuring tape. And there is an official club that does all official scoring charts and records for animals.

Here is what you measure…

· Number of points of each antler.
· Tip to tip spread
· Greatest spread
· Inside spread of wide beams.
· Total length of abnormal points
· Length of each normal points on each side

I thought it was so foolish. I would never be that kind of guy. And then I started becoming it. I was fishing. And at first I was getting excited to catch a fish. Then I wanted more, and bigger.

And before long, I was thinking more about the story, and bragging than in the fishing. I was dreaming about the big elk, and the picture. I found out how to make the fish bigger in the picture. Extend the arms, and push the fish into the camera, pulling you in the background. I took pictures like this, putting them on facebook for all to see.

A friend, Dave, who owned the local fly shop in Colorado Springs explained it this way…

When folks begin to fish all they can think about is catching that first fish.
Then as soon as they catch that first fish they have to catch another...
Then it becomes about "how many" fish and I caught 20 or 40 or 80 fish!
Then it becomes about "how big" and catching that +20 inch fish, then the +25 then the +30....
Then it becomes about "the exotic" either fishing in some exotic place or catching something unique.
Then there seems to be a shift and it becomes more about the fishing and less about the fish... just getting out and catching "a fish" becomes the only goal just to prove that you still have what it takes.
The final stage has very little to do about the fish other than they are there. Catching is just a bonus. Fishing becomes larger that any fish and more that any quantity. Being out with the smells, sights, and sounds is all that becomes important...A time to renew the soul and hear Gods voice.

It seemed there was a time to be part of that. To get caught up in size, and amount. It was part of the sport. And a natural cycle. I found myself knowing not to do it, but secretly trying to catch more fish than Timm, or Cory. Even a bigger one.

What I realized is not that I was doing it, but to let the cycles come, and go. There was a time to go for a large fish, but there was time to just enjoy the river, and the beauty, and to sit and rest, and take it all in with God. I realized the problem was when people didn’t move out of these phases. Got stuck in one of them. The old man who keeps plastering trophy animals on his walls, wanting more and more, bigger and bigger. There was something else going on with the guy.

Something deeper than I could understand.

I was starting to see that it was just about the place, and the people you are with while doing it. It seemed another one of those mysteries no one knew, because you had to go through them all first. The reason people thought, “oh you think that is what makes you a man?” Is because they hadn’t gotten past the phases. In their mind, they were stuck on the numbers or size, thinking that is what it was about. It seemed that was the great prize at the end of all of it. As Dave wrote, “A time to renew the soul and hear Gods voice.”

You seemed to discover what it was about all that time. But you couldn’t get there until you went through it all. And while all this made sense to me in my head, I was ready to go out and kill the largest biggest bull a man could find in Westcliffe. And take pictures, tell the story a thousand times, and put the picture at the hunting store and on my facebook.

Changing my oil

2008-10-15T16:16:00.000-07:00

Photo taken by Paul Hassell.com

Watching Earl teach us how to change the oil, I decided that I would give it a try. My try came today. I had the day off.

I decided that instead of paying someone to change the oil, I would do it. Earl had taken me through the whole thing at Cory’s house. I understood how to unscrew the oil screw, drain, oil filter, and done. 15 Minutes at Jiffy Lube, or 15 minutes at home, and more bucks in your pocket. I decided to check off one of the things I had never done before, change the oil.

I had spent the last some odd years having someone else do it for me. The 15-minute oil change.

It looked like this…

1 minute – Drive into the hanger with a guy in a blue jumpsuit waving me in like a Boeing 737. Get out. Give that guy my keys, tell him my phone number.

2 minute-13 minute – Walk over to the room. Drink some cheap coffee from a tiny cup, sit in a metal chair from the 80’s, and read a magazine called Motor Trend from the 90’s. Look up, with my name being called. Agree to all those add ons. Sit back down.

14- Give a guy my credit card. Walk out to my car.

15 – Driving away…

Here is how it looked this time in my garage…

1 minute – Put the jack under my car. Begin to jack.

3 minute – Realize I am jacking up the wrong place, there is a dent forming.

5 Minute – Unjack it. Jack back where the frame is, put the jackstand under it, do it on the other side, while feeling good because I learned my lesson on the other side. Got this one right on the first try.

9 Minute – Get under the hood, realize I wasn’t sure if I had put the parking break on, Check it. Few, I did. Feeling even more like a mechanic.

11 minute – Go under car, laying there in search of the oil screw. I realize I could be a pancake, hoping my jackstands hold. I unscrew the oil screw, the oil starts draining like Niagara in black gold. I rush to put the oil pan under it. My screw is dripping in my hand. I forget my towel, so put the screw in my hand and get dirty. And go find a towel.

13 Minute – Wait for the oil to drain.

19 Minute – Try and unscrew the oil filter. Not going. Call Cory, he says I am doing it right. Go back under. Can’t get the darn thing off. I start whacking the plastic wrench puller, whack it a bit more, cuss, and then realize I need a different tool

29 Minute – Drive down the road to Hardware store. Find a metal one. Wait, there are three sizes on these things. I forgot to bring the size filter, so I just guess it might be the middle wrench, hoping its right.

59 Minute – Get back to my house, check the filter, guessed right. Celebrate a second. Go under the car, start pulling with my new tool. I pull. And pull. And its not moving. I look up, and realize the circle has become a square. I yank harder, and realize my last pull I punctured a hole in the oil filter. Oil is spilling out. Its getting all over. I rush to put the oil catcher pan under. Wipe myself of, and go back from round eight and nine of the pulling. Still wondering if I am screw it off in the right direction.

67 Minute – The round can, which turned into a square can, now looks like a carved out pumpkin, dented. I yank like it’s my birthday, and it finally begins to slide. I yank more. Celebrate more. Start taking it off. Feeling again like a mechanic.

76 Minute – Put on the new oil filter, screw the plug back in. I get out my oil. Unscrew the cap that says 5W-30. I bought 10W-30. I say screw it, it’s going in. I am not going back to the store. Its only 5 numbers off. Oil is oil, right? Sure. I fill it up, test the line. I am almost done. Feeling like Dale Earnhardt mechanics.

82 Minute – Take the jack to the frame, remove both jackstands, drop the hood. Put up my jackstands, left over oil in a corner, and walk in my house so proud.

89 Minute – Realize I never pulled out the pan or tools under the car, go back outside remove them from underneath. Not sure what to do with the oil, so I shove the oil somewhere I can’t see it. Put the tools away. I just changed the oil. And I swear to you, I feel like I just won the lottery or something.

Memories of the past.

2008-10-13T21:32:00.000-07:00

A friend sent me an email last week. His grandfather had passed a few weeks ago, and received this letter from one of his grandfathers hunting buddies. I am always trying to understand this mystery of why men hunt, and what I am drawn to in it. When you say you hunt, there are many different reactions that come up. and for many good reasons, and I have considered them good reason to search my own soul in trying to attempt to understand it, and what is in the dang thing.

This was one of those emails that reminded me of the complexities, and riches that are found there, and a bit of an inside way. I was allowed to share this with his permission...
>
>
> I was saddened to learn of your father's passing and I
> have been remiss in dropping you a line. I know from the
> tone of xxxx's email, forwarded to me by Jeff, in
> July, that your dad's passing was hard for him. I'm
> sure that is true for the whole family. That's the way
> it is in a close family, and the way it should be.
>
>
>
> Your Dad was certainly special to lots of people. He
> became one of my favorite people to see at camp. His
> occasionally gruff exterior was a bit intimidating to an
> unsure teenager introducing himself to a roomful of seasoned
> camp-goers. Once the ice was broken, however, it was hard
> not to like a man whose laugh was even louder and more
> genuine than his occasional bark. I was surprised to walk
> into deer camp about 10 years ago and receive a big hug from
> your dad. I appreciated that hug each and every hunting
> season I saw him after that.
>
>
>
> Of course, your dad's pride in you and the rest of the
> family was evident in just about every conversation. The
> Tibbit family is a smart, accomplished, bunch and he never
> missed a chance to talk about his sons and grandsons and all
> that they were up to. I, and others, really appreciated
> your efforts to get your dad to camp over the last several
> years.
>
>
>
> Your dad also was one of the last to carry the torch for
> many members of "the greatest generation" who have
> shared the Narrows for so many years. I wish we had more of
> their stories on paper and their escapades in pictures.
>
>
>
> One thing hunting in the Narrows helps us appreciate is the
> constant change around as well as the sacred, and fleeting
> nature of life here on earth. Your dad certainly had a
> great 88 years. If we can all carry our deer rifles until
> we're 84 and then enjoy a handful more seasons in a
> rocking chair, we'll have done alright. He's
> probably sitting under a tree right now with Bud Fore,
> spooking the game as they talk and laugh.
>

Blood.

2008-10-10T21:30:00.000-07:00

I began to ask myself, could I really kill an animal? Could I spill blood? It had not really run across my mind, till I had an elk within my scope and a trigger pull away of completing the job. The light was too low, and the elk buried within to many aspen trees, so I could not get a good shot at it. But it left me asking, could I do it? Should I do it?

I was to join the company of men as Al Capone, Jimmy Hoffa, and Charles Manson. A killer. Yes, it was an animal, but it was pre-meditated, and it was a life, and a bullet that I had aimed to take it. It was one thing to watch a friend, but to be the murderer, it brought up many more questions. Spiritual ones.

I was choosing to put something to death. A living creature was about to be destroyed because of my decision. While there was a nostalgia in much of hunting, this was different. It brought a soberness. This wasn’t a video game, or paintball. I could not change my mind, once I had taken the shot. It was a permanent decision. There were real consequences. I found myself contemplating the question, could I kill something that I have grown to see as strong, and beautiful, and the reason I had found so many thing in the wilderness, with men, and God. I was about to kill the thing that had led me here.

Would I be able to take a life?

Symbols of Masculinity.

2008-10-08T18:22:00.001-07:00

I found myself deep in a jungle of some very masculine things. There was no war paint, or deep drum tribal dances happening, but it was getting pretty close. The tools, weapons, and camo in my garage was proof I was either about to start my own cult compound with some friends, or I was moving into some new and unusual territory for me that I still was confused about.

My emblems of my past were from a pretty boy lifestyle of occasional pink ties, and pink polo shirts with hair in my gel, and occasionally tanning. Looking around, it was very obvious that I had run clear in the other direction to more mountain man apparel with camo and wal-mart button up flannel shirts.

I could see my friends of old, from down south, laughing at me clad in this gear. I looked like David in Saul’s armor. And I felt like a Halloween costume on a grown man. There was something that felt so unnatural about it. It took me to thoughts of my high school friend, Sam Hotchkiss, grinning and blurting out, “Hood, what the heck are you doing!”

Even one of my buddies who learned I was hunting said, “what’s next, Graham (the most masculine dude in our fraternity) wearing pink?” It felt that extreme. And it was. I had pegged the needle to the other side. But whatever was going on, it was much deeper than a reaction, and the gear and clothes themselves. I felt that shifting deep in me. There was something I was discovering that I still had few real answers for, but it was real. As odd as it sounded, it was very spiritual.

I could not deny there was a process God had me on. God was in this. These objects representing deeply masculine and spiritual symbols that I had never found on my own, or as a growing boy.
You see, I was a late blooming teenager, which meant while most guys were hitting puberty and finding their voice, and shaving—I was handed the card that said, “not yet.” I had to wait it out, and my turn in the hormone line. I hated that. I wanted God to give me a zap of a chiseled face, with stubble to fill me in, and get me up to speed with the rest of the crowd.

The body was a symbol for something. I knew it instinctively—although not exactly what. God had designed it that way. A friend, Sam Jolman, says that the changing of our bodies during adolescence is God’s natural sign and announcement to the world, and our parents, and ourselves, that we are becoming a man. God made those as representations of something deep happening in our heart. We are changing in that time. Our voice, our hair, our bodies. We are not a boy anymore. The symbolism of this was very much God’s plan and process.

But those symbols went beyond our bodies. The next object of my desire to put around me was cigarettes, beer, and girls. The trinity of male bravado for a high school guy. The world’s form of initiation. They were really the only symbols of manhood, I saw at the time. There was certainly something about holding any of those in your hands, that brought a feeling, and sense of identity as a man.

When I turned 16, although my body was still holding out, I was given a car. And I immediately started putting bass subwoofer speakers in the back. As a teenager with a vehicle, and a small lawn mowing business, I poured it all into my system. 10 inch bass speakers, became 12 inch, then eventually 18 inch that filled up the entire back. It was loud enough to annoy parents. And turn most people’s heads. I tested the sound pressure at a shop to be as loud as a jet engine. It could be heard a good ½ mile down the road when on full volume, with amps burning juice. The bass was so deep and strong, it could shake screws lose from my vehicle.

Richard Rohr says that when a man does not feel power internally, does not carry it in him, and on him, then he begins to attach to things that have it. External things. You name it. A gun. A sport. Money. A vehicle. Success. A girl. Even a country. We look for things that contain power, because we do not feel that ourselves. We find the next best thing, and we cling to it.
It happens in sports all the time. I saw it last week at an NFL football game. My father and I sat in the crowd of Tennessee Titans while most fans had on their favorite players jersey. Screaming and shouting, not like they were just spectators, but as the players themselves. It was the same idea. The association of the strength. I am this player. Even with his short figure, pot belly stuck to high heaven, and a smell of cigarette and cheap beer. Do not tell him that, for these next few hours, he is Vince Young.
As a boy, I was looking for something deep, and male, and loud to attach myself to because I did not feel that inside of me. I knew about Jesus, and the Lord, but not in a way that I saw spoke to these deep places of my heart to be affirmed as a man. I did not see him as offering that to me. Salvation, yes. Male affirmation, not really.

I wanted, in some symbolicy and metaphorical way to feel the depth of that bass inside me, because I knew it was not there. The bass lasted a year, along with working out, playing football, and so many other things that came and went in these attempts to possess the masculine inside me. Then came college which promised the fraternity, a community of men, and initiation and brotherhood. Even the parties and beer had this sense I would find myself through it. It was symbolic of something much deeper going on inside my heart. I just had no idea at the time. Again, I thought I just liked that stuff.

It seemed these symbols were everywhere. Every man was chasing down some form of this. Money or success, or in sports. Just walking down the magazine rack. There is the gear section. Guitar. Technology. Fishing. Cars. Outdoors. Motorcycles. Model trains. Hunting. Wrestling. Cigars.

They were all saying the same thing… this is the way. These are the things that usher you into manhood.

It seemed the easy thing to do is write them off as just idols, and false and foolish forms of true strength in God. At times they were such elevated laughable stereotypes of masculinity. Steroided out forms of manhood. But there was something much more universal going on, I could not write off, nor escape in my own heart. If you looked at my garage, or over my life, I secretly wanted these masculine things.

I was your good suburban Christian guy, who grew up around malls, and strip malls. I was more domesticated, than rugged. Never spent much time in the woods, or had any desire to at the time. Never saw an interest in hunting.

But like those things as a boy, there was something deeply connected to my heart, the longing, and searching to feel and experience that strength, which these objects and men were representing. The symbols telling me something deep about all of our own hearts, and the design God made in us.

For as much as there were these masculine objects out there, there was much of the opposite. Symbols of the feminine. Associations of colors like pink, and fusia blue, or tight jeans, and rolled up jeans, perfumes, and gentleness, and love. They were generalized stereotypes, yes. But it seemed some men had been more representing those symbols, than the others.

A friend in Nebraska was telling me a story of how an old classmate he met had completely changed. He used to be the toughest guy in school, even picking on people in his grade for looking feminine. He was now wearing tight jeans, designer shirts, and people were wondering if he was gay? What had happened to the guy?

It seemed that just as we wore things to represent what we wanted to be seen as, how we want people to think of us, we also wore things that represented our shame, and insecurities. Denying
the evidence of any of it. There was the other side of masculinity.

I don’t know that guy, but he was a walking billboard with a sign that said “I am an un-initiated boy. I don’t feel masculine.” It was a denial of all male symbols, and although he was trying to act as if it didn’t matter, he was almost proving there was a case for something deeper, by how he went to the extreme to do it.

In all of them we were “wearing our hearts on our sleeves,” so to speak. Regardless of the true answer to that friend, he is telling the world how he feels about himself. Letting us know by his clothes. And his choice was rejecting some sense of masculine in him. He is searching. But not through finding a male identity. Instead of putting in on, he is trying to run from it.

I attended a men’s conference a few years back with a worship leader who wore a black shirt, with pink letters. He also had blond spiky hair with a few streaks in them. At some degree, it was no big deal, just a shirt, just some funky hair. No swat. But I was thinking, here we are in a room of men, and that was quite a selection of a shirt to pick. I wondered what it symbolized, what he was trying to say through it. As he sang and played worship for the room full of men, he seemed hesitant leading us. Something in him that felt afraid, and unqualified.

As I watched, I thought about all those pink and funky color shirts and designer things I wore, and got away with saying, “real men feel comfortable in pink. Or dressing styling, or what not” And maybe that was true, but much of my colors were telling the world was how I saw myself, and how I was running from my masculinity.

“Don’t take me to seriously.”

“Please just see me as a pretty boy, but don’t expect me to fulfill a real mans role.”

“Don’t expect to find strength here.”

I wore the question of my masculinity to the world, just as I felt the internal conflict inside. My outside, matched the world inside in my heart. I wore what I felt to be true. It was code, an outward sign, and symbol. And yet, somehow I was so clueless to it all. Never thinking twice about it. Still denying that was the truth of these colors, and things I associated myself with.

I tried the male things, and they just never seemed to fit me as a boy. They did not work. I was not athletic enough. Not confident enough. Not ultra macho enough. So I just stopped trying. And started moving to the places, and around the people where I did not have to contend with the feelings of insecurity. I almost denied the need all together, and assumed it was not there. Slowly finding myself in clothing stores like Gap, and Banana Republic. Heading to get my hair cut at a salon with a stylist. Putting in gel. Tanning my body. I was becoming a metrosexual man, not out of design, but I had just kinda ran out of options. None seemed to fit.

I think that is why stepping back into the symbols was such a good, and hard thing. I was reclaiming something I never believed was true of me. I was trying again, and wondering if they actually might be me.

Our dog.

2008-10-03T16:50:00.001-07:00

I was just enjoying a moments rest, when our dog, Tacoma came over to me. I stood there, as he put his legs around me. He seems not able to sit near you without his paws trying to wrap themselves around you. He has to touch you. I thought... isn't that just like God. Wanting to grab me, for a moment.

Then he started humping me.

I am not sure what to do with that. Or how to relate that one to God.

It is, what it is.

Tears & Tools.

2008-10-03T11:10:00.001-07:00

A man in Denver called me one day, to ask if I needed some extra work. His bike shop was going through a re-model, and they needed some hands to help finish the displays. He asked if I could come up with a buddy, and install the wall units for their products to hang. It was going to be a two day job.

I called my good friend, Cory, and went up the next day.

Gil explained how our job was cutting the metal sleeves to fit into the wall units for all the products to hang. We were going to take 8’ X 4’ sheets of MDF, cut it to size for the wall, and then hand saw each individual metal sleeve to fit the unit. And slide them in the long narrow slots.

He took us to the back to give us a workstation. It was the bike repair shop.

The place was immaculate, like the garage I had always wanted, every type of tool hanging off pegboards, numbered coded, organized, and neatly put into its place. It was my grandfathers workshop upgraded into the 21st century. All the men gathered around their workstations. The shop was buzzing. It was a place where things were happening. There was action, and movement. Guys talking, joking, and laughing while they were repairing spokes, re-doing chains, replacing front shocks, and building all types of bikes.

There were probably around 8 guys working on bikes, all around us. Gil grabbed the tools we needed from the bench, a (type) saw, and a few files to wear down the rough cut metal. We went to work, moving back and forth from the back, to the front, putting up pieces, and going back to do the next.

The guys mainly ignored us, and we ignored them, even though we stood right in the middle of their area. As the day dragged on, and our metal screeched, drowning out their conversations, you could feel them being upset we were in their space, this office of theirs we had come into. But their boss had put us in there, and said we would be fine. So we just ignored it.

I had spent the morning measuring, sawing, filing, and then heading out from the repair shop into the retail store, to put in a few slots, then head back to the repair shop, to do it all over again. Replacing one metal piece after another. And for the most part, I was doing ok. Cutting, measuring, sawing, sanding, and filing.

But as I went back into the shop near the end of the day, I noticed the file was missing. I looked around the bench, but it was nowhere, as if it had just disappeared. I worked awhile, cutting the pieces, but not finding the file to use for it. Where did it go? It was gone. Did I lose it? Did someone take it? I asked Gil for another one, still confused on what happened.

A minute later, one of the men came around the corner and talking on his way out the door. “That was a new file you were using. We replaced the old because people were using it like you.”
He never stopped to talk, walking around the corner, and out of the shop. The place fell silent. And I just stood there. Frozen. Looking at him, and then burying myself back at the bench. Not sure what to do with his words.

Cory came back into the shop as I stood there. He was trying to get at what was going on, why I was acting so strange. The whole shop just heard me. I didn’t even know what to say to Cory. He just looked at me confused.

I pretended I was fine. Blew the whole thing off, and kept working with the tools that I had. I went out to Gil, who brought another file over a bit later to use. I rubbed the file with my hand, trying to figure out which was to use it. I didn’t want them to see me doing it. I felt so foolish. I didn’t know how to use a file. Was it away from my body, towards me? I grabbed Cory, and asked. I felt so stupid. I am 26 year old who doesn’t know how to use a file.

After a few minutes, anger rose up. I was so ticked. So mad at this guy. The nerve of him for coming in and doing that to me. Walking off, and doing it in front of all these men.

I wanted to kick his teeth in. I thought to myself, these are 40 year old men standing around a bike shop. What do they know? There are only a bunch of 40 year old boys, playing with bikes anyways. We drove back from the job, and I just fumed, with a sense of anger, and part grief, and confusion of what it was all about, and why something like this even happened.

But that evening, I had some time on my own. Jayne was working, so I went to a park nearby, and started climbing some rocks and made it on an overlook to see part of the city. I sat there with my journal. Finally able to sit with what had really happened to me. I sat there, trying to be with God and understand what was happening, why did I feel so foolish, so mad and angry?

What was so deep about this God?

Then it came…

“You were in a world of men, working with tools, and you didn’t know what you were doing.”

I sat there. Not sure if that was God, or me saying it. But bam. It was true, wherever it came from.

I thought about it a bit. It hit something so deep.

It was my worst fear. Being in a world of men, tools in my hand, and not knowing what to do. And not only that, but instead of someone coming over to teach me, the tools will be taken from me.

“I am on my own. It is up to me to figure it out.”

Then it came. Like a great damn blocked for years, holding a reservoir of years of water. I am not trying to do this, not wanting them. But they are coming. My damn somehow collapsing.
I don’t feel anger. I feel, sad. It is all up to me. Always up to me.
If I was honest, It is how I had got by all my life. Learning on my own. Picking up things, doing my best to figure it out. The self-made man. I picked things up. Asked about things in private. Searched things online, or by just picking it up by doing it, and on my own.

It’s what I felt. Loneliness. Feeling like a boy. Shame for not knowing what to do. Sitting there on the rock. Me and God. It hurt so much to say that. It was true. My deepest fear was what happened. “I am in a world of men, and I don’t know what I am doing.” And as opposed to a man coming over to help me, I will be called out. Exposed in a group of men. And not taught how to use them, but the tools would be taken from me. “I am an orphan without a father to guide me.”

It was probably the youngest and rawest I had felt since moving to Colorado. I sat on the rock, and cried.

I asked God, in that desperate place, in that place of tears, that felt to true to where he was
leading me. TO feel and grieve this place, and not be ok with it any longer. I said the words, I had wanted to say, but felt so much shame to ever give to a man, or even God. I asked, “Would you teach me. Don’t leave me in this place.”

As I woke up in the morning to head back, there was a sense of peace. As if the tears offered me a place of rest, and my prayer to God, a relief that I was not looking for myself to do it. I had asked someone else to do the thing I had always done on my own. The pressure almost off. I was not angry, not ready to rip this dudes head off. It was unusual. Not my angry self.

As we drove, and I talked to Cory, I felt like I was supposed to talk to this guy. It was the thing I was so afraid to do, so ashamed all of my life. Approach this man who shamed me? And not only that, I felt like I was supposed to ask him to help me. It was crazy, I couldn’t believe it. But by the empty hole I felt in my gut from the thought of doing it, I knew that God probably was in it.
It felt like the greatest exposure of my life. To tell this man, I don’t know what I am doing. I need help. Gosh, how I hated those words. I need help. I need. My whole life was set up to stay far from that.

As we went back to work, I saw the guy walk in. My body sank. As my heart raced with emotion. Everything rising up, so much fear, and hesitation. I was starting to think, its not that big a deal. Just leave it alone. Do not worry about it.

But I knew what I was supposed to do.

I walked by his station. And introduced myself shaking a bit. I told him I was sorry for messing up the file, and thanks for pointing that mistake in me out. I told him, “Ya know, I really don’t know that much about tools, and I would love if you see me today doing something wrong to come over, and show me what to do. Come by, and just given me a few instructions.”

He looked at me. Almost shocked, as much as I was shocked that I was saying it. We just starred at each other. Then he took out his hand, shook mine, and told me his name. I didn’t know how to continue this conversation, I was out of breathe, and empty, and so I bolted about as fast as he did the day previous, over to my work station, to start cutting metal.

Within five minutes, as I sat cutting the pipe, he came over. Approaching me with a saw in his hand.

“I saw you working on that metal. I think this saw with the smaller blades might cut better.”

I tell you, it was the most awkward moment of my life. I was receiving what I had asked for, both God, and this man, and it just felt so weird, so unusual, so uncomfortable to receive it. I looked at him, and I wasn’t sure what was just happening, it was so awkward to feel, and to think, I had asked for this, and here he was showing me. It was the greatest and most awkward experience of my life. I took the saw, maybe thanked him, and realized this was probably the first moment in my life where I had asked for what I needed. And not only that, but God was providing it.

Hunting in Starbucks

2008-10-01T15:44:00.000-07:00

I had just spent the weekend with guys in a trailer that most people who call trailers a home, would not find as an acceptable place to put their bodies in, much less eat and lay their head for the night. I spent the evenings on the deck, and ate Jeremy’s wild turkey, and venison, with potatoes and onion as a side for every meal that somehow just mixed into a goulash. I listened to Charley Daniels, David Allen Coe, and Hank Williams Jr., while trying my best at talking about UT Football (which ended when the guys giving me a quiz to name as many players as I could on the team), then came trucks, and the hunting and spray on deer pee.

I left the woods, smelling of it, and feeling a bit different. I know it hadn’t made me a man, but I can’t tell you I didn’t feel a little more coming out. My first stop was a Starbucks in Franklin. The same Starbucks that Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban frequent, along with many very trendy, and wealthy people of the area. I wanted to write about my experience, and journal about what happened. It was a weird place to immediately head towards, but I think my life and experiences brought me to a coffee shop as the first place to go. Like I was on auto-pilot.

It was weird to immediately find myself there, after what I had just gone through. I felt like a caveman emerging from a thousand year sleep. I looked around at the people, and little coffees and small tables, and nice light fixtures, and perfumes, and cute smiles of people, it just felt, well—weird.

I can promise you, it was not where the other guys were headed, but in some ways, Starbucks, and Panera Bread had been my home—my hunting cabin for many years. Heck, I had met my wife at one in Colorado a few years back. As I sat there over my journal, everything looked different in the place. I wondered for the first time if I really belonged there. If this was really me.

There was a guy next to me, a few years older than me, dressed nicely with three women around him. They sat there talking about work, and just to and fro, carelessly wandering in conversation like the wind and the coming sea tide. I wanted to journal, but I sat and listened.

Something raging inside of me at the guy. I glanced over at him, with his legs folder over. He spoke to the ladies so well, relating to them, it had me so confused.

I was mad, because in some ways maybe even 72 hours ago, I was that guy, and pretty happy with it.

But what I wanted to do next was walk over to the table, pry his legs apart with the butt of a rifle, slam him around a bit, pour out the coffee on his face, tell him he’s a man, dang it.
I wanted to throw his $5 blueberry non-fat muffin across the table and replace it with some of Jeremy’s deer jerky. Give him a pair of camo pants to replace those designer jeans, then hand the rifle to him, and give him directions to the trailer for a few nights hunting at the trailer. Tell the ladies to go find another woman to talk to. This guy, assuming there is a penis down there, well, he is going to become a man.

But as I sat there plotting, then, I started thinking about some of the guys I had been hunting with. I don’t think they would have enjoyed spending an hour over a mocha cup a joe, with a round table too small to fit anything more than a purse, or a few drinks on to chat. I don’t know if most of them knew any drink outside coffee dark. And I wasn’t sure if they could have held such a captive conversation with women talking about the lighter things of life, laughing and relating so well.

It seemed men had become polarized.

We needed to go to the place we hadn’t received, and ask God to lead us, and put some things inside of us we would not have had otherwise. I wasn’t sure where I was lining up, but I think it was the first time I saw that hunting was not going to make me a man by itself, any more than sitting at Starbucks and talking about my feelings. It seemed somewhere between the two.

By The Sweat of Thy Brow

2008-10-01T10:17:00.000-07:00

One of the things my wealth has robbed from you and the entire family is the privilege and satisfaction that comes from doing an honest day’s work.” – Ultimate Gift

I was visiting Jayne’s family on the Pennsylvania/ Ohio border for Christmas. We had spent a few days all huddled together, and I needed to get out, and breathe from the busyness of all the activities.

I did not know it at the time, when I met my wife in a Starbucks in Colorado, but I was born just a few miles down the road, along with my entire Hood family. We had left when I was too early to even remember the place, as my father had greater opportunities down south. We had fled the north, like an exodus of sorts, leaving much of the great north to abandoned factories and operations.

I was driving on the Interstate through Youngstown, on my way to the gravesite of many of my
relatives at an old Methodist church in Ohltown that I had visited as a kid. With so much stirring in me, I wanted to go back to these roots, and being the reflecting and writer type, I thought it would be do good for my soul, and where God was leading me.
I was passing through the city of Youngstown, on my way to the grave, when I saw a sign.

Labor Museum.
Next exit.

Ok, not exactly Disneyworld, but it had my curiosity. A museum about work? I wondered if this was some sign from God, or at least I had hoped. Maybe an invitation into all of this. Ohio and my past, my grandfather, and great-grandfather had grown up, worked, and raised their families here. The gravesite I was headed towards contained a whole bunch of the Hood clan, maybe 15 or so gravesites with their name on it.

I think when we had left their as a boy, and moved to a larger city, and more influence, and affluence, in some ways, so did my appreciation or understanding of my place, and history, and roots. Like so many of our generation moving to jobs, away from family, and community, for greater opportunities, something there went missing in me. A part of me, and where I came from, that I did not know the history of. It seemed part of this journey of finding myself, was actually coming back to where I was born, and where my family had began. This was some way of moving back in that direction. God leading me into it, I think.

I got off the exit, and found my way to this rather new building, compared to the rest of the city covered in old steel, and rust. I went inside. It was a weekday, and the place was dead. I paid my entry fee, and soon found myself alone in the massive building. Not a soul in the museum but me. It felt haunting, but almost appropriate. I bought my ticket, and soon passed under the large display from which the whole museum took its inspiration.

“By the sweat of thy brow.”

The words were more symbolic, that I knew at the time. Almost a baptismal moment. I walked under it, straight into the stories of my past, and into a world I did not know or was to ever appreciate till I would leave.

It was personal because the roots of this work, and steel ran deep for America, and my own blood. My family had put their own sweat into steel mills, and the lumber industry just a few generations before me, right here in Ohio. He had told me these stories, and pushing me to work forty hours a week over the summer. Telling me of how when he was a kid, what he went through. This was like the places he worked. I was somehow connected to this foreign place, even though I avoided those work weeks, and those jobs. This was my heritage, I had been born just a few miles down the road.

The mid-size town of Youngstown had boomed in its day because of this industry. Home of many of the steel factories that produced America’s cars, machines, and rail road ties. Even the Pittsburgh “steelers” is a short drive down the interstate.A result of globalization, technology, and overseas production, Youngstown has changed. The place feels like a ghost town. 25,000 lost their jobs to overseas production in the early 80’s. The town wears this on their faces. The museum is a dismal reminder of “what used to be.” The rusted out buildings that were the place of so many men’s live, is now barren. The gray pictures seem to carry over to the city, and the people. America had moved from labor to technology and the areas of Silicon Valley and Seattle. Youngstown, just the city, is in itself a museum of the past. This place like the inner temple of that story.

It felt as if I was walking back in time as I saw the displays of miniature steel factories, and iron ore tools used in the production of steel. It seemed a similarity to that movie Field of Dreams. It was a different era of men, and their world. I was so curious. There was something wonderous about it all. As if the world has stopped, and I had been placed in this building to pause, and reflect on what was. The corn fields, which were these walls surrounding me, leading me into each exhibit—into something much deeper of a mystery than I had ever asked for when I entered. I was really enjoying it.

The black and white world of pictures told the stories of men in the steel mills, grinding away and sweating. Walking into an old locker room where they showered, and removed all their clothes covered in black ore. The images around me, were so familar from a family history photo album my father had given me of our ancestors. And in fact, this was the town some of them had worked—in this business. My father in fact, had worked a summer in a steel factory, in the summer heat, where they poured molds of steel to ship west. This place was becoming much
closer to my story than I had first realized.

The grayish walls of old pictures breathed something from the rusted metal, and iron ore factories they spoke about. There was something to this place—like a life to it. Almost magical, but to be honest, very far removed from my life, and my growing up in a suburb of a nice growing and progressive town in Nashville. Something that felt lost to my life. And story.

Something that was very connected to my heart, my fears, and why I felt so young, and afraid to step into the world, and be the man I knew I needed to become.

As I meandered through the labor museum, I was invited back into a story that helped make sense of it. It was the world of working men of the 1800’s, and the steel industry in the Youngstown Valley of Ohio. Pictures, and displays and items from a time we had come from just a few hundred or so years. The industrial revolution. The boom of steel, factories, and machines, and 70 hour work weeks. Men were tough and hard as the steel they formed, and their faces too.
As I meandered deeper, I came upon a statue of a man. Standing around six feet tall, wearing worn leather boots, and ragged overalls, dirtied by the hours of dust, and burn-off from the steel, and coal fires. He had a leather thick apron around him. His face was aged, and the lines of his labor were visible on his face, like that of a grandfather. He seemed like a relic. I stood staring, gazing from below him. The boy inside of me wondering, and admiring him. There was something in him, I respected. And wanted.

But I must admit. There was a great sense of distance of me and this man. A holy respect for his place, along with shame. There had always been. Of blue collar men. Landscapers. Painters. Mechanics. Illegal immigrants working on job sites. Working men. Men who seemed to use their bodies, and their hands to make something for a living. There was something of that world of men that felt far from my experience. What I should say is all men. A look in the eyes always was a reminder. Whether I thought it, or they showed it the message seemed, “You are not one of us.” And where I eventually took this was, “I was really not a man at all.” “You really don’t know how to work.” You are a son of privilege, entitlement, a son of Brentwood, and white collar success. I had run with it, used it to my advantage for so long, but I couldn’t help feeling this place had the thing I had longed to find. The worth of myself in even just labor.

The word I felt here was work. Men who worked. Worked long hours. Who worked to feed their familes. Who worked to pay bills. Worked because that was what a man was to do. How did I miss that? I felt the words in the book, Ultimate Gift, “One of the things my wealth has robbed from you and the entire family is the privilege and satisfaction that comes from doing an honest day’s work.”

I moved on past that man in the museum to an old black and white picture of a group of men in a steel factory all gathered together. Maybe 20 or so. Old and young men huddled around the steel factory for a group picture. It was a picture similar that my father gave me of my grandfather, and their three generation milling business (picture here, maybe?). The men in this pictures were peddlers of metal. All sitting together on an old bench outside the mill. Young and old, with tools and faces hardened by their long days of the fire. I kept looking at the boys in it.

Maybe 15 years old or so, some close to my age.

I sat, while their faces burned in my head. I couldn’t move on. There was too much in the picture. I grabbed a chair close by, and sat down in front like an art connosieuer might do with a Van Gogh, or a great masterpiece. I stood at it, starring, wide eyed, wondering, and feeling all of it, and my life. There was a quote of one of the young boys in the picture that read, “James Davis was taught the art of puddling iron at the Sharon Iron Works in Pennsylvania by his father.” The boy Davis wrote, “None of us ever when to school and learned the chemistry of it from books. We learned the trick by doing it, standing with our faces in the scorching heat while our hands puddle the metal in its glaring bath.”

This picture, and those words gripped me. I read it again. Starred at the words. Looked back at the pictures of both old, and young together, in a simple job—working. I just stopped and felt them. Let them fall over me like the black dust on these men’s faces. They spoke something deep. Men, fire, sweat, craftsmen. A place I did not know. I began to wipe my eyes, hoping no one would walk by. More tears came. As I sat in this museum, alone. On this bucket—wondering what the hell was happening to me.

God had brought me to a museum, looking at these men’s life I was assuming that I was supposed to avoid. Hard work, real sweat. And yet, something in me, staring at the men and the boys, wanted their life. I don’t know what their spiritual life was like, if they had great families, or were even good men, but something in me wanted to jump through time, and through these displays and pictures, and find myself in the mills, with men, and fire, and sweat working next to him. There was something in there, I needed. Something that all my school papers, and tracks to success and significance, and my life in America, and private school teachers, and bible leaders had not mentioned or had not told me about.

I sat a while longer. Regaining myself. I just knew, as crazy as it sounded, there was something there, something deeply spiritual, something rooted in God’s design I needed to find.

It was the thing I had been trying to avoid all my life.

I walked back under the title, “by the sweat of thy brow,” and back to the confusion of what I was going to do with it all.

Hunting with God.

2008-10-01T10:12:00.000-07:00

My friend, Nathan Johnson, has been blogging a bit about his experience of elk hunting, and walking with God in it. Few of us ask God questions, and invite him into the big things in life, and I am encouraged to see what it means to ask him about the things like Nathan asks. I would encourage you to read some of them...

www.nathanjohnsonblog.com

Jesus talks about being ruler over the little things... and although hunting elk is no little endeavor, it makes me wonder as we grow, what we will ask him. I was encouraged, and decided to spend this day off, not just making a list of things to do, and tracking them down. But ask God, what should I do next? I could never complete all my things. But maybe if I did the ones I felt his spirit lead me on, maybe then I could look at the day, and say, I did what I felt the Lord had for me, and not feel like such a failure in not doing the rest. Thanks, Nate.

Wild Game Night.

2008-09-21T21:14:00.000-07:00

I walked out to the patio where the men gathered around the grill eyes fixed like monkeys on a single banana. The grill was sizzling with juices and a flame out of the barbaric times. I was greeted around the circle, and invited to look at the grill, with all the other men. It felt like Moses approaching the burning bush. I was on holy ground.

I had been invited by my friend, Steve to his holy gathering called, Wild Game Night. His buddies, Mark, Charles, and Paul, were gathering to cook the game from their last year.
Before me were pieces of mystery meat, some I seemed to recognize while others looked like some strange walnut looking object with bacon wrapped around it. There were steaks of all sizes and colors as well. It was a feast for a king.

The men pointed to each one. Pheasant that was caught out east, in the fields of Holyoke, some bird called a chucker that tasted much like chicken. There was dove, pheasant, from Colorado and Nebraska, and then venison, which was just a fancy name for deer. And elk steaks from Charles secret spot deep in the mountains of Colorad. Along with a wild turkey caught by Paul from down south.

Within minutes we were all gathered, wives and men around a table eating the food, and with men, I had never met till tonight.

We stuff our faces with the meat, and listened with each bite of meat to the story of where it came, with a laugh, and a memory. All but Jayne and I, our offering for the evening was fruit salad.

Before this night. I considered myself a pacifist regarding animals. My father was never a hunter, and I could tell his strong thoughts after one day driving home from a pet store when I was 14 when I had a 12 inch Oscar in a giant plastic bag, along with another bag filled with a couple dozen goldfish that were to be his food supply for the next few weeks. My dad staring at the goldfish, asked what they were for, and in a bit of horror over the idea I would feed them directly to the fish. I sounded like a sadistic killer. And I just kinda agreed. He would explain a few years later that his father frightened him from it after a story with a raccoon, and a shotgun when he was a boy. It was a wound. And he never got near hunting again. And either had I, till this night.

I was staring at a bunch of these goldfish of my youth, now eating them, and enjoying it. The truth is, I had been killing animals for awhile. Or at least eating them. Ever since I was two, eating golden brown chicken nuggets from a McDonalds Happy Meal. Hot dogs from Oscar Meyer. And hamburgers. I think I was about twelve when I finally realized that the meat didn’t just come that way, or appear in a round or tube like product. And that a steak had to be cut from the body of the cow. It was actually a chicken, or a cow, or a pig. A real living animal at one time. It didn’t just appear in a plastic wrapped blue Styrofoam plate with a price tag. The red color never hit me that it was actually blood. That was gross, and yet, I didn’t even think about it. I had been killing animals long before I bought that fish. I just didn’t know it, and I don’t think my dad did either.

I did some calculations. Wondering how many animals I had killed by 29, assuming I was the normal average food eater.

I had eaten…

4 cows905 chickens10 pigs30 turkeys2 ducks1710 fish

There were also eggs. A life taken as well, even before its birth. All those bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits, or straight sunny side up. That was around 259 a year on average. I also like shrimp. Those vacations on the beach stuffing them in my face. I could probably eat 25 in one sitting, which would bump the total up another 400 or so a year on my own accounting.

My math added up to around 30,000 lives that were sacrificed for me to live. I had killed more animals than what most wars had in casualties. PETA would love that statement. But what made me sad, is not that they were dead, they were animals (not humans), but I had killed them never even knowing it. A holocaust of death without ever thinking twice, beyond some trite little prayer of bless this food. Never a prayer of thanks for the life that was taken for us, or a real sense of gratitude of what was being sacrificed for me. Not to mention, that not one of those
30,000 living beings had I ever seen die.

Someone else had butchered, and caught, and chopped off heads, and whatever else to get that to me in a tube called a hot dog, or on a foam plate. Or on a bun.

As I looked at the men, and their smiles, and their full bellies, it hit me that a man needed to get more connected to it. He needed at least at one point in his life, to go out and kill the meal for his evening. Even if it was just once. After that night, meat looked different for me.

It seemed to follow me everywhere. Eating at the Chinese buffet, little tiny pieces of chicken. A 79 cent hot dog as Sams Club. Where did it come from? How long ago did the animals get butchered? How long did it live for? Meat was starting to moo and chirp, and cluck.
I realized that I just would rather not see it. Rather not understand that side and the reality of life. I had turned a blind eye to all that death, leaving it for some farmer, and some butcher in some place far from me to avoid it.

It hit me that night, that for us to live, something must die for us. It was all connected to God, the fall, and the story of man and God, and animal. The signs were everywhere of this sacrifice and blood, and death. That seemed how God wanted it to be, for us to get more connected to it.

The communion table and the blood was only an image of what most people experience on a daily basis back then. But that was far more spiritual a place than I was at the time, and only to really discover as this story progressed. There was something deeply spiritual in that, I did not understand it yet.

All I knew was that I wanted to kill an animal. Turn it into a piece of meat. Cook it on the grill. Put it on a bun with some ketchup. And sit down with my wife and eat it.

Futility.

2008-09-06T10:00:00.000-07:00

We have a dirty dog. Really a puppy still. Give him an area of grass, and he will make it into a dirt hole. and if there is water on it, he will make it into mud, and put it all over him. Its really a daily ritual.

He has spent the last week making 4 dirt holes in our backyard. I had spent the week before covering them up, and seeding them. Gone. It is a filthy mess. So is he.

I thought I would suprise Jayne (she is working at the moment), by giving him a shower, and cleaning him up. I spend an hour getting him clean, and let him dry in the kitchen.

I let him outside, and because of the surgery to remove the rock he ate, he is long and to the left. what I mean is that the surgery cut nearhis junk (male), and after being sewed up, it makes him aim a bit high, and to the right. I watch this beautifully clean Bernese Mountain Dog peeing like a horse onto his right leg.

For twenty or thirty seconds... I watch. And it flows all over him. And he is just staring at me with those puppy dog eyes, not a care in the world, or concern over this. He finishes up, and comes leaping to me at the door. which I shut quickly.

I stare at my hour of work, and wonder what is the use.

I am writing this, as he is outside probably getting in the mud.

Dust.

2008-08-16T12:00:00.000-07:00

This is a little creative sidebar my editor has me heading down. He was playing with the idea of what if the stories I am writing were somehow connected to Adam, and the beginning. The beginning of Genesis. This is a little play off that.

God formed the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being. - Genesis

The great master looked around all the land that was now alive, and growing, and gathered the bare dirt that laid covered around the great land, with one giant scoop in his hand. The same dirt that supported the trees, and held together like a bowl all the oceans of the seas, and made the world round. He took it and formed man like a potter would his clay making a pot. He made a man. Hollowing out eyes, and smoothing out his legs, and his stomache as an artist would his great piece of art. He had his many choices to use, unlimited resources, and any way to the story tell. He could use science, or great undiscovered metals of the earth, and formed polymer bonds that people had yet to discover. But he wanted to make it simple. It was going to be earth. Dirt. Red clay. His final choice. He named Adam that, “red dirt.”

He knew man would one day try and re-invent himself. He would try and rise above it with great buildings and technological and progressive marvels. He would want to make life very complicated and very busy. He would make his own marvels of himself through bronze statues and stones. He also knew man would want to probe the depths of the human soul in search of deep meaning, and go in search of great seas below, but from dust he was made, and that same level ground of dust he would go. The maker thought the earth, and the dirt of which most of it contained would tell the man when he forgot that this was his origin. And where he needed to rediscover.

It was to be a clue to the man. He wanted him always to go back to that. He wanted him to think of it when had a field to plow and farm. And when he needed the rains to come. Or if he had found himself in a cubicle in a great steal building. He wanted to help him understand that it was the earth he needed to understand, and rediscover to find himself. Even when he forgot, when he stripped away the land, or left the land entirely, he was destroying or losing himself. He knew that the land, much like man, would come around to hurt or help him. He wanted man connected to that.

The maker wanted to see that Adam would need to protect, and guard, and take care of dirt, and land, and the earth or his food and animals would run out. The dirt was where he came from, and where he would eventually decay back into.The earth was the composition of man. Yes, there was the DNA, and the neutrons, and protons, and synapses, but all those come from one place, the place you will lay your head, and look for food, and search for the Maker. There was a great story that said the Maker would come down and walk on the dirt, and teach the sons of Adam stories of a Kingdom. He would use the earth and the things growing and being used in it to explain it. He would tell stories of trees, farmers, and fish. All these things connected to earth, and dirt.

The ground was the starting point of man. The base line. The beginning and the end. The dirt was needed for a man to find out about himself. Where he came from, and where he was going.

Repentance.

2008-08-13T20:01:00.000-07:00

I walked out of the four days of hunting on Jeremy’s farm, just a little different than how I went in. No deer. No war stories. No real deep conversations. But a lot of grilling, football talking, and having Waylon Jennings, and Hank Williams on my mind. There was something in the simplicity in it. Waking up. Putting on our gear. Walking to a deer stand. Coming back for lunch, and stories, and going back out to do it all over again.

I somehow was a bit more country, than when I went in. I left a little different, than how I came. My accent had turned up a few more notches, with a little more “y’alls,” in it as well.

I travelled down the road a bit, fresh off our hunt. I needed a taste of civilization again, so I walked right into the Franklin Starbucks, still smelling like the odor of the woods, and doe. I sat down to write in my journal, and take a few notes of the experience. I sat down in this little tight chair, and at this tiny little table. And looked at all the conversations over the tiny little tables. It all felt different. The decorations, the music, the people in the place. I felt like a stranger.

I started listening to a guy talking to two girls. It was more like I was listening to three girls talk.

I stopped writing, and was staring at this dude. I started getting mad at him. He seemed to be so at home, engaged in this conversation, feeling so free, and chatty. It hit me that something had happened out there, in the woods. Because, I was only mad at him, because I was really that guy. Starbucks used to be my woods.

I starred at this guy, I just wanted to hand him a rifle. Have the girls scream. While I chambered a few rounds in like a crazed terrorist. Slam it down on the little table, spilling the coffee, and ending the conversation. I wanted to take him with me. Have Graham, and Jeremy show him a few things in the woods. Put him in a deer stand somewhere on the land in the dark, by himself, no talking, no girls. Tell him to shoot a deer. And tell him when he did, he could come back to the trailer we were sitting at to give him a hear to Hank Williams Sr.

It hit me, that something was happening in me. I was either going crazy, or well, I was going really crazy.

But as I sat there stewing over this. Then I started thinking about my other friends I had just been with, and all the hunters I had met along the way, and some of the rougher guys in the midst. You didn’t really seem them in this type of place. Sitting over little tables talking or drinking tea. I wasn’t even sure you were allowed to walk in with camo to Starbucks. I imagined their man card getting revoked. But maybe just as badly as this guy sitting at this table needed to grab a rifle, and head out into the woods, those guys needed to give theirs up, and trade it in for a tea set, and a few lessons on manners, and style. Maybe those guys needed to know how to sit down at a really small table, and trade stories, and share their heart. Really talk. Maybe even with a few girls.

There came this great epiphany. Maybe hunting wasn’t the answer. Maybe it was just in part. A place to get some parts I did not as a boy. Maybe it was for me. And maybe it wasn’t different for other guys. It seemed that repentance lead me to swing to this direction. Most of my generation has grown up in the city, or around little tables, and teas, so it made sense that most of us needed to find Charlton Heston and enroll in the NRA. Pick up a gun, and kill a doe. But for some, it might mean heading in the other way, discovering the other side of it.

I wondered if what really needed to happen is for everyone to trade places. The white collar with the blue. The hunters with the metro guys sensitive artsy guys. Maybe each had something the other needed. Maybe one man, and one way wasn’t really the answer to all this finding myself as a man stuff. It is just the direction I needed to swing to get a fuller scope of it.

Maybe it was a little of both. Somewhere inbetween the two. The places that I grew up with, and how my dad taught me in business, and these men out in the woods.

Maybe one man needed to strap on a pair, and sweat, while another dude needed to learn how to sip on a chai tea latte, and talk about his life. Like there were many flavors of masculinity as a friend Aaron said.

It hit me that maybe repentance looked a little different for every man. He got some things quite natural from his father. Maybe he went on hunting a bunch. But never felt his father’s love. Or maybe he grew up in a business world, but never spent a day on his car, looking under the hood. It seemed the problem was we kept hanging out in our little groups. Emo guys walked around with other emo guys. And burly tough dudes hung out with even more burlier tough dudes. Each dismissed, and laughed at the other. But maybe, deep inside, if they were honest, one guy needed a little table with a tea, and his legs crossed. And another guy needed to head down to Gun warehouse, and pick out a weapon.

Driving through Native American Country.

2008-08-10T16:41:00.001-07:00

We were driving through Wyoming on a trip recently when I saw a store off the highway that caught my eye.

Native American Crafts.

I had always been fascinated by the Native Americans. Ever since a boy at Indian Camp in Ohio making head dresses, and since listening to a Native American radio channels while driving through the reservations of the west. My only real understanding of these people was through reading history books of overrunning, and kicking aside their land, and culture, breaking treaty after treaty for progress and the new America and more land. I think I stopped with the curiosity of wanting to know who these people were, and what might they even teach me about my own land, really their land.

I was hoping to learn more. Intrigued by their culture, warrior ways, and deep appreciation of the earth. I asked Barret if we could go inside, and take a look. I was hoping this nudge was coming from the Spirit.

We passed through the giant buffalo steel statue, and walked into the art of intricate beadwork, and jewelry of native Americans local crafts. Moccasins, arrows, drums, and beautiful paintings. The place was filled with handmade items created from stone, stick, feathers, beads, and skins, by local artists.

After some time of walking around, I picked out a few postcards of Sitting Bull, and approached the little lady working at the counter. She was short in height, and wearing American blue jeans. But there was not much more American about her. She wore a bright colored shirt that had zig-zag patterns that neatly tucked in her jeans with a rose beaded buckle. The lines of the shirt, matched the lines on her red-tanned skin, and her piercing eyes stood out, piercing through. She had this certain respect about her, like you were in the presence of a queen, or a woman of great nobility, even before she spoke.

I told her how impressed I was by her store, and before long we were in a conversation about her people and their work. She would tell me later, there was something in my eyes that said she could trust me, and within a minute I was hearing about Charlotte, and her people.

She was of the Eastern Shoshone tribe now living in Wind River Indian Reservation just a few miles down the road. Her father was shot by a white man at one year old. She was raised by her mother, and learned to work at a young age. She soon became a master in the craft of beadwork. She had created vests, and other pieces of intricate detail.
She explained how that was being lost. The white man came in, and took their land, and replaced their way of life, with the white man’s way of life. They took the kids away from their parents, enrolled them in American schools, cut their hair, and would not let them speak their native tongues. Beaten if they heard it. Many of the politicians back east had initiatives to try and eradicate all the buffalo in hopes it would domesticate and tame the native Americans. No longer being able to hunt, and collect food. They soon were dependent on government food rations.
Within a few generations, their way of life was lost. And the plan had worked. Their entire way of life was stripped from them, now dependent on handouts from the government. And relying in government checks.

Charlotte explained how few of the men worked anymore. Often drunk, or gambling away their money, and even their children’s checks. She pointed to a stone sculpture that a man brought in to sell, and explained how there was a good chance he would go use the money she paid for it to get drunk.

She said that when Wal-mart moved in, it really changed their way of life. The dumps on the reservations soon became filled with more and more items. She watched as plastic doll heads, and plastic appliances piled up on their land. And fewer and fewer of her people came in to buy items from her, instead buying everything at Wal-mart, while she struggled for business.

Charlotte explained how different her items were than these plastic things from China. That when she made something, it was going to last. It was built that way from the beginning. It was not made to ever be tossed away. Or put in a dump. It was to be carried, and to be used, over and over. By many generations. It wasn’t something that was fast or quick in production time. One of her works, a beaded vest took a year to complete. And one of her ceremonial beaded horse bridals was started by her grandmother, and finished by her daughter. Four generations to complete one saddle. It was the way her people were.

I had remembered from 3rd grade history that it was the same when they killed a buffalo. They used it all. Some 95% of it. They respected the life of the buffalo, and saw them as a source of life for them, and many generations to come. The fur and hide were made into clothing and shelter, the meat was their main source of food, and even their bones, and hooves were used for glue.

It hit me how much that was not our American way. We had stripped farm land, stripped coal mines, and had the motto destroy and conquer. We would just consume something, and throw it away for another one. It was the same as how we handled the buffalo. We came in and took out the buffalo. During the 18th century, there were nearly 50 million bison roaming the land with the Indians. They say you could travel for days through land never passing the same herd. But we hunted them on trains for sport, trappers came in and killed them in masses to take the hide and sell them back east. One man bragging that he killed 20,000 on his own. There are pictures of men standing on mountaintops of hides. Before a hundred years has passed, the buffalo had been all but extinct. Nearly 50 million destroyed.

As she shared it I realized what I had become. I was born in this consumerism, and continued it. None of my bedroom furniture was more than five years old. My appliances were brand new, and as soon as they are to break, my plan was always to just throw them out, and go buy another one at Wal-Mart. There was nothing original in our house. Nothing antique, or old, or created by a craftsman. Nothing of any real value. It was production art, and production furniture. We just throw them away, and go buy another. In fact I heard they are meant to eventually break, so we will go buy another one. They are disposable. I had seen life much that way. Throwing things away, replacing things, and consuming all the more.

God in symbol.

2008-07-31T07:13:00.000-07:00

I was driving yesterday on a fundraising trip to Tenesse. Driving from Chattanooga to Nashville, TN. As is so much of our economy, and others, we are experiencing a season of giving that is less than our financial needs require. And so the trip, to see what God might do, and lead us towards. In this season, we have had to take a reduction in our pay. This in itself, can be hard when it feels you are working at full force. The simple question, what more can we do Lord? There seems an honest cry in that, along with this sense of, how dare you? We have been working our butts off, don't we at least deserve compensation for that? Full compensation? That is a much deeper wrestling match than it being just about money.

I was driving through, fresh off a wonderful time with a friend, Krue Brock. Heading into Nashville when my wife called. Our wonderful, and giant, mountain dog, Tacoma, was in the vet hospital. He had not been acting himself, and it was quite clear to Jayne that something was up. Our dog seems to eat like a horse, and in his poop I have found everything from a bandana and underwear, to giant rocks. And so, it was quite obvious what had happened.

Here is the picture...

At first, I thought what was in his stomache was that yellow thing. like chinese sticks. I had seen enough rocks in him, to think it had to be more than just that. And somehow, I could see our dog swalling some chinese sticks whole. But apparently that was the pointing device. It was a rock. A massive rock he just swallowed. about the size of an egg.

Surgery.

Expensive surgery. The rock was the symbol of my last month of work. We are on half pay checks, I remind you. Not the time for extra starbucks. Not the time to find a rock from the stomache of our dog. As she told me the price, it was the exact amount we were about to be paid for this months work. My entire half paycheck was about to be coughed over for my damn dog's rock.

If the cost of that surgery was ten dollars more, or fifty dollars less, I doubt I would have really felt the full weight of it. Put it was the exact amount. In one swallow of a damn dogs mouth. The last month of work traded for this thing to be removed. I can't tell you, what that felt like. Futility at its finest. Like a soldier for Iraq coming back to his home, only to find out the government repossessed his house. the questions of, I thought you are supposed to take care of me? I am off fighting this, dont you see? All this with God for me. You have got to be kidding me? It felt like a cruel joke. The exact same amount of money we are being paid this month?

I heard the news after two days of long travels from planes, to cars, to cities with about 7 hours sleep between teh last 48 hours. Being on the road. away from home, exhausted I had even missed eating lunch. I am on an empty stomache, groaning, with now, an empty account.

The irony is, I would normally have got mad, or frustrated, or maybe blew it off in some way. but it just broke me. the exact amount of the surgery for what we will be paid.

I can be a stubborn man when it comes to brokenness and tears, but they came. the tears. the confusion. facing so much frustration with God. was this the enemy? Of course. But there is so much more happening, God after me in some way. wounding me in this place (so perfectly and precisely I might add), for something more I still dont quite understand, yet. But I cried, and put my hearts offering to Jesus, and my longing, and our need. and it felt so raw, so true of the deepest longing of my soul, that I knew it was God. And this was the center of where I needed to be.

how will this trip end? Will God fund us, and put us right back on the path we had planned, and put all our little monthly cash/flow, and statements as what we need, and expected at the first of the year, right on target. Maybe. I hope. It feels like the only way to get out of this mess. but as I drive around, I am just raw with that sense God gives, God takes away. Dust we are made, dust we will return. the often futility of work, and the curse on this earth. you will sweat, and work your butt off, and it will produce thistle for you.

and for some reason, though that feels so fatalistic, and without hope, I dont believe that is the deepest meaning of those phrases. or that it means to give up. But somehow, that God is over all things. supreme. and ruler. and in the midst of pain, hurt, and confusion, and still tears, I am simply called to trust. God will do what he will. And I am to submit, knowing his heart is GOOD, and I am in him. I am called to wake up from this, offer these words as a sacrifice, and head to my next appointment. In hope, and believing deeply in the work Cory, Josh, Jonathan, and I are doing. And march on with that.

Creating or Destroying?

2008-07-27T22:56:00.000-07:00

It seemed that when man was fully alive, full restored and free, built up in the life of God, and living from it, he was building and creating. Reflecting the image of God that was most deeply him. The first image we have of God in Genesis is a creator. He creates a world. Filled with beauty of sunsets, and greens, and blues of radiant shine. He creates us, and breathes the image of him in us. The seventh day of creation is explained as a day of rest for God from all his creating. He created so much, he needed a break. And so how might we reflect that image of God the most?

It was doing just that, creating. His first commands to Adam is to rule, and reign. Subdue all the animals.

Dallas Willard explains his command is to build cities and homes.

It was creating in the physical sense, of bridges, and buildings, and fine wooden desks, along with building in the spiritual sense of community, and relationships, and in people. It seemed the mark of God was creation. And the mark of man doing God’s work in the world was bringing this upon places, and people. Creating and co-laboring this with him.

It seemed that the opposite. Destruction. Was the exact mark of evil. The falleness of man, has something else in our hearts. Not the mark of creating, but the stain of destroying.
A seminary professor, Dan Allender, says that “evil can’t create.” He is in himself a created thing, and has not the ability to offer this gift. His offer instead, is destroying creation. Destroying the image of God, and how we were meant to live that out.

This made more sense after talking to a man in town named Jim Henkle who told me about a program he created for young men. He takes young men straight out of jail, and into jobs, keeping them from the streets and more trouble. He pointed to the window at the coffee shop we were sitting, near us and said, “the same feeling a guy gets in putting this window in, these young men feel in destroying it, putting a rock through the glass.”

In the Movie Fight Club, Tyler Durden in his rage over his life says simply, “I want to destroy something beautiful.”

If all this was true, than the feelings of creation and destroying were almost the same. It made sense, creation and destruction were very closely linked. And how even evil’s offer was a pretty good option. It gave us the feeling of power, the sense of building something, but allowed our anger and violence to play out.

I want to create. I want to make something beautiful. And draw people to good things, but often, in the frustration of things not going well, or how I wanted. I want to do the opposite. How many legos sets did I get so close to finishing, only to rip apart in frustration over a few small pieces. There was this fine line of wanting to build, and just blowing the whole thing up.

I want to destroy the thing I am building.

It seemed that most of our life, in a broken, and unhealed place, was anger. That anger, didn’t take us to making things beautiful, but destroying those things. I related to those young men throwing rocks through windows. At its core, pornography, the drug of choice for so many of us men has those same traits. We get to use our violence, and anger, to destroy something beautiful. Instead of honoring, and building up, we mar, and violate the thing we were meant to protect.

I seemed to be a man of two things. Destruction. And creating. One minute I was making something wonderful, the next, I was throwing a rock through it. It kinda feels like being at a beach. There is a great sense of accomplishment in building a giant sand castle. But at the same time, there is something similarly powerful in taking a full dive into a sand castle already built.

It seemed the key was understanding them. And how evil was pulling on us away from that place. The man working with the young men I spoke with said, his goal was to get the young men to experience the same feeling of destroying a window, by teaching them how to install one. The idea was simple. Move from that anger, and destruction, to building.

Enjoying Work.

2008-07-26T12:33:00.000-07:00

The shower became a holy place after work. It was like a baptismal pool each day I walked in. The days dust, and spray, and caulk collected on me. I let the waters wash and cleans my body as I scrubbed and scrubbed to remove all the deposit. Walking out of the bathroom, I felt like a new man.

In the midst of toil, and sweat, and complaining, emerged this great sense of accomplishment. It was a bit surprising. I am not sure when the turn occurred, only that I started experiencing more from it. Even if I had spent the day working on something material, and minor. I had worked. I was earning a wage, sanding trim. And unlike so much of my previous life, of academics, and privilege, there was a real tangible sense of what I had accomplished in a day. I could see all the trim now sanded. And watch Carlos spray over it with stain and laquer, and then watch the cabinets installed next to us. It felt as if I was part of the world, part of society, and part of creating, and building it. Even if my contribution was the least thing done in the house, I was part of its construction. I was part of life, and creation. Not just consuming it.

I was surprised at how well I was holding up. I was surprised that I was still alive.

There had always this mental barrier in my mind, that I would die, or peel over, or burn out if put in these conditions for more than a day. My upbringing could not go through this type of experience and come out the other side, much less still a man. Looking at men at construction sites came with this phrase, “you couldn’t cut it there. Stay in school. Use your brains.” A man like me just couldn’t do this type of work, all day for 40 or so for hours straight in the sun or around those type of guys? I was beginning to feel my way through the job. And my balls were still intact.

The mourning routines before work, which I thought would be soul killing, had a rhythm them that I was starting to settle into and enjoy. Waking up earlier than usual, eating breakfast, grabbing all my tools, placing them in the car, and driving to the jobsite with Jesse contained an order and grounding not experienced in the rush and sporadic life before. The simple repetitions of being a laborer and caulking lines over and over brought a peace in the midst of the boredom and grunt work. There wasn’t this list of a million choices before me. Not as many worries about if I was on track and moving up. I simply worked.

There was always this reasoning that my education was so I could avoid this type of life. Parents gave their sons these horrible summer jobs to remind them, this is what you could be doing one day, if you don’t study in school. Like the kind of work I was now doing as a college graduate. They seemed to see this work as some type of punishment. All that money was spent on our educations to keep us from having this life. And that was starting to be the irony of it. It was if these were where all the great life lessons and secrets were. The things that my education and the professors could never teach me. Probably cause their parents told them the same thing.

I still wasn’t good for much. Still not called a painter, just a laborer. So I was usually taping off areas. Sanding. Or caulking. If I was lucky, I might paint a little. For awhile, I had fought it. Wanted the more glorious jobs of spraying, and staining doors and lacquer. Thinking I deserved them and was better than this. An educated man for heaven’s sake. I had prior painting experience. And I felt more qualified than my position. But it was starting to make more sense. I wasn’t supposed to try and move up. And claim position. God had me here to feel it, and be content. And deal with it. I was the lowest guy here. Time to stop fighting it, and take my place as that guy.

When you are the low guy, you don’t have choices. I showed up to be told orders. And not even just from the boss. It came at times from the high school dropout, and any other man. I would have fought it years ago. But it was actually nice to be just told what to do, and to do it. SO much of the crap fed to me as a young man was to pursue our dreams, and work for myself. “Be our own boss.” “Reach your potential.” That is the great goal in life. But it seemed all the young christian guys around me, including me, had bought into that. We weren’t happy unless everything was perfect, and we had the greatest job in the world right out of college. Nothing else would do. We were talented, and gifted. Had things to change, and contribute in culture, and in church.

It felt like this was like a recovery program for that. Like it would beat all of that pride and entitlement right out of you. A few days with John riding you for your caulking was enough to make you reconsider a few things. This was turning out not a bad place to be. I was not having to think so much. Not feeling all that pressure to become that. Or be told the world had a thousand possibilities to follow those dreams and what my heart was saying, and be so driven to fulfill all those places. That felt more complicated, and had got me in trouble already. This elevated thinking that I could change the world, and had made me feel more important than I actually was. This job was sobering me up, giving me a taste of real life I had avoided. And in the weirdest, and most unusual way, I felt the relief, and release of all the other. Maybe I could still find all those things, one day.

And maybe, it actually started here.

Journeymen

2008-07-13T14:13:00.000-07:00

There seemed to be a thread in all this much deeper than just the fishing and hunting, and working. Being in these places, brought with it being around a lot of different men. And not just talking. But doing things with them. There would be the conversations about wind direction, and spray patterns, and all these things they were telling and explaining to me about. But I was picking up more by just watching than anything else.

Each man had a unique piece to offer and teach, whether they knew they were doing it or not. Carlos was the master sprayer, and knew his way around every inch of a house. John was a more technical painter, and always concerned in the details, much like Timm was on the water. Seeing fishing at times as a science to master and understand. But Ron, was more a lover, and had five stories of fish for every hole on the water. He was teaching me about the experience of it all. And why I needed to kiss the trout each time I caught one. Timm was showing me how to actually catch them.

I started to realize, although I was looking for one man to do it all, it was really all of these men offering a part of what this was all about. A community of men, that didn’t know each other, but were involved in raising me, teaching me, guiding me in spiritual matters, and fathering me in these small pieces. These parts that were starting to fit together in this great puzzle, and in this large story that was making more sense. I didn’t need just one man, I was needing them all. Each of their parts of the wisdom to help me.

It started making more sense after I sat down one day for lunch with a man, Dan Rieple. A fine furniture maker. He looks out of This Old House, with his farm land and woodshop that contains the wonder of his own hands creation. He listens to Bach and Mozart, the classics, as he bends, and carves, and cuts the wood into beautiful masterpieces wearing his carpenters hat, and custom made leather apron. He is simple, straight forward, and practical. He plants in his garden the seeds from the food he eats. Leftover watermelon or beans, put them in the ground. In his eyes, why would you not?

We sat on his long porch, chewing on some sausage. He told me that men used to learn by other men. Even during the time of the renaissance, boys who had talents and gifts would be taken to schools or shops to learn trades. A father understood he needed to let his son learn from others. The boys would work for years as the helper to the masters in the shop. Often doing the most menial of tasks. Shoveling hay, removing trash, fetching food. But over time, they became close, they learned at the hands of their master. They were considered apprentices. It wasn’t just a summer internship it was often 7-8 years of doing this. A long process of learning, he explained.

The young apprentice didn’t just emulate and copy the master. The goal was uniqueness and originality. The master knew that he needed more than just his way and skill. And so the master of the craft, sent them to other masters around the area to stay, and pick up new parts, new techniques and skills they did not have themselves. These young men journeyed around, and lived and worked with these other masters in their workshops and home. They were called “journeymen.” When he had combined all these skills, and spent enough time coming into their own, he was considered a master. But only after he created a “master piece.” A piece that was created after the hands of many men had guided and taught him how, and was fitting enough to be considered a master.

As he spoke, it made so much sense. Of course. We needed all that help. Many talented and gifted men to teach us, and lead us into our own way, and how God created us. It was fascinating. Because it made me think of how our families and societies have become. We live in such small worlds, with so few other men. I had looked to my father, but not many other men. I had not been at the hands of others, or experienced other men growing up. And it seemed as I talked to guys, they were in the same boat. They saw their father, but very few other men. We had never journeyed away from our own home, and rarely been around many men at all, and often not even our fathers workplace.

It kinda made sense why so many guys were blaming their fathers, and angry at them. There was only one finger to point to. There wasn’t a community of men, teaching and raising them. We seemed to not even know that was a part of it. Dan was teaching me this stuff, like it was just part of how things work, I was listening like I was experiencing a history book. It seemed so distant from my life.

It also seemed that most of what I was learning and picking up at the hands of men, was being passed, less by words, and more by being with them and watching, learning in their presence. As a man I asked in the fields of New Mexico, a fifth generation Chili farmer. “I just walked with my dad through the fields. He would point to things, and look at things. I just picked up by watching.”

It seemed how hunting experience was gained as well. Learning how to walk through the woods and not make a sound, by walking next to a guy who was modeling it. Same as watching Ron sneak up on a river to keep the fish from being disturbed. And watching Carlos spray a house. Just marveling at it, and watching. It seemed as much as being near, and watching. It was almost this great secret. To shut up. And observe.

My cubicle friend Steve wrote this after a day with his father-in-law,

We woke at 6 a.m. to begin smoking ribs and brisket for our Fourth of July cookout. We spent the entire day together and probably said about 50 words to one another. That included an hour and a half trip to the barn to check on his cows. The man broke four ribs two weeks ago and it was all I could do to keep up with him. When you’re not talking you notice things. His skin, for instance, is like leather. We were messing around with sharp wire and fencing while at the barn and I scraped myself several times. His hands however were like a pair of Carhartt gloves. I thought to myself, “if he had opened that knife that cut you, it would have slid right over the surface.”

All in all, I learned to listen and watch. I learned that a brisket is not supposed to be turned while smoking, just sat fat side up so it marinates itself. I learned that a wasp will not sting you if you just sit still and let it get bored of sitting on your arm and fly away. I learned that sitting in the shade with your eyes and mouth shut, even if it’s just for a little while in the back yard, can be more relaxing than the softest bed in the ritziest hotel.

Making things beautiful.

2008-07-12T21:08:00.000-07:00

The more I was working, the more I was beginning to feel part of it. I was bitching less. And was on the early stage of actually enjoying the work, instead of fearing it. There was always this mental barrier in my mind, that I would die, or peel over, or burn out if put in these conditions for more than a day. A man like me just couldn’t do that type of work. I wasn’t cut out for it. That somehow my life, my upbringing could not go through that type of experience and come out the other side. Much less a man still intact. And my nuts attached.

The simple repetitions of caulking lines, to the mourning routine before work, which I thought would be soul killing, had a rhythm to them I was starting to settle into and enjoy. Waking up, grabbing all my tools, placing them in the car, spending time praying, and driving to the jobsite contained an order and grounding not experienced in the rush and sporadic life before. There wasn’t this list of a million choices before me. I was painting. Sanding. Or caulking. That was about it. Simple really. And I didn’t have a choice in even that. I showed up to be told orders. It was actually nice to be just told what to do, and to do it. Not have to think so much. Or be told the world had a thousand possibilities to follow those dreams. That wasn’t my choice here.

I started feeling the pride in my job too. I wasn’t just trying to pass the hours, just staring at the clock, but wanting to do a good job, and make the homeowner happy. I wanted to learn better technique. It wasn’t just throwing paint on a wall. Roll well, and caulk solid and seamless lines. I wanted my boss pleased with the product, and my work at the end of the day. I started admiring the work. Not just heading to the next task, but actually staring at what we had accomplished, so proud of what we had help create.

I started feeling more like a painter, not just the experiment this had began as.

It was also true off the job.

I would step into the evening shower with this feeling of accomplishment. The days dust, and spray, and caulk collected on me. The shower was the proof of my hard labor. Of my sweat and work. To be covered in paint and even needing a shower was proof that I had spent the day doing work, which unlike so much of my life, of academics, there was no real tangible sense of what I had accomplished in a day. I never took showers after 5pm. Never needed to. Studying for a test brought at best the reward of a letter or a number. A, 85,C+,76,F,91, these were how I had spent my entire life to achieve. Like carrots held in front of me, I was told to reach for. Rewards that started with a sticker, and smiley faces, and then were told, “you will need this for college one day.” All that validation did much less than when I came home, peeled off the white pants, and shirt, and started scrubbing.

A few friends told me they were envious. That most of their day was staring at computer screens, checking and writing email, and reports. My friend Brian confessed, “I drive by the guys working on houses every morning on the way to my cubicle, and in my mind I am thinking, I want to be doing that. Why the hell am I sitting at this desk? How did I get here?”

I started realizing there was something very admirable in this type of work, I had looked down upon for so long, as below me. Men were almost looking at me like, I wish I could do that. They would tell stories with faces lit up about how they loved mowing the lawn, or how much they loved their first job working as a blacksmith, or on their little 5 foot patch of garden.

As a sign of freedom, I stopped removing every single paint spot from every single piece of skin during my evening shower. Being too tired, or missing spots, and often just not caring to remove it all. I just left areas of paint on my hands or arms. Sometimes walking into a restaurant with my wife with paint on me, and being ok with it. Almost proud of what I was doing.

I started hearing from friends similar stories. A friend who owned a construction business had told me how he had wrestled with his calling staining concrete surfaces. It seemed so far from a true calling in ministry, or working for Jesus—so unspiritual. He was trying to figure out what he was to do when a man asked him, “what if God called you to make beautiful floors?”

He looked at me, and said, that’s what I realized God wants me to do.

“I make beautiful floors.”

It seemed so unspiritual, and yet, so fulfilling, so deep, and so spiritual. That we were to step into God’s creation, and be creators as well. Make stuff. Beautiful things. Nice things. Good things.

Another friend told me of how his father in law had been diagnosed with cancer. Only a few months to live. In thinking about all the things he could do, he decided to make his city, Chattanooga more beautiful. That is what he felt from God. The place was all concrete. He wanted to make it pretty. So he did. Started stopping at interstate exits, and office parks, and planting trees and flowers. People started joining in. Landscapers began donating plants, and before long he had landscaped the city. Making things pretty.

I started feeling that. I was using my body to recreate rooms and peoples living. It was just a room. But I was changing it. Restoring and remaking something old to something new. There was such joy in it, watching rooms explode in colors and richness through my roller and brush. I felt like I was actually participating in something important, as mundane and small as it was.

It seemed at the heart of every man was to create. To build and work on something. A man in Nashville, a pastor named Randy walked into a muffler shop. He watched the man re-do his tailpipe and exhaust, just mesmerized by it. Amazed at what this man was sculpting with metal. He said, “You work like an artist.” This big all fellow stopped, and with tears in his eyes said, “ya know, I’ve always thought of myself that way. As an artist.”

It started making me wonder, how did we lose that? How did it become that we looked so far down on blue collar workers, and laborers? Why was the man of wealth, and wisdom in an office seen as the ideal life?

I did some research and I found out that much of our western thought of work came from Greeks. Even the new testament is written in the language, that society bringing us the words to use to describe the gospel accounts, and Pauls letters to the church. Point being, the Greeks had a great influence on us, and where we are today. The Greeks were thinkers. Plato, Socrates, Aristotle. Their vision was that real work, and honorable work was in the mind. The body was temporal. Thought was where the real work was, “so to speak.” Having money, and not having to do physical labor, allowed you to concentrate on the mind and more important matters of thought and study.

It seemed as years passed, people adopted this for the most part. We put it into part of our Christian lifestyles. The institutions of learning and education were often only found through the church. The schools were the church. The only people that could read and write were the boys who had devoted themselves to study, and who became the priests of the day. The commoners, and laborers and peasants who did not receive this education came to hear their educated counterparts speak about what the scriptures meant, and what the greek words meant. They couldn’t read or spell, and relied on the thoughts of these men to lead them. The priests studied, while the people worked.

It was kinda ironic. Because so many of Jesus parables were about what the commoners were doing, farming, fishing, and the daily things. All the things the people were doing, but very few of the pastors of the day had experienced. They knew things. Intellectually, but few had put their hands to the plow. They were concentrating on the mind, and understanding of scripture. It was important, and we need that, but it gave the power to the intellectuals.

Quite ironic, since Jesus spent most of his life, as just that a commoner—a carpenter.

It seemed before long, labor and spirituality just kinda was separated from one another. And our spirituality became more intellectual than concrete. The study of scripture, and understanding is where most pastors went, as opposed to walking out into a field, and working. Learning the lessons from hardship and sweat, and labor. Our teachers and pastors told stories of their personal lives, which were often spent in a study with a concordance, and volumes of spiritual knowledge.

Talking with a friend about seminaries today, he said it’s a sad story. All these soon to be pastors who had spent their entire life in education. From grade school, to high school, to college, to seminary. Their experiences have been through knowledge of books and education. Good things. But few in the areas of real life, holding a hoe, or landscaping a lawn. All the things that Jesus seemed to speak of in the stories he told. It was quite ironic.

I started seeing all these blue collar workers as having an immense understanding and knowledge of life. They didn't see it as spiritual. And some of it was not. But it was rooted, and grounded in real life, and hardship. Physical stuff. And a world that I had avoided, and had absolutely no stories or understanding. I was starting to see that there was a reason I needed to come here. And experience this. I was on track to be that same guy, like those priests, all in the head. Great ideas, with no grounding, no real life experience to relate to.

I was starting to see this work, not just as a hard lesson on life. But more like a seminary class through real life. My teachers were Carlos, and Juan, and John. My professors.

Worship in the river.

2008-07-09T16:12:00.000-07:00

I went to a conference up in Denver that was dealing with worship and the prophetic. It was a good conference, with a very charismatic leader, who spoke words of the Holy Spirit, and revelation. The teaching was profound. The lady worship singer seemed to love a few phrases that she would sing over and over before we got started each day.

Her favorite was… “In the River.”

She kept repeating the words about being in the river with Jesus. And like so many conferences, there were mostly women there, all of whom were loving this picture, and entering into singing from this place in their heart, closing their eyes like they were in the river. I think the worship lady wanted us to feel like we were swimming, and letting the cool water brush up against our face. Being surrounded by Jesus, and the spirit. There was a freedom, as I felt people letting go.

And my own heart trying too as well.

It started picking up steam, and beat, and a few were flayling their arms, like they were back stroking in the river. And a few of those banners were being waved back and forth in the crowd like it was the river. The whole conference room was moving back and forth. I was actually feeling a great peace in the midst of all this going on.

But after a few more minutes of this, we seemed to still be just hanging out in the river. Again, and again, in the river. Apparently it was a really long river. Too long.

The more I sang, the more I felt like I was drowing in the river. It just kept going. Over and over. More and more in the river words. I was staring at all the women around me captured by it all, and so happy to be in it all. Eyes closed, moving to and fro like they were on a cozy raft cruising down the river with Jesus as they felt the water, aka the spirit, rush around them.

All of a sudden, I started laughing. A thought had hit me. I wanted to be on the banks of this river, fishing. My memories fading to the days of being there with men, like Timm and Ron. I wanted this water. But I didn’t want to be in it, I wanted to be fishing on the banks of it. And yeah, I wanted Jesus there, too.

But I wanted him next to me with an Orvis rod, and a two count rhythm leading me into some good holes. I just pictured all these ladies floating down with their little umbrellas and sunglasses on, as we sneaked by them, and moved up the stream to find a section with some big brown trout. As the ladies kept singing, I just kept picturing it, and kept thinking of heaven, and Jesus, and how I just hoped we would fish. And we would be together on some of those rivers he speaks about in Revelation.

Beyond all this singing, somehow I was hoping this fishing, and our time together would actually be worship.

Why hunt? Why fish?

2008-07-04T10:02:00.000-07:00

I started asking guys why they hunt and head out into the wilderness. I would ask at a shooting range, or on the river, or at a campfire. Sitting and standing around a group of men, I would say, so guys… tell me why you do this, why you hunt? Why you fish?

People would kinda start stratching their heads. Looking around. Wanting to avoid it.
It was a party killer. Silence would come. Guys would kinda stare at each other, nervous, and then mad at me for asking such a question. I had asked them to think about it, and it seemed counter-intuitive to why they were here. It wasn’t a place you asked life’s serious questions. You just came out, and took place in it. You left all that at home.

It was weird because people would look at me, like what? Are you really asking me that? Other guys would just have no answer. Avoid it. Turn away. Even though they had been doing this for ages, and ages, they had never thought about it. As one guy said, “ya just hunt.” Another guy told me, “I like to hunt.” Which was not really answering why, but I took it. One man said, “I was asking too many damn questions.”

The weird thing is these men weren’t just Joe Dirt rednecks with a Rambo blood lust. Some were CEO’s of logistic firms, bankers, others drove delivery trucks, engineers, white collar bankers, and blue collar car mechanics, it was a smattering and mixture of a little of everything, every type of man. There was no way to pin down fishermen, backpackers, and hunters. They came from everywhere. And it seemed, few of them were talking about why.

If they didn’t say anything, often I would break the silence by opening my mouth, and telling them what it was like for me. Why I started doing these things. Trying to find initiation, and fathering, and stepping into a man’s world, and where I could experience these things and God.

The air would thin out, the mood would shift. Men would start acting shifty. I couldn’t understand it.

At first, I thought I was being the hero. Helping them. I am a writer, I like words. I thought I was helping them name, and explain things. I thought it was my contribution to these men. Help them out a bit.

The more I went, the more I saw, they actually knew this. Not in direct words, but from their stories, and how they told it. The way their faces light up when they at around each other. You could feel it from the stories of who was with them, when they killed the longhorn sheep, or buck off ranger mountain with their son. All the themes of why I was there, were in them. They just didn’t say it.

They didn’t need to.

It seemed they started getting mad at me for exposing this. They wanted it more of a secret. Even though one guy would say he wanted to kill giant elk, I realized it had much more in it. It was for the men, and what happened with men. The stories, the friendship, the laughter, sitting under a clear sky with a fire. This hunting and fishing thing was just the place it happened, the excuse to experience and feel it. It was starting to make more sense.

I stopped asking men. Started enjoying it instead. Tucking the need to put words to things aside.

I started feeling Ron’s love, when he whistled from down the river when I had a trout on, and said nice fish. I knew what he meant is “I love you, and care about you deeply, and I am so honored to be in your life.” The same when I got a knife from Jere who said, “this is for when you kill your first elk this season.” I knew in that was much deeper than kill elk, what he also meant is, “you have what it takes as a man. And I was thinking about you today when I bought this for you.” If PJ called to want to watch a hunting video, it meant as much that he was kinda lonely, and would love to hang out. It was kind of code. Man code. All of this stuff was.

I started seeing this as I ran across various men in their cubicles, and offices. I would walk into a man’s office, and there were pictures of trout on the wall. Or maybe some mounted ducks. It was kinda of life a sign to other men. Like in the movie Fight Club. Although most people saw it as displays of animals, or death. It was actually a picture of life. Those were the symbols, and signs that said, I am part of that group. Again, no words. But just the signs that said, I hunt. I fish.For those who understood this code, as I was starting to pick up, there was just a bond. A connection.

I started noticing a lot of men at coffee shops, and bagel shops in the morning, hanging out doing a bible study. Grown men, sharing their words, and feelings, about life, and pain, and the bible. I knew it was a good thing, but I wanted to go over, and hand them a gun. I wanted to grab the dudes and take off the white collar shirt, and place them in some camo overall bibs, and say, this is your bible study, go into the woods, and figure this thing out. Pray there. You really need this. You really do. I know it sounds whacky, and weird, and unspiritual, but I promise, you need it.

I started seeing that we had lost that as men, a place to go. Not a place to put words to everything, like sitting at Starbucks, doing a bible study, and sharing our thoughts and feelings.

We needed a place where we could get out, into something larger than ourselves, close to nature, and wild, and feel the dirt and the wind. We needed to sleep on it, have it rub across our faces, and talk about the things that were in creation we wanted to find, hunt, or fish. We needed all that together. That is really why I had come. I had sat in enough square rooms sharing my feelings and using words, but I had not been out in the world, exploring it with men.

It seemed all this hunting and fishing was really just a way for a man to get back in touch with that. As God said, from the dust you were made, and dust you will return. It seemed we needed to enter back into that story, of the ground, and the earth that had been taken from us by all the building and development. We needed to feel the cold water of a stream rushing down the mountains, with the hope of a rising trout, not just the demands of a deadline and numbers on an excel spreadsheet. We needed to head out into the outback of mountains that we didn’t have a paved road, and street light to guide us. We needed to run into the woods with fathers and sons together. We just needed to be together.

I finally came to see there where all these little secrets. And it seemed the best to leave them that way with each other. You didn’t have to speak it, just enter into it. Receive it. Give it back. You didn’t have to spend an hour processing it, and sharing your feelings, and all that. It had been happening for thousands of years, men doing this. That was the sacredness of the time.

I don’t ask men anymore why they head out to fish, and hunt.

Ya just hunt. And you let them figure it out.

Hunting Knife

2008-07-03T08:35:00.000-07:00

This happened about two years ago...

We walked into this giant warehouse of hunting gear, weapons, and clothes. It was like Wal-mart meets G.I. Joe’s complete collection of weapon supply depot. I felt like a weirdo, like I needed a card proving my manhood, or flash a can of long cut Copenhagen, to let me in. Everything unmanly I had ever done in my life flashed before me. Was I qualified to enter? And what the heck was I doing here anyways?

There were aisles of fishing lures, rows of camo shirts, and more guns, and more guns laid out like produce at a grovery store. It was if Noah had sacrificed one of every animal getting off the boat to be mounted in this place. Moose, elk, turkey, fish, weird birds, you name it, it was there. Dead, and stuffed. Hanging on a cheap little plaque.

PJ and I walked around looking at the various things. Elk Jerky makers, make your own bullet machines, and a list of hunting videos by bigger rednecks than Jeff Foxworthy that would have rivaled Blockbusters entire selection of new releases. Every Bubba of backwoods Virginia had put out a video. We walked over to the knives, which is why I had come. I was hoping to buy a knife. It was no small display either. Cases of them. This kind, and that. I had no idea what I needed, but I wanted something that was a little on the cheap end, as a beginner knife, and something that would help me cut up an elk if one of my friends killed one.

I laid my eyes on the Grizzly Kodiak knife. It sounded manly enough for me, and had an extra saw blade to cut through bone. I asked the rather intimidating man behind the counter if I could take a look. He grabbed it, laid it on the table. I looked at it for a minute in the container. And everyone was kinda staring at me, like, take it out, feel the blade, see it you fool. What’s a knife in the plastic sheath? So, as they stared at me, I pulled it out.

Again, I was completely new to this, and not sure what I was thinking, but as I pulled it out, I ran the edge along my hand somehow. I felt the cutting of flesh, but was hoping they did not see it. I pretended it did not happen, and started ooing at the features, and the metal, looking everywhere but my hand that was pulsating. I was hoping my movement away, despite the pain, from my hand to the blade would have them miss it too. Within second it was bleeding. The guy behind the counter looked at me like an idiot, and said, “do you want a Band-Aid for that?” Oh, wow. Look at that. How did that happen? Sure, that’s not a bad idea.

I had walked into my first experience of hunting and I had already cut myself. This was not the plan. Or why I had come. I wanted to feel like a man, not like this little kid who needed a band-aid for his ouchy. I felt like a fool. The shame of what I had just laid out before this man. I was completely unaware of how to do anything, even hold a knife.

I bought the knife, and we got in the car, and PJ and I started laughing.

I had drawn first blood.

My own.

Gifts.

2008-07-02T13:02:00.001-07:00

From a story awhile back...

A man told me that I needed to start asking God for gifts. Stop trying to buy my own. It was kind of a weird thing to ask God. For stuff. Replace my Americanized, spoiled, entitled, and full of stuff life, for his stuff.

He wasn’t talking about praying for treasures in heaven, but a few things here and now. A real gift or two.The thought of doing that at first, sounded even worse than just buying it on my own. But his point was, stop arranging your life, and treating yourself, and start letting God do that for you if he wants. Let him give you things. Putting your desire for what you wanted, giving it to Him, instead of your own pocketbook.

It sounded crazy. But I decided to give it a try.

When I went into a store, and saw something, normally I just bought it. I found a way to justify it, like, I need this. Or I really need this. And I still kinda did that. But started feeling more guilty realizing what a selfish bastard I really was. The way the whole thing went down is that I would get something, feel horrible for not asking God, think about it later. And feel even more like a scum bag.

But finally, after enough of this. I did try it. About one time out of ten. I prayed a short prayer, would you get me that? Would you bring it back around if it was something I could have?
I probably did, and did not do this for a good six months. And I really assumed it wasn’t working, and this whole thing was a sham, and God didn’t want me in this stuff anyways. There was so much more important things to be giving people, than more stuff for me.

But then one day out of the blue, a friend and I were coming down from the mountains when he said he wanted to stop at the fly shop. I said, “great. There is one right here.” And then I said, “why?” And he said, “I want to buy a fly vice.” And it sounded weird, because I knew he already had one. And then he said, “its for you. God told me to buy it for you.”

I kinda was stunned. Just stared at him. I felt really like a jerk, because I knew I wanted one. And I thought it was almost like a sick game, that it was happening. I’m getting what I want. I’m getting what I asked for. You selfish man, you.

The truth was, that I had been at the fly shop about 5 times looking at this one vice. I would look at it through the display case, drooling, and staring. Hoping. If it wasn’t so expensive, my guess is that I might have bought it, but I felt bad enough for blowing so much, and so I had prayed, and still desired that somehow it might come around. I just was shocked it was happening.
I kinda thought he was in on it. I thought I must have told him at some point I wanted it. Maybe it was this guy trying to fulfill that desire of mine or something. And so I asked, and he said, no, I didn’t know that. And I thought about it more, and it just kinda blew me away. God was giving me a vice through this man. God was giving the guy with so much stuff, more stuff.

I had felt like Jabba the Hut with gear. A giant stomach saying, “feed me.” But I came to see this one was different. This gift was different than all the ones I had bought myself.
All the other stuff started collecting in the corner, while this vice was kinda on display. Everytime I looked at it, there was something so special about it. When I tied a fly, and looked at the pictures of my fishing pictures, they had such a meaning. I wasn’t sure if God was in all the other purchases but I knew he was in this one. I had a vice from God and a man. I had asked for it. And instead of buying it on my own, God had given it to me.

The weird thing about it was I didn’t need to buy as much gear. I just kinda slowed down my purchases. Thought twice, and thought about my wife, and our needs, and savings. Stopped acting so much like a boy. Things started to somehow lose their appeal. I think it was because I started feeling like God, might take care of me. Maybe I really could trust him with my stuff. He would come through. He would show me the way. The power of things were a little less, and the power that God was a father, and would give me good gifts, felt a little stronger than before.
It was if, knowing God would provide, was the thing I had been wanting all alone. The gift was great, but the greater meaning of someone that I could trust. Beyond me.

Entitlement.

2008-06-22T13:14:00.000-07:00

The second week, the painting gang, Carlos, Jack, John, Juan Carlos, Juan, and Jesse and I walked into a Chipotle Mexican restaurant to get a quick bite to eat. On my white pants, now were two weeks worth of paint, and caulk, and a half days worth of sweat from the hot sun, along with the overspray of some stain. By this point, I was getting down a bit of the lingo. Relating better. Feeling like one of the crew, like a painter.

We rolled up to a restaurant in the business tech district of Colorado Springs, laughing, and relieved of our 30 minute break. After grabbing our burritos we sat down next to a group of guys my age. They looked like my from college. We were surrounded with men dressed in ties, and suits. The clean cut, and well spoken, and good looking people. People I had grown up around. Been friends with. Admired to become.

I looked and really noticed my crew. How different we were. Slouched over, dirty, cussing a bit, from different countries south of the border, joking on each other, and ragged. I kinda felt ashamed. And embarrassed.

I starred at this table of the guys next to me, reminding me too much of myself. Thinking about what I had left leaving Nashville, and the business world, and starting this job. I felt the loss. As if I was starring at what I could have been.

I wanted to take off these clothes, and grab them, and say, “Hey, I am one of you. It’s not what it looks like. I am really white collar, not like these guys.” It was a weird reaction. I wasn’t expecting it. I felt so cruel thinking it. But they never looked over anyways, never noticing us.

It kept happening. Walking into a mall, or even at a homeowners house. Normally I was given respect, looked at in my eyes when talked to, seen as a bright young man. I felt noticed. But not in this job. Something about putting on the painter pants, and shirts, and grabbing my tools, that took away all that from me. Stripped me of my previous life, and view of myself.
I was rarely respected, or noticed. I was one of the workers. A laborer. People were kinda afraid I might steal something, or ruin stuff. I didn’t seem trusted in these painter clothes.

I never knew how much I needed it. How I put off an image, that I needed people to see me as, and relate to me as this golden boy. I wanted to be seen as spoiled, and well-off, wealthy, good looking, and college educated. I used that, to get people to like me. It wasn’t until I put these pants on that I felt such a lack of it, a deep desperation to somehow get that back.

It was hard to take. I kept wanting to explain myself. I wanted to pull aside and tell the homeowners, you can trust me. There were even times I didn’t want to associate with the painters. I wanted to sit at a table all my own. I wanted to tell the homeowners talking to us about their house, about my college career. I remember constantly checking email on my phone during the day, to see if I had any good news. Something to tell me I was more than this lifestyle, and this paint on my clothes.

God was doing something in this place. Breaking something in me, that I didn’t even know was there. This place of entitlement was being stripped away, day, by slow day.

Failure.

2008-06-17T08:08:00.000-07:00

This week we are talking in our group, and large meeting time about failure. It is a topic that hits home for most of the guys at this point. We have climbed mountains, biked through valleys, worked in the heat, fly fished on a 10,000 foot lake. And with all the great joys, and scenes, and experiences of life, for all of us, failure is something we have been exposed to.

As men we hate these lines... I dont know what to do.

One young man with tears in sharing his confession, "I can't fix it."

We aren't taught to go there in our culture. Everything in our culture is set on rising up. In fame, fortune, and life. In some ways, beauty, and success, and the ascending part of life is a good thing. It's really true. But to get there, we must come to an end of that. The goal is not those things. Because we live with the idea, if I get those things... then I will be loved. noticed. respected. honored. embraced.

We work hard, to earn that. Most of us spend our lives in that path.

As much as I hate it, it seems the path God takes us is to descend into those dark places. and to feel the pain. the hurt. the loss. I dont know what to do. I can't make it better. I can't fix it. It is such a powerless place for a man. We are in some ways, created to bring order, and law, and rule, and dominion to things. But not on our own. Jesus as our guide.

You see man doing this on his own in Genesis 11, in the Tower of Babel. Man is starting to innovate, design massive structures, with one language, and working together. God scatters them and their language, because who knows what they might accomplish on their own. He wants them to know Him. To experience God in those buildings, and creations. If we can do it on our own, we dont need him.

When we fail, we face shame. As one of the young men pointed out, when you watch a game, when a player misses the last second shot, or field goal, he looks down. He shrinks, and moves inward, and closes up. Shame. Failure takes us to shame. Being exposed. Feeling inadequate. Adam and Eve feel naked, and ashamed, after their sin, and they hid.

Failure takes us there. Hiding. Staying away from all those places that might produce that shame again. We live safe lives, with little risk.

Since shame is experience in the presence of others, we feel failure in the midst of people, and in a crowd, or with a friend. We avoid it. And the last thing we want to do is expose that, and ask for help, from others, and God.

I can do it on my own. And for many of the guys, that has been how they have lived their life. I will do it on my own. I will not trust others. Or I am afraid to let others lead me. I think that is the beauty of what failure brings a man. His need for help. His need for God.

Ultimately, the scriptures are about God's restoration of humanity. Success, and victory is the theme of God. We will reign with Him, as co-heirs. I think the path there, is through failure. We come to be those co-creators, and co-builders, as we begin to find our identity is in our belovedness of God, as his sons (Romans 8)

Nice Church.

2008-06-13T19:59:00.000-07:00

I walked into church, a few years back in the middle of opening worship. It was this large metal rafter auditorium. Full of sights and sounds with lights shining in front. Everyone was praising Jesus. Hands in the air. I took a few moments to collect myself. Then started singing. Praising Jesus. Raising my hands. Experiencing God.

But then I just stopped. The music in my head faded away. Not sure why, but I opened my eyes, and I looked up at the stage, and all the lights, and all the young people around me. I just started watching the guy singers, and looked around at all the guys around me. Song after song I starred.

It was an array of sea foam, and pink colored shirts. Stylish hair, and frosted tips. The black square glasses. And tight shirts, and pants. It was like a giant starbucks gathering. And the truth was, I kinda fit some of that description too. The more sensitive understanding kinda guy. The good guy. The guy great at conversations. I was the guy girls liked to hang out with, and talk. I cared about what I looked like, the type of clothes I wore. I didn’t do those other men manly things. Not a man’s man, whatever that really meant. I had never really wanted too either. The whole hunting and fishing. That wasn’t really my thing. And I knew it was definitely not what made you a man. Man beating their chest in the woods. No thanks. I didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.

But I couldn’t sing anymore. All the boyfriend Jesus, Jesus, stuff.

Everything felt girly. The dudes on stage. The type of music. This building. These outfits. I didn’t even know what was happening. I didn’t want to raise my hands anymore. I didn’t want to sing at an octane beyond me. I wanted to check my pants, see if my balls were intact. I wanted to punch the dude next to me. I wanted him to punch me.

They started talking about small groups. And getting together to talk at people’s houses. They were bringing together community. I felt it rise in me. The hope. This was the answer. It could happen here. But I had kinda done that already. And although it sounded perfect, and Christian, and served a good purpose. and the right thing to do, sitting in some room with metal folding chairs, and tables, I just wanted to vomit.

The more they talked, the more this urge came to walk up to the front of these worship guys and mess up their hair, and have them mess up mine. I wanted to slap them around a bit. I wanted to unplug their guitar, and plug in a power tool, and start making music with hammers and drills, though I did not own one myself. Maybe we could borrow one, or rent it from home depot. But we were probably not going to get it from any dude here. There had to be something more than this as men. As far as praising Jesus, and always being happy, and looking cool, and wearing these oufits, and having accountability groups about porn, being these sensitive, and nice guys for God. There had to me more than wearing the newest shirt, understanding our feelings, and having good conversations at Starbucks.

All I knew is that I didn’t feel like a man. I never had. And being here was not helping that.

We sure didn’t look like men, and we definitely weren’t singing like them.

I wanted to make an announcement, “Men. Yes, men. Some of you hiding in those outfits you were told you needed from GQ. Yeah, I got one too. What if we take off these designer shirts, and designer jeans, and these nice guy personalities, and walk down this carpeted aisle, and out of this square air conditioned building, and run outside, strip down naked, and roll around in the mud and scream.”

I didn’t do it, though. I was too nice a guy.

Work. Kitchen work.

2008-06-07T19:45:00.000-07:00

"Some say that the man's task in the first half of his life is to become bonded to matter: to learn a craft, become friends with wood, earth, wind, or fire." - Robert Bly

We spoke to the young men this week about work.

They have been working for a few weeks now, laborious, and hard, and long hour construction jobs. It is not easy. Nor are they hours they have to wake up for, to get there on time. It is hot. There is plenty of hardship.

And they are really impressing us. They want it. They want initiation. To feel hardship. and pain. One young man said he would have never had this experience outside of this place. To be around other men, blue collar, who are far from his world. He grew up on a golf course, and caddy'ing. Went into the financial services out of college. But he missed something.

There is this mysterious thing, Christ calls us to, in descending. "Until you become the least." "You must become like these little children" "The first will become last, the last will become first." "Picking up our cross" There are all these places we must go, often down, to understand how to move up.

The descent. The humilitation. "The way down and out"

Robert Bly writes, "For young men who have graduated from privilieged colleges, or who have been lifted upward by the expensive entitlement culture, their soul life often begins with this basement work in the kitchen."

We must start at the bottom, and work our way up. Its a sign of maturing, of process, of growth. And yet, we rarely go that route. I struggle so much in that. I want to move ahead, pass around the hardship, the sweat. Ascend into glory, beauty, and success. And yet, its through. Through the pain, the sweat. The adversity. It's how God makes us men.

But we don't want to go there. The curse on Adam, is you will work by the sweat of thy brow. There is something connected there to earth. To physical labor. To futility. The curse is God's way of pushing us into hardship and suffering. In order... to find Him. To understand the Cross. The sufferings of Christ, to take up our cross, our sufferings, and belong to him.

I think its why a young man needs to be bonded to matter, in craft, or through wood, earth, wind, or fire. There is something about the natural world, we need to find out about. What we have inside of us. To feel pain, to feel our bodies, and use them. To experience the glorious parts of the curse, and the obvious hard things.

But we move on. To the risen Lord. The resurrection. Its a beautiful thing. But getting there, is through. Not around, as Cory Smith expains. As men, we must learn how to navigate into those places. And maybe be pushed there. I know I needed, and still need that. I dont want to. I need to be nudged in that direction.

Remember the disciples a few days before Jesus heading to the cross. Quarelling amonst themselves about who will sit at the right hand of God. They wanted power and position. Not all that bad. Some of it being good. But Jesus said, the way up, is first down. the least.

One of the young men heard from his father the other day, and after explaining his job, working for a day labor company, and how hard it has been, his father shed some tears. I can't interpret all that happened, but there is something in a man, that knows we must go through those places, in order to rise up, and be men. Our fathers often tried to get us to work hard, put in the hours, work a hard summer job, but so often the response was why? And when you are young, its pretty hard to convince us otherwise. Not to mention the entitlement culture that says, you dont have to go down. there are ways around. you can move up. you can pass that road.

It is my deep hope that somehow we are able to help in those places, even that many of these fathers have encouraged their sons in. My father was that way. work hard. spend a summer feeling real hard work. but did I want to do that? why Dad? Do I have to? It seems so easy to go a different route. I had to learn the hard way. I guess, so many of us do.

these young men are choosing that path. and I feel so honored to be with them. and watch them learn from these discoveries. and the stories that come from their work. they are entering the futility of the curse, and they are being blessed by it, becoming men.

Fight Club.

2008-06-06T14:39:00.000-07:00

I am reading through Chuck Palahniuk's, Fight Club. It was made into a movie, starring Brad Pitt. The movie is dark, and yet enlightening, and so far, so is the book. It speaks to the rage of the young men we are around, and I know myself. Along with the confusion of what to do about it.

Here's a quote...

"My father never went to college so it was really important I go to college. After college, I called him long distance and said, now what?
My dad didn't know.
When I got a job and turned twenty-five, long distance, I said, now what? My dad didn't know, so he said, get married.
I'm a thirty-year-old boy, and I'm wondering if another woman is really the answer I need."

Isn't that our dilemna. We are angry. We are often more boyish, and uninitiated, and unfinished than we want to admit. No wonder this character goes off to fight club. He has never had a father leading him, walking near. It can be too easy in our culture for fathers to come from a distance with their sons. Advice. And tips. But truely what we need is our father, and fathers around us, and Our Heavenly Father.

I have found most young men just launch into whatever next "season" is supposed to come. Get a job. Get married. Settle down." All these things being good. But few of us discover, what we really want... our father. Love. Guidance.

I think that is what happens to so many young men out of school. the pressure, and expectations. with little real world experience, and wisdom. they launch out for these things, only to come out 30 years later, empty, and in a crisis. may God help us rescue, and restore these young men to see their need for guidance, fathering, and the one who saves us from gaining the whole world, but losing our soul.

Boxes.

2008-06-05T09:39:00.000-07:00

I spent the morning writing this about a backpacking trip from a few years back...

As I sat over this mound of accumulated gear, it hit me that I probably needed to use it. There really was no real purpose of collecting it, if I didn’t at least have either a story to tell, or something to show for it. (what kind of motivation is that anyways) I think I bought it to use it, but the more I got the more I wondered what this little wonder lust was really about. After a few days of thinking of a place that I might launch out into, I decided on Lost Creek Wilderness, right outside of Divide, CO. It was a few hours away, down the highway and into some mountains.

I collected all my things, electronic GPS, gear, gear, gear, and took off.
Although I had probably 5X more than I needed, I really didn’t know what I actually needed.

And so I just kinda kept adding to the bag. Boys Scouts motto, “be prepared.” And with heading into an area I had never been, knew nothing about, never backpacked, and despite all my gear, was really not prepared for what was to come.

Pulling up, I felt this sense of fear and doom. What was I about to step into? As I left my car, I felt like I was leaving my comforts. What was out there? Miles down the trail? Would I know what to do? Would I even come back alive? Would I have brought the right “thing.” I started noticing tracks on the ground, bear? Or little rabbit? Not sure again. Looking up, I saw clouds differently. I had always seen them as fun, trying to make them into Jesus face, or something. But out here, it was about surviving. Is that a cloud that will rain? Or is that a cloud that will pass me by? I was going to need much more than a Jesus face in a cloud to get through this.

What am I supposed to look for in a rain cloud? Miningitus, or Columbus, or wait, no cumulus? I am not sure.

Simple things like opening my bag of peanuts brought with it questions… am I sure I want that next bite? What if I need that down the road. Could I find a stream ahead, or should I conserve this sip of water? Choices, and more choices. And I was barely a mile down the trail. Everything felt so heightened. So important.

What about the weather tonight. Would it get really cold? Or stay nice in this sun? I just didn’t know. I couldn’t read the map, or the land. I had never had to. My life was through weather channels. And information feed to me through google and my parents. Cold- put on jacket. Hungry-go to fast food. Those were the voices I followed in my head.

I had always been told in advance what to expect, about weather, and about life, college, and a career. I wasn’t anticipating, or preparing for anything. If I really needed something, well, it was just a half block down the road at Walgreens. I had every luxury I wanted. I had been following that line for awhile. Right behind the guy in front of me. Butt to head. Like a tourist horse ride.

It was the same way with the seasons of life. Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter. What did those really mean for me? I mean, there was an occasional need to put on a coat, scrape the ice, but a real season. I did not feel it. Not in my perfectly digitally controlled environment at home, and at work, and surrounding. My car stayed the same tempt, the stores I went in, and my home. The only seasons I felt was the short trip of about 5 seconds between all three.

All this to say, I was not connected to something. Could not feel, or experience the earth, and God’s order of things. I did not know what to bring backpacking, because I had never needed to. Everything just kinda came prepared. My lunch had been packed since I was a boy. Then fast food on demand for what I was feeling, in that moment. I was just a little baby suckling on the bottle. Whatever was given to me, I took. No questions. The weatherman says its gonna be warm, great, I will wear shorts. Never knowing why, or even caring. I didn’t need to.
And the lessons I learned about the unpredictability of things? Fear. Good gosh, man. You are exposed. Bad things could happen. Anything in the future that was up for a question, not known.

Well, we insured it. I insured my house, in case of a fire. My car in case I had a wreck. The ring of my wife, in case the diamond fell out. Insurance if I got sick, and then life insurance if I was to die. Anything unpredictable, became managed. No reason to worry, or live each day. It was covered. And I remained a boy because of it.

And so here I was… somewhere in the woods, with lots of questions. And no one there, and no google there to help. Everything I had hoped I needed was shoved somewhere down my overloaded backpack. I was a man, lost in wilderness. I guess I even picked it. Lost Creek Wilderness. Good lord, this was not turning into what I had hoped. Not sure what to do, I just kept moving, and wondering if insurance was going to cover this.
I could not describe it better than Eustace Conway’s description of our world of boxes that we live in.

They live in boxes. They wake up every morning in the box of their bedroom because a box next to them started making beeping noises to tell them it was time to get up. They eat their breakfast out of a box and then they throw that box away into another box. Then they leave the box where they live and get into a box with wheels and drive to work, which is just another big box broken up into lots of little cubicle boxes where a bunch of people spend their days sitting and staring at the computer boxes in front of them. When the day is over, everyone gets into the box with wheels again and goes home to their house boxes and spends the evening staring at the television boxes for entertainment. They get their music from a box, they get their food from a box, they keep their clothing in a box, they live their lives in a box!

Yahweh.

2008-06-04T23:21:00.000-07:00

I just listened to an amazing explanation of the commandment, you shall not take the Lords name in vain. Its about 15 minutes... and the explanation of yahweh, and how it relates to breathing in, and breathing out... absolutely an amazing revelation of God.

http://www.networknorwich.co.uk/Media/Player.aspx?media_id=19465&file_id=21638

The Truth - Big Bulls 10

2008-05-30T17:56:00.000-07:00

I wasn’t bred to hunt. I had never wanted to. Never had any reason to go kill. Well, the occasional ant burning with a magnifying glass but nothing in a food category. And there was definitely no real interest in any form of sitting in a deer stand. Waiting for deer to come.
In high school I would make fun of my friend, Jeremy who liked to hunt. I was living in the redneck south, and so, well, we have a lot of rednecks. And he was one of them. He came from a long line of them. Hunting went deep for all of them. It’s tradition in their family to hunt. He hunts on the same land where his family moonshined years ago. He’s a whiskey drinking, boot wearing, skoal in the back pocket, George Strait-kinda guy. And I was not. Never had any intention to be one.

I was a bit more sophisticated. More white collar. I liked golfing. And tennis. A chai latte, with no foam please. Oh, and extra hot too.

Hunting was not in my DNA, and the way I saw it reserved exclusively for the people of the world who had trailers, and who liked to put old cars as yard ornaments in the front lawn. The word buckmaster, makes him drool. I’d be happy with a Bobboli pizza. I dismissed Jeremy, went on to college, got married, moved to Colorado, seemed very fine with how things were turning out, apart from my past, and all that sort of stuff. I didn’t see my need for rednecks, or this hunting thing.

It was a few months back when my friend, PJ, invited me to his house. “I want you to watch a video.” Guys only. Ok. I was not expecting what came next. Or how I would react to it.

The video was “The Truth, Big Bulls 10.”

Sounded either really dirty, or an unknown passage of scripture. I watched as what appeared to be Bubba, and his buddy filming an elk hunt in Colorado. It was homemade, and had all the expectations of some southern drawls that I had known so well. But as I started watching, I kinda got into it. There was a pretty nice herd of elk. Huge antlers. They get that big? “Oh, wow, he’s calling that in?”

The men were in the middle of beautiful land. Nothing around them. But these giant bull elk bugling and calling them. They slowly got closer. I inched into the screen. Waiting. Watching. And wondering what’s next.

Then there was silence. A shot. And then all of a sudden, the men were staring at each other. These big burly men turned to little school girls jumping at each other. They were frantic. Trying to squeeze in places that should not be squeezed together, especially men. And these type of men. It was like… what is going on? Should we turn this off?

They were jumping up, hugging, holding each other. It was weird. Almost freaky. One guy started crying. Telling stories in the camera about the trip, what he was feeling. They moved closer to the bull, and it all began all over again.

I wanted to laugh, and yet I felt like I had just witnessed something deep. And as weird as it sounded—spiritual. I don’t know what it was, but there was something in it. Something I started thinking about.

I wanted to hunt.

2008-05-30T17:49:00.000-07:00

Tears of the Son.

2008-05-29T15:32:00.001-07:00

I was blessed to be with my small group a few nights back, and experience many of their tears over parts of their past, and as they unpacked their story. We believe that a man is called to show both strength, and mercy, and often in the movement towards masculinity, we forget emotion, feelings, and suffering, and showing all of that is walking into the masculine.

I loved what Charlton Clarke, one of the two counselors with us, shared to our group. Sharing your heart, crying is one of the most masculine, manly things you can do. Gosh. Isn't that missing in so much of our understanding of a man.

A man named Richard Rohr says, show me a young man who can weep, and an old man who can laugh.

I am in the presence of brave young men. Eager, and hungry to know their story, and the God who is still writing it. I feel I am on that journey myself. To cry... says... I can't make it better. I can't change what happened. And it hurt. It affected me. I needed something that did not come. Not to blame. Not to push our anger towards someone else. But to sit, and experience the suffering, and sorrow of our sin, a fallen world, and what often happens to us as a result. There was beauty that night, strength in weakness. Tears of sorrow, for joy coming in the morning. I love these young men, and their brave hearts to explore who they are.

Dan Allender says at the length we mourn and weep, is the extent we party, and find joy. and I feel excited to see where we will continue to experience those two extremes, and all that is in between.

A comment about fishing...

2008-05-27T14:31:00.001-07:00

I felt honored to receive this comment from a man who has blessed us with his fishing store, and some amazing fishing gear for this program. I don't know if I have ever heard such wisdom. ALthough I am not there yet, I do relate to catching big fish and many fish. And that makes sense, considering where I am at in life, I suppose.

And if there is ever a picture of our 20's and 30's and 50's, and where we take our life, and what we finally discover is true. A real metaphor. Here it is. Maybe fly fishing tells the story of our lives more than we know, and maybe that is why our guide Ron has requested when he is old and crippled, that we would just take him down to the river in his wheel chair, and fish.

Dave's comment...

When folks begin to fish all they can think about is catching that first fish.

Then as soon as they catch that first fish they have to catch another...

Then it becomes about "how many" fish and I caught 20 or 40 or 80 fish!

Then it becomes about "how big" and catching that +20 inch fish, then the +25 then the +30....

Then it becomes about "the exotic" either fishing in some exotic place or catching something unique.

Then there seems to be a shift and it becomes more about the fishing and less about the fish... just getting out and catching "a fish" becomes the only goal just to prove that you still have what it takes.

The final stage has very little to do about the fish other than they are there. Catching is just a bonus. Fishing becomes larger that any fish and more that any quanity. Being out with the smells, sights, and sounds is all that becomes important...

A time to renew the soul and hear Gods voice.

I love the ending of a River Runs Through It. Some of the most poetic words, and haunting desires.

Hearing from God about fly fishing.

2008-05-05T14:30:00.001-07:00

The days here in Hilton Head have been marvelous. Beautiful days of a light breezes, and little humidity for this place. Glorious weather to sit on the beach, take bike rides, and enjoy the peaceful life that greets us each day.

I decided to bring my fly rod here to South Carolina. Unsure of what to fish for, never doing it out here. Just hopeful. The other night I woke up at 2 a.m. I am not like this kind of person, casually waking. Going in for some coffee and a read. But, I just knew there was something I was supposed to be up for. God stirring something. I am starting to learn the difference between, I can’t sleep. And God is wanting to speak to me. Something in the spirit. I knew, or at least had this feeling it was that.

And so I woke up.

And before long, I heard… “Go fish.”

I found it quite odd. It was late. Dark. Nothing moving outside. But I grabbed my fly rod, put on the fly I had made the day before, and went to the back porch, and down to the water way just 10 yards from the backyard. And I fished. In my head, I am thinking, I am fishing because God wants me to. I am thinking one thing. A big one. Something is out in that river that is going to be large. And so, I had naturally grabbed my net. God wants to wake me to give me a gift. Something very large as a gift. But a few minutes into it, nothing is happening. I am a bit confused. and well, disappointed.

But as I settled in, I started feeling the rhythm of the rod. I mean, really feeling the rod. Its movement. Listening to the sound of the whipping back and forth. Line going through the air in the night breeze. The zing of it. I could not see my back cast. Only feel it. And hear it. The line loading each time through the eye lits, back and forth, back and forth. In perfect rhythm. It was dark. So dark, I could not see where my line went into the water, only feel it. All I can say is that for the first time, I felt things I hadn’t. I wasn’t focused on a spot on the river, or if anyone was watching, or if I was moving my rod right. It was just this moment, where I stepped into a new place. A new rhythm really, all my own. All the men before me, the adventures, experiences behind me. Just me, this river somewhere that I could not see, and what I felt like was God that called me here.

And so, trying to get ahead of God, and know what he was up to. I thought, this is it. The moment I land one. Its beautiful. I am ready to tell that story. Experience it. Take it in, maybe cry on the shore with the fish. But nothing. I moved down a bit. Then across a bridge to get in some deeper water. Almost trying to make it happen. Help God out. Maybe he meant over here. Or there. Down here? Gosh, its getting late. Where is he? Where is my fish? Its 4 a.m. now.And then I heard it. The voice, small one. But as loud as clear and in focus as the whipping of my rod.

“You are a good fly fisherman.”

Whoah. For real? I mean… I am feeling it. Really less self conscience then ever before. And, ya know… wow. So great, now lets find it. I kept thinking… that is not it, is it. What about the fish. The big fish I woke up for. Where is it? Over in this direction? Maybe one more cast… but I realized why I wanted the fish. So I had proof. So I could say, I caught a fish, and I am good. I know what I am doing. I can tie a fly. And fish in the dark. I really didn't even take in those words. I just moved right into looking for the fish again. Waiting for what a good fisherman gets... fish.

It wasn’t until the next day, when I realized why. God wanted to tell me that. Not you are good, and here is your prize. I have been digging into this place of perfection in my life. God has been. After me in it. For me, that is what I wanted to hear. “You are so good, you got this fish. I wanted to give to you.” I was expecting a reward of a prize. The words... that well... it was nice. but what does it get me?

Its crazy, because I have been doing a lot of outdoor things, fishing, hunting, and I tell you, I am learning so much. How to walk in the woods, call a turkey, tie a clouser minnow, and track a deer. Things not like me. Not in my previous nature. But I haven’t any luck in getting anything really, besides some fish.

But, I think, that is some part of what God is doing. Can I be a good fly fisherman without holding up a prize? I hope… and can I be a good fly fisherman without landing a prize Red Fish? I think that is what God is saying…

“Xan, you are a good fly fisherman.” Not because you get trophies. But because you just are. Gosh, really? That almost sounds like... well... love. and not about performance... but, about who I am. and what I am. You love me God… because I…. well, do this or that, and a few more of this. No. I love you, Xan. Because I just do.

Dang. I am only trying to receive that. And those words from God.I love what God is doing. I really need that. To believe his words, his voice. and what is happening. Not by results. But by his process. and just by believing him.

Jesus. The son of Mary.

2008-05-04T10:10:00.001-07:00

I was watching a documentary about the missing years of Jesus. 12 to 30. For real. That is a long time to go missing. Or not written about. To get 3 intense years in the scriptures, and 18 that are just nowhere to be found. It leaves the mind to wonder… this report was great. It really was. So many great scholars. From universities, mainly protestant and mainline. Weighing in on the topic. One thing that came up was the tight knit communities. How during Jesus time, the town of Nazareth was small town. I am talking real small town. Ya know the small towns that know everything about their neighbors business, along with a few thoughts of their own? Well, think an even tighter community, and even more talking. This is Jewish, family, traditions, close knit, and lots of relationships happening between everyone. They relied on each other. The estimate is Jesus was born into a town of 500. So… we assume, everyone knew their business. Close. Tight.

There is an interesting story there. When Jesus comes back at 30 in his ministry. Everyone knows him. One gospel refers to him as the carpenter. When you grow up knowing him for assumingly 20 or 25 years as that, its hard to see him as anyone else. The Christ? The savior? Gosh, there is an understanding of why it was so hard for them to believe Jesus was the messiah, and the king they were waiting for through the prophets. He was just the guy they used a few years ago to fix their roof. Or add an additional room. This guy, running around town claiming to be the Son of God? It could be hard. Breaking those experiences.

What is unique is the story in the gospel about Jesus coming back to the town after travelling around at 30 with his pose, those disciples. Jesus was getting some attention, and being noticed. Growing in celebrity status from village to village. But what is unique is a text in the scriptures about how they respond to this in his hometown. In their Jewish culture, they were supposed to identify with their father's household. It was their custom. My wife would be considered… Jayne the daughter of Jeff. And I would be the son of David, and so on. The household would bring the association through the man. Well, what the teaching brings out is that Jesus is not identified this way. He is considered "the son of Mary."

There is a bit of an argument of why those words. But one common belief is because the town knew something was up with Jesus. And Joseph. The husband of Mary. And the father of many other children, was not the father of Jesus. We know that the Holy spirit revealed itself, and through an angel to Mary, and to Joseph about the baby, being conceived through the Holy Spirit. But God didn't tell the town. Or anyone else. We just kinda assume people knew this, for what Jesus becomes. But they don't. and they don't even get it years later, when he is walking around town and going into other villages claiming to be the Son of God. In one account in the gospel, it speaks "isn't this the carpenter?" They know him well. But for other reasons. Not his Messiah complex. But his earthly living. He is just a worker. Named for what he did for those missing 18 years.

I have been wondering a lot about how we learn to deeply know the Father in heaven. And one thing that hit me through this is that Jesus at some level, was born under incredible controversy in the town. Imagine the gossip. The women talking, and sharing their tales of what might have happened. Maybe they thought Mary had a rendezvous with another man. Or even, just to have gotten a little close, before their wedding night. Whatever came, you can bet the town carried that gossip better than US Weekly, and the paparazzi. This is small town living. Imagine all the housewives at the time, walking around town sharing the news of how Jesus was born before 9 months of Jacob and Josephs marriage. And all those weird fights and confusion they had about that time. Don't think the town wasn't wondering, and talking behind their back.

Here is the amazing part of the story. And the part we forget. Kinda like as we think back to World War II, we already know the outcome. America invades at Normandy, and it goes well. They move in, and we know we will win. But they didn't at the time. And there were many questions, many fears that the war could be lost. Much was up in the air. But that's hard to understand now, knowing all the facts. But they simply did not have that information. And that really changes everything.

It's the same with Jesus. They had a different perspective at the time. When he is born, and what the time doesn't reveal yet, is that Jesus is the Son of God. We don't really know what that would have really been like. To be born the town controversy. To have all these unknown and mysterious labels surrounding your birth. To be the talk, like a Jerry Spring episode of a paternity battle. Who's son is this? Know one really knows. And I bet, the person who was even a bit confused, and had to live with this was Jesus. Imagine him at 5. 9 years old playing with friends. Fishing down at the Sea of Galilee. He must have heard the news. Some kid just straight up asking… our parents wonder who your father is… We heard it wasn't Joseph. When did the Spirit reveal this to him? When did his mother? Joseph? The scriptures aren't very clear. And I wonder about that. Was that what really made Jesus know the Father. Really seek out, and explore who he was. He was the one man faced with more questions about his family. And who he was. More than any other person. Where did that search take him? That longing to understand… almost like that is what God had him bear. Seek out at the temples, and as he read the Torah, and the Holy Scriptures. It was all there. Who he really was. But it had to be revealed to him, over time. I bet God wanted him feel the weight of it, for so long. God wanted him to seek it, explore, and really deeply long to interact, and know who he really was. Until one day… after all his study, his prayers, and growing in wisdom and stature. He began walking in this. Deeply. Abiding. Resting. And living out this identity as the Son.

He was perfect and sinless. So he was pure at a young age. But he was still a boy. A boy who deeply longed to know his Father. And that came. It probably was a process. Growing into it. And understanding what his role was, as God's son. The sacrifice that he would be called on to make.

It makes more sense when you hear of the story of being near his hometown, when he is teaching the people. His mother Mary, and all his brothers and sisters arrive. The whole town is like… Hey Jesus, your family is here, do you want to go talk to them. Shut this down, to be with them? And Jesus says, who are my brothers and sisters? He is saying, those who know God, who abide and do the will of the Father, those are my family. He had to find that out the hard way. By truly searching that out. He finally understand that those around him, gathered, were his true family.

I love this, because truly, if there was ever a man who felt orphaned, abandoned, or had a father wound… who really needed to know His Father, Jesus went through it. It is everyone's deepest longing. To know their father. To be loved by their father, to be delighted in, and enjoyed. It's the story of the Prodigal Son. We need that so deeply. And of all the people, it was Jesus that had to take that journey.

And although we look at it with passing, as if Jesus knew all along. But I think its why the baptism really was so impactful to Jesus heart. For a man who spent his life as a boy, surrounded in controversy. With confusion, and fear of the town not knowing who this boy was, and whose father and house he was born… "son of Mary." That day when he arose from the river, the words, and the longing of his heart was spoken, not just in a dream to his parents. But out loud, and to all those around who witnessed it. Audibly. And clear. "This is my son, with whom I am well pleased." I can't imagine what those words did to Jesus. His father has spoken. Named him. His own. And his delight in him. The whispers of controversy, were silenced by the voice of the one who finally could reveal to the world, who this fatherless child… really was. His own.

And Jesus didn't just kinda act confused. Or pass it off like did anyone here that? Or brush it aside, because it was too much to take in. He received it. Because after all he had been through, he knew. And yet this was the confirmation he needed, that every man needs to hear. It is true. You are a son. Adopted into the family of God. He lived in that identity. As Gods chosen son. The one true son. And the most beautiful part of the gospel, is that his sacrifice gives us that right. That heir. To be called sons of God.

Fishing for something.

2008-05-03T12:23:00.000-07:00

I am away for a few days vacation at sea. Well, on the beach. In our backyard is a waterway system that leads to the sea. I knew this coming, and so I decided to bring my fly tying vice, and some feathers, and thread, and other really feminine stuff along, if it wasn’t for the fact I was tying with it. It is quite odd, what you tie with. Pretty much go into joanne fabric or Michaels crafts, and the same thing a women might use to decorate with, somehow that, and a hook, and some fancy ways to tie it, you get a perfect looking fly. I am not making this up.

I have been learning to tie a few flies for trout in Colorado. But this is new. Saltwater. My friend, Timm, helped me grab the pieces I needed for before I left. And so, yesterday, I tied a few pieces of dyed buckskin, beads, thread, and I made a skinny clouser minnow. It is fun to throw out something you tied on your own. In looking at the fly, I actually am thinking I could use my wifes blonde hair to tie one as well. I can’t think of a more sexist or less racy feminist thought than catching a fish with your wife’s hair. But, I don’t believe that is at the heart of it. Gosh, I hope not.

So there I was in the backyard, on this beautiful water system going up and down the area casting. I was feeling quite proud. Confident. And like I really had a clue at things. Other men, construction workers looking on from the condo next to us. Kinda displaying the talent. Casting a bit further. Showing off.

So, a few yards down an old lady comes out. Intrigued as well. Wow. What are you fishing for?
Hmm… in trying to turn the question to my gifts, I somehow just responded, this is a clouser minnow. Proudly knowing it was me that tied it. Oh no. What are you fishing for, she said again.

Oh, yeah know. Pause. Um. Well, I actually don’t know.

It kinda threw out all the wind from under me. I am trying to catch something. I just haven’t a clue what. And then as I kept casting, it made me realize, how do I know this is the right fly? Or the right area of water? And then it made me wonder if that is why I am even out here. Yeah. I want a fish. But I think I am having as much fun, tying something, practicing my casting, and enjoying it. Maybe something in the grace of it, and the experience of doing it on my own. Trying at least.

There is more to go. I need a guide. I am looking into that. I know now, I cant do this on my own. But there is some beauty that I am in part, picking up the rhythms of fishing. Of casting. And tying. Now, I just need a guide. As that older lady mentioned, to help me know what I am fishing for. But what I should have said was, “its much more than just a fish.”

E-MASQL8 PLUS

2008-05-01T18:14:00.000-07:00

Cory and I were meeting with a friend, and marketing genius, Jon Dale. jondale.com when we ran across this ad on the back of a magazine. Jon was going to put it up on his blog, and I thought I would throw it up here as well. ADHD anyone?

Free Range Parenting.

2008-04-27T17:04:00.000-07:00

I must confess, I have not posted in awhile. But starting to get the itch, and there is just too much good stuff happening in the world relating to young men, and this one pulled me in. Again.

I heard the phrase, "helicopter parenting" for the first time from my father-in-law who is the admission director for a christian school. But the idea is that parents will not let their kids grow up, make decisions, have a life of their own. really be their own person. They are there. Always. keeping Tommy from getting a bruise. I wish that was the worst of it. But nevertheless, we do live in a climate of over-mothering, and under-fathering. And with that, comes mom staying close. And boys not breaking into their father's world, or a man's world.

This story came out of New York. A mother who allowed her 9 year old son to take the subway alone. After a trip to Macy's, she gives her son $20, a subway ticket, and a map. It created all kinds of controversy. Saying its child abuse. I am sure we could argue about what would be the right age for a mother to let her son go it alone. But what I love is the conversation from it. I have a good friend, Sam Jolman, who talks about a mothers role in our development as a man. How it is meant to go. And how it goes wrong. And how often, our mothers are the ones who wont let us grow up, find our independence, and feel the weight of the world.

From that, and this story, I really love the debate. A mother must let her son go. When is a good question, but I love her risk with her son. She has a blog going called Free Range Parenting.

This is the video from Goodmorning America.

Our last night.

2007-08-10T21:50:00.000-07:00

Tonight was the last night of the program. I could write many words in reflection, fresh on my mind, what has happened, happening. But sometimes pictures are best, and I will let them tell the thousand words, and the hundreds of stories.

A mother's words about her son...

2007-07-31T15:22:00.000-07:00

I received this today in an email, a short description of a single mother's view of her son. I thought it was deep, and priceless. If we only all had mothers like this...

Anthony Heinz
12 yrs old.
Amazing artist,
Aspiring musician (bass Drums Elec Guitar)
Lover of all kinds of weapons.

Mostly loves his mom. ;)

The next generation.

2007-07-08T21:53:00.000-07:00

We had a beautiful evening up at the cabin tonight. A man we met along the way, who actually sold us furniture at Sofa Mart came up with his son. He taught some cooking skills, grilling things, and brought his 16 year old son, James.

Throughout this process, of inviting young men into their masculine hearts, taking them out, serving, and loving on them, the question always is... what will they do with this? Where will they take it? The fear is... it will remain within, not unleashed, or given away again.

After our meal, we gathered around the fire, a tradition we have with our guests. A beautiful evening, little wind, cool Colorado temperatures, and Cory and I brought the question to the 4 young men in the program, what words would you offer James, and in your experience of high school, and the quest to become a man.

We sat for a good two hours as the 4 young men shared their hearts, their stories, and experiences while they have been here. They were honest, self-aware, courageous, and offering their stories, and wisdom to this young man. He seemed a bit nervous, all this attention on him. But that didn't matter. Almost made it all the more important.

I think tonight, it became real. What is happening here. What the young men are growing and becoming. The fire, and the meals we have had at the cabin have been about older men offering their wisdom, and experience. And tonight, those same young men who have sat over that fire, learning, listening, and receiving, gave out of their hearts, and from their discoveries. As if they were the men. It almost sounded like a bunch of old men sharing their experiences. And in some ways, these 4 young men have so much to share, and speak from. Their hearts, their lives, and the promises of God, and what he is doing in their lives.

Another generation was reached tonight. And these 4 young men gave away what they have been given. I just sat there, listening, and in amazement. I am not a father, but it was one of those moments, where you just felt so proud to be there, listening, and knowing that no matter what fears, doubts, and questions that have come each day, from our fundraising, to our own personal journeys of still needing much of this ourselves, God is at work, and it continues to be passed down.

The stories of the men... the stories of these young men... now sharing the stories to even younger men.

Heart Art.

2007-07-03T15:51:00.000-07:00

We had a special guest, Joni Zepp come over to the cabin last night. She is a local christian therapist in town, and attends International Anglican Church with Cory and I, along with the young men. She is a dear friend, and prayer warrior and prophet for us at Training Ground. Quite a gift.

She came to do art therapy. Or really to take young men into the heart of God, through art. She explained that when we use words, that often it is describing experiences, and feelings, and that symbols, images, and pictures actually come very close to our heart, and our God. Sometimes more than words. Made me think about Revelation, and the imagery of the prophets, and scripture, and how often the words, are actually descriptors of symbolism and pictures.

Initially the vision comes... the prophets record and describe it, in their words, things our translated by language, then over the ages, re-translated into Greek, English, and then we read them.

Made me think about how much an artist God is. Of course, in nature, but even in giving his followers visions. Yes, he speaks in words, but visions too. So, Joni's point is that often the closest place to find out what is going on inside, and even at that level with what God is doing, is to see symbols... and so we painted.

The assignment was to listen with our spirit. Not our soul. The spirit God has set within us, and the two things we painted went with, "What is God speaking to you right now about your life, and the second.... what does your heart want the most with God."

It was good. I tend to use words to describe things. But this went beyond that, and to the heart. Of God, and my own.

It was a powerful night. All of us going around sharing what God had us draw, what our hearts wanted the most. It was amazing what depth was in each picture, and how each somehow described our journey thus far. Each picture unique. Each story unique. And even how God spoke to us.

It also reminded me that we are all artists, and have expression in us. There are things locked away deep with us, and within the heart of God, that seem to be hard to access at times. It felt right to have a woman at the house.

As one of the young men shared, "It was soothing just to hear her voice." We have Sister Therese coming tonight, and there is something about a woman, her tenderness, her strength, grace, not sure all how to describe it, that takes us into the heart of God that a man cannot. It seems fitting that Joni brought us to that place with God, and all the more reason why as much as masculinity bestows masculinity, it sure is right to have a woman help us in that journey.