Sweet and sour holidays...

Mary Alice's roommate in college was a vegetarian... she's now vegan. That's an important bit of information for you to know, because once upon a time, she and Mary Alice walked together in the Chinese Kitchen to get some lunch. For those of you not familiar with the Chinese Kitchen, it's a little dive over near campus that is run by the sweetest little lady ever... and she is very Chinese. Anyway, while perusing the buffet Laura spots something of interest, but needs to confirm the lack of meat in the item which has caught her eye. She proceeds to ask the very Chinese proprietor if there is any meat in said item, to which the response comes back "No meat... just beef and pork".

"Lost in translation". You can prepare something, plan it, and serve it, but sometimes there's just a little piece that you just can't explain. That's pretty much how I feel during the holidays a lot of the time. I love the Christmas season. I love the imagery, the smells, & the music. I have the house decorated by the weekend after Thanksgiving, no excuses, but there is also a sadness to this season for me that I just can't put my finger on. If I sit down to dwell on it, I think it may come be a question of faith. I really wrestle with what this season represents as a Believer, and reconciling that with what this season means as an Americanized Western Christian. I find it so hard to know what to do with Santa when it comes to our 3 year-old, because I want him to enjoy all of the magic of Christmas, but I also want to be true to... well... I want him to think first of Jesus, then of Santa. Maybe that's crazy, but I would say that it's only so because we have allowed it to become so. It's only so because I, at 30, think of Santa and trees and family get togethers, then Jesus and mangers. Jesus' first breath... the first time the hand of God wrapped around the finger of His mother... his first smile. God with us, Emmanuel.

Welcome to my Christmas conundrum... my "no meat, just beef and pork" Christmas. My celebration that is full of wonderful things, but somehow is not filling. I hope that Jack sees me in a few of those moments when I slow down and picture a 3 year old Jesus in the excited eyes of my little boy. I hope that one day soon Jack will know that this season is a celebration of a gift already given... a gift that was, at one time, a 3 year old just like him who liked to play and run and laugh.

I love to think of Jesus as a child. I wonder what it's like to experience one's own creation from "the other side". Like I said earlier, I love to think of his first smile, his first real friendship, maybe even a first crush? Why not? I love to think of him being able to enjoy sunsets, wading into a pool of cool water to cool off on a hot day. I think that maybe, even though he knew what was to come at the end, just maybe there were a few moments on his life where he was able to sit back and watch people enjoy his creation and taste for himself that it is, indeed, good. May we have some such moments as we celebrate his coming to enjoy them among us.

5:30... wrong wrong wrong

I rose with the sun this morning (a little ahead of it, actually) in an attempt to have some "me time", or maybe even "me and God" time. 'tis early, 5:30. I get up that early twice a week to work out, once for Basketball and once for Racquetball, so it shouldn't have been any big deal, right? Wrong. You know how, back in the day, armies would line up on either side of a field and volley arrows at each other, then move up and throw spears and rocks, then run at each other and scream a lot? I'm pretty sure that my bed was in the center of such a field this morning, and I was watching the arrows of spiritual warfare flying overhead as the armies closed in on each other... and my bed. The proverbial angel and demon on my shoulders were having a right old shouting match about the merits and foolishness of my getting out of the bed.

I got up (shocker, I know). I stumbled into the den, turned on the lights of the Christmas village (no comments necessary), made a pot of coffee (which I never touched until 10 something, but my wife loved) and settled on the living room couch with my Bible (after several minutes of searching to find it, lest ye should think me some kind of super-saint, which I sadly am not). I wound up in Habakkuk and Daniel, of all places, then the gospel of John, and really sensed that - for the first time in a long time - God was trying to help me find some answers through his word. How wonderful, and how frightening.

As I finished my reading, Jack started to stir and I wound up laying in his bed with him, falling asleep for an hour with my little man snuggled up to my shoulder. How wonderful, and how frightening. So great is my responsibility as a husband and a father. I often say that when thinking of paying the bills or keeping food on the table, which is daunting enough, but when I think of the role I play in helping my family discover the living and relevant Jesus... I feel remarkably ill equipped. I hope it starts with waking up early in the morning, watching the arrows fly over the bed and listening to the smaller battle between my shoulders. I hope it starts with rolling out of the bed, the first declaration of the day as to whose side I'm on. And I hope it involves holding my boy for an hour, waiting for him to open his eyes and find me there.

Argh... aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh...

No, that is not the sound of a pirate - that would be "ARRRRRRRRRRRRH" & most likely followed by "matey". That is the sound of a lonely salesman, sitting in a vacant hotel meeting room set for up to 30 attendees. That same salesman has been doing this for about 3 days now with similar results. While you may question said salesman's capacity for sales, I should point out that these particular miseries are not self inflicted. 'Twas my job to set up host sites & the inside sales team's job to put butts in seats. I provided said seats, but, alas, there are no butts. No butts at all.

So I have been reading 'Tis by Frank McCourt, which explains the Irish brogue you may hear if you were to call me today, and enjoying the scenery of the East TN mountains in Fall. I was feeling particularly sorry for myself earlier today, while driving a lonely country road 'twixt Sevierville and Maryville, when I came upon an exceedingly windy stretch of road, pressed on either side by the most amazing trees you have ever seen. It was like something you would see on one of those screen saver sites (isn't that poetic?). It was less than a quarter of a mile before I was back between field and pasture with the great Smokey Mtns off in the distance, but it was absolute therapy for my soul. It was, oddly enough, a little glimpse of my happy place.

I often play a little "getting to know you" game with folks when I have dinner with them (which may explain my wide open calendar for the coming months or the lack of attendance at my sales meetings), asking them questions that will help me see what matters to them...what's important. One of the questions is kind of a happy place question, asking to describe what is, in their mind, a perfect scene. I thought I'd share mine today, if for no other reason than the therapeutic value of typing it out for myself:

It's about 50 degrees, morning with a slight breeze. I'm watching the breeze move through the trees and hearing the "thump thump thump" of my rocking chair as it makes it's way over and back again from wood plank to wood plank on the back porch as my feet rest on the rail. To my left is an fireplace, burning bright and warm with a stack of wood in one of those iron circular wood holders. To my right is my big ol' outside dog (outside, I say... outside) - maybe a chocolate lab or an Irish setter - lying content in the warmth of the fire. In my hand is a hot cup of Mama Lee's hot chocolate, being held by the handle with my right hand and with my left hand pressed against the side to keep warm. Beyond the trees gently swaying in the morning breeze are snow capped mountains, just beginning to glow with morning light... glowing just enough to reflect off of the gentle waters of the mountain lake that lies between us. Jutting out into that pristine body of water is a simple pier and dock, with an old wooden ski boat rocking gently on the morning waves and a wooden canoe on the other side mimicking the dance that welcomes the morning. Ducks and birds can be heard from time to time over the lapping waters, nature's chorus disturbed only by the occasional sound of horses gathered near the barn for warmth and the morning feed. Mist rising from the water, the warm breath of horses and the hound, steam rising from Mama Lee's goodness, gentle additions to the morning in my happy place.

A fellow just came in to ask about our programs. Sadly, he was looking for initial certification as an adminsitrator in TN, which I can't give him. I told him where he could get what he needs as his 7 year old son woofed down my brownies and cookies. Y'all excuse me while I go back to my happy place... in fact, run on to yours for a while.

A Holiday Without a Soundtrack

When's the last time you gathered in the freshly fallen leaves and sang Thanksgiving Carols? How many stories do you remember about the Pilgrims and Indians breaking out the bongo drums (did the Indians have instruments? I couldn't think of any, so I went bongo) and Harpsichords for a little Thanksgiving caroling? None. No carols. So you will forgive me if I cherish the experience of Thanksgiving, which is one of my favorite holidays, but move on, in spirit, to Christmas. I demand holidays with a soundtrack.

'Tis November 1st, and in my world that means the Christmas CD's come out. So far we've worked our way through Buble' and Sinatra, we are now moving into the Bing Crosby hour. Up next, Mariah Carey followed by a little instrumental action during the time I need to be on the phone this afternoon for work. New additions to this year will be "A Very Veggie Christmas" (Veggie Tales) and an old standard "Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas". Indoctrination of my son begins...... now.

In all honesty, I will grow weary of Christmas music around the middle of December, but I have to get to it before I get bombarded with it at Target and on every commercial. I have to let it feel special and allow it to rekindle those memories before it gets cheapened and commercialized. This will be the first year when Jack will be old enough to say the words "I want that!" when the commercials begin in earnest... when Christmas runs the risk of becoming about stuff.

I hear these songs and I remember riding in the car to family Christmas gatherings, being forced by Mom to sing the 12 days of Christmas. I think of gathering at Ganny & Gamp's with the whole family... gobs of food, football, post football naps. I think of Ganny and Papa in the guest bedroom on Christmas Eve and sitting on the stool in there on Christmas morning, watching them stir, bleary eyed in the pre-dawn darkness. BB guns, bicycles, Tecmo Bowl (hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm... Tecmo Bowl), Dad's annual "special present" to Mom that she never seems to expect. Our 1st Christmas in our apartment, with lights everywhere and my Uggs under the tree (hmmmmmmmmmmm... Uggs). Jack's eyes last year when we lit the tree for the 1st time.

I need no soundtrack for Thanksgiving... this music pretty wells covers so much of what I'm thankful for, so you'll have to forgive me for humming "White Christmas" when you see me next.

Wisdom is like fine cheese...

Wisdom is like a fine cheese... I'm not sure I've ever had any. I can sho' nuff get down with some queso dip at the local Mexican ristorante, however, so prepare to be queso'd. I shall be the queso of wisdom. Sometimes too spicey (then my wife will ask me to delete said post), sometimes a wee bland (when my wife says "You need to update your blog"), but always a good, cheap alternative to a healthy meal.

Today's tip for a life well lived: The men of "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" once said 'tis best to shampoo every other or every third day, so as not to damage your hair. I am of the opinion that this is sound advise, unless of course you have kids or have - at any point in the day - perspired. If you have children or if you do anything other than sit on the set of a TV show with people pampering you and bringing you exotic bottles of water, I hereby insist that you shower and shampoo regularly. If you must follow the advise of infrequent shampooing, please note that there is no such law or policy prohibiting the uses of soap, deodorant and some non-generic form of hair care product.

Consider yourself slightly better informed than you may have been... say... 5 minutes 'ere you read this blog. You may carry on with your day.