Can You Hear Me? No!

Alot of parents complain about not being tech savvy, at least not enough to monitor and control their kids' online activities. I am NOT one of those parents. Ok, I can't beat my son in Madden NFL 10 or even Wii Bowling. But when it comes to setting parental controls and checking their site histories on Safari, I'm the Mac Daddy. (Don't worry if that makes no sense and/or isn't remotely funny. It's late.)

So I "follow" them regularly, and I gotta say that, so far, nothing in their footprints has caused alarm--praise God! We really do have fantastic kids who love the Lord and love us. So thankful for that. At the same time I know that we are all made of flesh and that there is so much out there that can slowly kill a family from the inside out. So Lora and I try to stay vigilant, not only in our own lives, but in Cameron's and Casey's as well.

Lately, my blatant and conspicuous parental searching has revealed that my kids--particularly my daughter, Casey (12)--have spent a great deal of time looking at pictures of, yeah it's true, cell phones. Every brand, style, make and model--flip phones, smart phones, camera phones, PDAs--you name it, they know it. And accessories too. They know about cases, headsets, chargers and adapters.

The upside is that if Casey's law aspirations don't pan out, she's got a surefire career in mobile phone sales.

A few years ago our persistent NYC (no you can't) reply was about getting a dog. I like dogs. Of course, my brother, Kenny, has a hundred-and-something pound Rottweiler that I've seen maybe twice. And that's twice too many times for me. No, I like average-sized, friendly, come-rescue-you-in-the-snow-with-a-thermos-of-hot-cocoa-type dogs. Hmm. Maybe I'll blog about that sometime.

Our schedule and lifestyle has made it impractical for us to accommodate man's best friend--at least that's what we've told ourselves. So NYC2 has been regarding cell phones. Cam and Casey knew that our initial answer would be "no." So they came prepared. They had done their homework. And we've heard every "viable" justification from surviving emergencies to being able to coordinate locations after school.

But the one that trumps them all, the motherboard of all reasons is: "Everybody else has one."

Let me say that I don't believe in being strict just for the sake of it. I'm sure we all know kids who grew up in extremely authoritarian homes yet turned out to be freaks. So, I don't totally dismiss my kids' reasoning in this case. There may be a valid point in there... somewhere.

But I'm sorry. What am I missing? A cell phone at 12 and 14? Really? I mean, seriously? There has got to be another way to address those valid points.

And what about the cons?? Who, besides me, will they be talking to? Who will they be texting? When would they be texting. Why (insert previous questions here). Yeah, I know, you can track all that stuff. But who needs another job that you have to pay to have? Not me.

I've used all the counter arguments. "I didn't get a phone until I was 21," and "You don't need one," "You have trouble keeping up with your other gadgets," etc. Once I even offered to get them one of those Firefly things that would only let them call a set of pre-determined numbers. Ha! That went over well.

The bottom line is that my kids aren't really concerned about emergencies or coordinating after school activities. They want phones because it would be cool. It would be fun. And they'd be in sync with the majority of their peers. I'm not necessarily against those things. I want my kids to have nice things and to enjoy life. I even respect the careful decision of parents who decide to allow their kids to have them. Maybe it works well for their family.

But, the only point that holds any water is that I, me, PM, we, Mike and Lora are not responsible to raise anybody else's kids. Mine can cite Johnny, Susie, Dayshon, and LaToya all day long, but God gave me watchcare over Cameron and Casey. Period. The fact that I was 21 when I got a phone, or any other explanation is moot. I know MY kids. And with that knowledge, I know, and they do too, that they are not ready.

Many of you Facebook friends provided a host of good points--for and against. Over 50 responses to the question. Thanks for your candidness. It was insightful and fun. But my kids weren't surprised by the overwhelming replies against the phones. Plus, they knew it was an exercise in futility as their mom and I usually don't budge on the NYCs. But they have good attitudes about it. I love that about them. Still, I guess they figure it never hurts to ask.

Funny how the "everybody else" argument doesn't come up when my kids happen to be blessed with something that maybe "everybody else" hasn't been.

So, for now, only two cell phones in this Baldwin house. Sigh. I doubt the world will stop spinning.

Although, I may soon be posting for advice on dog breeds.

"And, ye fathers, provoke not your children to wrath: but bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord." Ephesians 6:4

Stop the Music?

Music has been a huge part of my life since I was young. I should clarify that, particularly in this age of CD music for "Infants in Utero" and the occasional child prodigy. I was actually a late bloomer, relatively speaking, picking up the cello in 6th grade. But once I started I never looked back. While I matured to become a mediocre cellist, my love for most things musical flew off the charts.

For me though, I was more interested in music than being a musician. I was fascinated by singers but wasn't passionate about being one. I loved the piano but wasn't interested in playing it. Looking back now I think I loved the idea of making music, but in the background. The idea of performing wasn't appealing at all. The problem with this is that there are no courses of study--that I'm aware of--to teach you how to become a non-performing musician. That title is usually reserved for people who become proficient in music theory or for those who never quite make it as a performer. I was surely becoming the latter.

The turning point for me came in 10th grade. My mom started taking piano lessons. Her teacher, in addition to being an accomplished church pianist, was also her good friend. I wasn't there, but as far as I can tell lessons were more like social gatherings between two women. They talked about children, ministry and shopping rather than about notes and rhythm. I'm sure it was quite fulfilling for both of them, but mom was getting no closer to Carnegie Hall.

But, she did bring those piano books home. And an eager, 10th grade, wanna-be musician set aside geometry and history books for a self-educating crash course in church music. I felt like I'd hit the jackpot. I went through those books with a flurry of enthusiasm, and in about three weeks I could play most of the hymns in our hymnal. Of course, my technique was horrible--I had no concept of fingering, attack, etc. It was raw! But most people were impressed. It was maybe just short of miraculous.

So this was cool. I had a real hobby now. And I didn't have to perform. Except for myself and a few other forgiving ears.

Just so happened, we lost our church pianist all of sudden. Being a really small church at the time and with very limited resources, Dad looked to me as the no-brainer replacement. You gotta be kidding, I thought. I'm not a performer. This is just a hobby. I only use three fingers in the left hand!

So now, less than a month after cracking open my first easy-method piano book, I was the church pianist. This wasn't fun anymore. In fact, I thought it was pretty dumb. That was until people started telling me that I was pretty good. They were lying, but it made me feel good and built my confidence. So I started practicing, and practicing more. Every piece of church music I could get my hands on was fair game. Even the hard ones. I gave 'em the old three-finger try. Oddly enough, I played them well enough to be recognized.

My parents thought that lessons would now be a good idea. (We did things a little backwards). So, I started taking lessons. Now I was pumped. This would be a breeze. I'd just let the teacher know that I already play the piano and she could show me some moves. Like when you slide down all the keys or play standing up.

Shocker. She wasn't into "moves." On day one she brought in this book, John W. Schaum, Piano for Beginners. It was a big, thick book that seemed like it had a thousand pages. What was I supposed to do with that? Sit on it for height? Don't think so. But she was determined to teach me out of that book. Every lesson, every connect the musical dots page, every hand-clap exercise. Nothing was to be missed.

Problem was, I had needs. I needed to play for the congregation, I had to play offertories and invitations. I had to play choir and special music. I didn't have time for coloring books and counting. I was already a pianist! This was a serious problem. She was determined to teach me traditionally, while I was trying to not look stupid on Sunday morning.

These "lessons" went on for a few weeks without much progress. Finally, after calling in a fourth grader to play a lesson that I couldn't, my teacher declared that I was not "cut out" for the piano. As this would be our last lesson she also recommended that I go back to cello or maybe try the organ.

In my imagined recollection, I got up from the bench, threw the midget fourth grader through a plate glass window and smashed the piano in half. But my real memory tells me that I walked out discouraged and determined. I do remember going home and pleading with my parents for a new teacher. They obliged. And a couple of days and phonebook calls later I was back at the bench.

Ed Behrens was an unusual guy. He wore a clip-on tie with short sleeves and flip-flops. (And pants, of course). But what he lacked in fashion sense was made up in his musicianship. He was a fantastic player and teacher who had the ability to take my skill, albeit misguided, and channel it into a proper discipline. He grilled me on the fundamentals, exposed me to classical technique and instilled in me a love for playing the instrument. All of this while helping me meet my requirements as a church pianist.

Thanks to Mr. Behrens, two years later I was off to college and ready to major in Music with a double major in Theology. I quickly learned that I still had a long way to becoming proficient, but at least they didn't throw me out of the music department.

I know that God put music in me and that He gave me my ability for a reason. I also realize that I could have given up in 10th grade and today I'd be blogging about polygrams or the Battle of the Bulge.

If there's any lesson in this rambling entry it's that you should never let something or someone stop you from developing your gifts. For some, talent is clearly evident, while others of us are late bloomers. By the way, that's up to God. We have no right to take credit for our talent nor should we complain for our lack thereof. I believe we all have at least one gift. The question is whether we will sharpen it for Lord's work or bury it in a comfort zone to avoid the risk of looking stupid on Sunday--or any other day of the week.

"Wherefore I put thee in remembrance that thou stir up the gift of God, which is in thee by the putting on of my hands." 2 Tim. 1:6

Real Love

The word "love" is perhaps one of the most misconstrued in the English language. Right now I can't think of another that has so many uses--correct or incorrect--in so many disciplines. For example, "love" expressed in the context of marriage is vastly different than that between siblings. The same could be said in contrasting the love between a parent and a child with that between and individual and an object such as a home, a career or even a country.

Then there are those casual, often frivolous utterances of the word in everyday life. "I love this color," or "Don't you just love that show?" Same word, different meaning. Or how about the many ways, levels and formats the word is used to express affection to an individual? "I really love you," or "Much love."

Even in text language, options abound: "Luvya. LU. I<3u."

Those who study the Word of God know that our English representation, "love," has several meanings and even shades of meaning in the original languages. So it's not surprising that in English there would be different usages and interpretations of this very common word, which, by the way, is often misunderstood. Still, the Bible is quite clear about love as it relates to God:

"He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love." I John 4:8

That pretty much sums it up. To not possess love is evidence of not "possessing" God, because God is love. It doesn't say here that "God loves" or "God has love." It says of God that He is love. So simply put, I cannot truly love in this sense without God. All of the secular definitions, though perhaps charitable and well-meaning, fall woefully short of the essence of love.

I can't really love my wife without God. I can't really love my children without God. I can't really love my friends, you got it, without God. Call it affection, care, emotion or strong "like." But without God and His working in my spirit, you and I do not have the capacity for true love.

Maybe a better understanding would make us more cautious in our use of the word. Or, perhaps a better understanding would cause us to more fervently exercise true love through the power of God and example of Jesus Christ:

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." John 15:13

With all of the potential discussion about real love we can, at the very least, take from this verse the fact that there are degrees of love. The highest degree and prime example of this is found at the Cross. For it is there that we witness the pinnacle of expression of all that love could ever be. In no other time--past or future--would an utterance of love be more unmistakable and understood.

How humbling it is to think of Jesus' love for me! And to think, He loves me despite my "unlovableness." But what a responsibility as well. If His love is the "greatest," then that tells me that mine can at least be "greater." And as God is love, the more I allow Him to control my life the more, or greater, my love for Him and others will be.

Practically speaking (or, in my humble opinion, so for what it's worth) a source of evidence of our love for others is found in the willingness to bear their pain. If I'd be willing to take your licks, to have your suffering superimposed in my life, then you have proof of my love for you. Plain and simple. Isn't that what Jesus did for us? Absolutely. He didn't just say it. He showed it.

And how much do I really love you? Hmm. That depends on how much I'm prepared to give up for you. If my answer is "nothing," then I'm not a lover but a liar.

"If we love one another, God dwelleth in us, and his love is perfected in us." I John 4:12

What's in a name?

I have been inspired. Actually, that's a nice way of putting it. I am a copycat. An imitator. Blind follower. Monkey see, monkey do.

I'm referring to this blog. It was my perception of an instant hipness that several of my friends seemed to acquire when they started their blogs that motivated me to start mine. I've never been a blogger, or blog reader, in fact, it wasn't long ago that I consulted my friend wikipedia to find out what a blog was. Anyway, here we are. I have no idea what I'm gonna blog about. No agenda yet. That's a whole 'nother task. But at least I have a blog, buddy! Cue fanfare.

So the blog program prompts me to come up with a name. In some ways, that's harder than writing the blog itself. A name is so permanent. And it needs to be catchy, interesting, relevant. I couldn't just call it "Michael's blog" or "Pastor Mike's thoughts." (People should be allowed at least a couple of sentences before being put to sleep).

I've always had a fascination with names. Cemeteries pique my interest because of all those tombstone offerings. And I have a subconscious habit of assigning nicknames to people I know well. In fact, if I call you only by your real name, chances are, we're not close. No offense, LOL! My own name represents a personal journey. Growing up, I answered to "Mike." In college they called me "Tiny" (sarcasm? sanctimony? not sure, but one of those words applies). Then, "Mikey" at my first job. My Mom still affectionally calls me "Mighty Mike." And when I turned 40 this year I started referring to myself as "Michael." Just seemed appropriate.

Yet most people call me "Pastor Mike." I like that because it takes my calling into account while still making me seem accessible and friendly. "Pastor Michael" is awkward for the tongue. Not to mention, it sounds sort of priestly to me. No, "Pastor Mike" works just fine. And I even like some of the subtle offshoots, i.e., "PastMike" and "Passsuh Mike."

The name that has really stuck as of late is "PM." It's short, it's hip, and it suits the preferences of "Mike" and "Michael" enthusiasts alike. So that's the name I chose for MY blog. "PM."

Oh, and ironically, I'm a serious night owl. But that usually involves the early morning hours after midnight, so, nevermind.

"A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches..." Prov. 22:1