It's My Party and I'll Buy If I Want To

Isn’t it like age 14 or so when birthdays stop being really fun? Don’t get me wrong. We should all be thankful to the Lord for another year of living. But at some point the presents and the little hat and streamers are replaced by e-cards and bulletin mentions. Such is life.

Still, I was hopeful when my good friend, Wayne Maynard, told me last year that there was a very good chance that Micah would be born on November 5. How exciting this would be for Wayne and Shennetter! Micah would be the answer to prayer after Shennetter’s multiple pregnancy-related health issues.

And he would be Wayne’s greatest birthday gift ever.

Plot twist. Gasp. No “happily ever after” here. Shennetter’s whacky doctor was too busy, or something, to perform the C-Section on the 5th. He preferred the 6th.

Surely he didn’t know that Wayne’s birthday was on the 5th, right? Wrong. He knew full well. Perhaps he couldn’t move his tee time. Now that’s a real reason for health care reform.

Me? I would’ve pitched a fit. But Wayne is much nicer than I am. And angering the man who was about to deliver his son didn’t seem to be high on Wayne’s priority list. Fine. Just seemed wrong to me.

Fast forward a year. It’s now November 2009. Micah’s 1st birthday is approaching. Shennetter has made plans. She’s cooked a big meal and invited us all over to celebrate our godson’s special day. In style.

Now we’re at the Maynards enjoying a party that one-year-old Micah will never remember. There’s chicken wings, and crab dip, and shrimp cocktail, and cake. And there’s a little hat and streamers too.

And oh yeah, Wayne’s birthday was the day before. Happy belated birthday, Wayne! It’s a good thing you’re a proud dad, ‘cause YOUR birthday will forevermore be yesterday’s news. Sorry.

Then again, maybe not. I’m paraphrasing…

“I wanted to do something different for my birthday,” he said.

Yeah, yeah whatever. Say cheese, Micah!

“You guys mean the world to me. I’m so honored that you would be here tonight for Micah and so thankful for the impact each of you has had in our lives.”

Ok, he was getting sentimental, so now we had to pay attention. For the next several minutes Wayne elaborated in great detail about what each of us meant to him personally.

“So I decided that this year, for MY birthday, I would do something I always wanted to do. I bought gifts for each of YOU.”

Chicken wing, you’ve been spared. At least for now.

“Cameron and Casey,” Wayne said, “I’ve watched you grow.”

He handed them the coolest new game for their Wii.

“Lora and Denise, you are wonderful godmothers to both of our children.”

He handed them $50 Macy’s gift cards.

“Mike, you have been a great mentor and friend. I wanted to get you something that I knew you wanted and that will help you accomplish one of your 73 stated goals for next year.”

He handed me a brand new guitar.

“What can I say about my wonderful wife Shennetter? You are everything to me.”

He handed her a new Dell laptop.

As surprising as all of this was it’s really very much in character. Wayne is one of the most selfless people I know. He’s a terrific listener, encourager and the definition of a friend. I don’t remember one time when he hasn’t been all of these to me.

But I’m pretty sure I’ll always remember his birthday.

Filet O' Fear

Despite the occasional service faux pas, our Couples Retreat last weekend went off without a hitch. And now everybody was headed home, anxious to get things prepared for Harvest Day and grateful for the extra hour that Daylight Standard Time would soon offer.

Lora and I along with our friends, Carl and Angie, were also looking forward to grabbing some seafood from Richmond’s famous Croaker Spot Restaurant. We had talked about it all week. The hole-in-the-wall eatery sits on a moderately busy street corner in one of the country’s oldest black neighborhoods and was once featured on the Food Network. One bite of their signature dish—fried fish and shrimp smothered in onions and red peppers, accompanied by cheese grits, cabbage and sweet corn bread—and you’d understand why the line to get into the restaurant’s brick-front brownstone often circles the block.

The wait to sit and eat was at least an hour (at 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon). So we opted to carry-out and dine at Chez Expeditione’—a.k.a., inside my SUV. Carl waited in line for the food. Angie waited in the car for Carl. Lora and I headed off to find a convenience store to get drinks.

“Make mine a ginger ale. I can’t handle the acidity of Sprite or 7-up.” Carl is such a baby.

After about five minutes I spotted a BP gas station/convenience store. It was one of those tiny ones that sat in between the gas pumps with a door on either side of the store. Perfect. It wasn’t like I was going grocery shopping. I parked the truck at a vacant spot in front of a pump and went inside while Lora waited. As soon as I walked in I saw the refrigerated section. Three diet cokes and a fruit punch (they had no ginger ale), easy enough. I then proceeded to the register. There were now two guys standing in front of the door I had recently entered.

I don’t want to stereotype here, so you can insert your own mental image. Let’s just say, they were very imposing dudes. Young, with thick jackets on—even though it was in the high 60s—and neither of them was smiling. They whispered something to each other and kept looking back at me.

Ok, fine. Sticks and stones. No big deal. Soon I would be safe and sound in my wussy, seafood-loving world.

The guy at the cash register started to ring me up. But he was making eye contact with the two gentlemen at the door. A quick glance back, and I noticed they were making eye contact with him too. All the while, our soft drinks were being scanned and bagged at the speed of paint-drying, or so it seemed.

About this time two other fellas, also of the baser sort, entered the already, way too crowded store. They walked directly to the other door (which I had already planned to use) and stood in front of it.

Now, we had a situation. Classic triangulation. Doors blocked to the left and right. Undetermined allegiance straight ahead. And behind me a dead end of refrigerators, a unisex restroom and racks of beef jerky and bubble gum.

Aw man. This was bad.

It was pretty clear what was getting ready to happen. Ten eyes were looking at me with my trademark church khakis and cotton polo that just screamed, “Mug me and kill me” (or vice-versa).

So I prayed. My eyes were open, but I was praying. God help me! Then I thought about Lora. Could she hear me if I scream? Probably not. Should I just give them the wallet now? Nah. They might think I’m hiding something else. Maybe I should go for my phone. My beautiful one-day-old iPhone 3Gs?!?

God help me!

The first two guys started walking towards me. I should also mention that all of this happened within about thirty seconds. But my recollection is remarkably clear.

Then, a seventh individual entered the store. I didn’t see his or her face. All I know is that this person was not a part of the situation. The four door blockers dispersed immediately, the checkout guy popped into fifth gear, bagging my drinks in one fell swoop, and I was out of there without a receipt.

Kissed my wife as soon as I got back in the truck, well, right after locking the doors. I was notably thankful at that moment for God’s protection. He is so good. There is absolutely nothing to fear with Him on my side.

Ok, but still, I floored it out of the lot.

“Keep me as the apple of the eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wings, From the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compass me about.” Psalms 17:8-9

Not Your Father's Singles Retreat

Pitiful. Awkward. Boring. Or in today’s vernacular, “whack.” I’m being honest here, and it’s only my opinion, but that’s how I remember many singles retreats back in the days of my singleness. Pitiful, because these things were berthed when couples, who, after experiencing euphoric romantic excursions, felt woefully sympathetic. Awkward, because all thirteen of us (usually something like eleven women and two guys ranging in age from nineteen to fifty-seven) were there under the pretense that our only chance of marital bliss existed within the four walls of a tiny Howard Johnson’s banquet room. Boring, because it just was. And whack, because it was boring.

But I’m not bitter. That was a long time ago.

This weekend, however, being Singles Pastor Extraordinaire I had the great blessing of experiencing something much different. Lora and I, along with Kenny, Bethany, and friends, Wayne and Shennetter Maynard, spent a few days in the Virginia mountains with thirty-six single adults. Looking back now I have to say that it was one of the most fulfilling group getaways I’ve ever been a part of. An obvious plus was the array of beautiful homes we stayed in, one of which had nine plasma TVs, a built-in theatre and a real English pub. Not kidding.

But there was so much more. I can’t summarize everything that happened since Wednesday night, particularly from the perspective of more than forty people. But while it’s fresh on my mind I’m gonna blog a few of my personal standout memories.

#1—Arrived at Wintergreen sometime after 3 a.m. Thursday morning (me, Lora, Michala, Liv, Courtney and Ebony). Loaded the Expedition after church and traveled in dense fog and rain to find that our aforementioned mansion had no key in the lockbox. So we crashed the house reserved for the guys. Goldilocks style. Our house was ready the next day, and we left the guys’ house in pristine condition. They still don’t know.

#2—Drove forty minutes to Charlottesville to buy breakfast groceries for forty people. Somebody accidentally mistook oatmeal for grits, and some old ladies stole Liv’s cookie-baking butter.

#3—Twenty-five of us stormed one of the resort’s restaurants to their recession-conscious delight. Halfway through my Philly cheese steak, Vicky stood up to reveal her custom-made T-shirt. It featured a photo of herself and yours truly with the words in bright red letters, “#1 Single.” A prearranged barrage of photoflash from the rest of the group was a really nice touch. Love you, Vicky D.

#4—The Friday morning session revealed the players on the red and blue teams. The spirit of the group was high. I spoke on the theme, “Alone In His Presence,” referring to the examples of Jacob, Moses, and Peter who were changed by being in the presence of God. We got really personal about things, and I believe the Lord broke down some difficult barriers.

#5—Lora and I found a tiny grocery store that was only ten minutes away. This time, it was for dinner food. Cash only though. Yikes! We had 125 bucks. It all came to $124.50. I did my best on the grill and, after two hours of smoke inhalation later that evening, we ate. Thomas figured out the complex audio system so that Bree could bless us in song. Pastor Kenny challenged us that night from Psalm 16 about fullness of joy in the presence of the Lord.

#6—Had a serious conversation with a single who shared some changes God was making in their life as a result of the message earlier. I was equally shocked and encouraged.

#7—The night was still young and free time was on the agenda. There were dangerous and silly card games, at least 20 rounds of silent killer and old-fashioned hide-and-seek. Ben never stopped talking. MJ was terrified of truth or dare, and Jon fell off the ottoman at least twice from laughter. Lights out around 3 a.m.

#8—Woke up at 7 a.m. on Saturday. Miraculous. Mom drove up to speak to the ladies. Pastor Kenny challenged the guys about being mighty men of God. Bro. Wayne spoke about financial freedom. Good biblical application despite his personal disdain for QVC. “Three easy payments?” How would they know whether or not it’s easy?

#9—Final session competition between the two teams: First, write and perform a skit on the topic of “jealousy.” Second, arrange and sing a song. The red team managed to score big on both contests, but not enough to thwart the blue team’s overall weekend victory. Cynthia Brent was voted “Retreater of the Weekend.”

#10—Ashleigh sang a cappella. Wow, did she ever! So very proud of you, Ash! Stirring testimonies accompanied by laughter, tears and admissions. Nobody wanted it to end.

I really, really love these people. And despite my run of the mill attempt at a recap, I want to reiterate. This was an amazing retreat!

Mom's the Word

Throughout life there are events so poignant, so surreal, that they leave an indelible impression, so much to the point that even the smallest details are remembered. Here is one of those events…

It was the spring semester of my junior year at Tennessee Temple University. Finals week. Many of you know what that’s like. All-nighters and caffeine-laden helps like Jolt and No-Doze (Red Bull hadn’t been invented yet, or at least not FDA approved) coursed through my veins, remarkably unhampered in flow by a gracious quantity of Krispy Kremes. Oh yes, these were as valuable as having the test answers in advance. Or so I am told.

In the other corner of the ring were those euphoric visions of the summertime that was soon to be. Home. My family. My bed. My church. My friends. My …

Sorry. Like then, it’s still hard to focus. But I managed to. Despite the caffeine overload and the “daymares” inherent with Music History and Greek finals, I managed to focus. Because I needed that A. I wanted that A.

So on Monday, I geared up for the week ahead, realizing the enormity of the task at hand while allowing the prospect of Friday’s exodus to be my impetus. I couldn’t wait to head down Orchard Knob, to Main, to Willow to I-24, to I-75, to I-40, to I-81, to I-66, to I-495, to Chain Bridge, to International, to Spring Hill, to Lewinsville, to 8464 Clover Leaf Drive. Yes. I sooo wanted to see Chattanooga’s beautiful Lookout Mountain…

… in my rear-view mirror.

By Tuesday afternoon I’d had two hours of sleep in two days. And the toughest finals were still ahead. I felt like I was gonna die. But I was still focusing.

A year prior I had traded in the luxury of dorm life for a one-bedroom apartment in East Ridge. Taking a brief respite from study that afternoon I flicked on my TV to watch a newly syndicated episode of the Cosby Show. It was the one where Vanessa and her friends were doing the “locomotion.” Don’t ask. Anyway, I happened to notice through my balcony’s sliding glass door that the driver’s side window of my 1984 Audi 5000 was halfway down. It was just starting to rain. My pre-TiVo quandary was now in effect. For a moment I thought, “Leather seats can be wiped off.” Pssshh. I quickly shook off that thought. Missing thirty seconds of a sitcom is much better than interior water damage.

So I ran to the car. Man! Forgot the keys. Ran back inside. Stopped to look at the show. Auugh, it’s raining hard now! Ran back outside. Put the window up. Ran back inside. Show was over. Man! Oh well, at least the car didn’t get too wet inside.

But I was drenched. So before A Different World came on, I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and started drying my head and face off in front of the TV. It was going to be a long night, so I planned to make the most of this “break.”

The show’s theme song was interrupted by the loudest, most guttural, shuddering, scraping noise I’d ever heard. The accompanying vibration, though not earthquake worthy, gave me pause.

What in the world??

I distinctly recall a good ten seconds of terror, augmented by the fear of this totally bewildering sound.

I looked out of the sliding door again…

… just in time to witness a huge city cement truck plow backwards into my aforementioned European sedan, smashing the driver’s side doors, flipping it on its side, and relocating it with toy-car effort to its resting place in the hedges adjacent to my building.

What in the world??

I ran outside in the rain, hoping that what I was seeing wasn’t real, and, perhaps the result of a lack of sleep. But it was very real.

The million-ton cement truck had been parked on a steep hill in our parking lot. Apparently, the emergency brakes were no match for the combination of weight, gravity and wet surface. And obviously, my car was no match for the cement truck.

Strangely, all I could think was, how am I gonna get home?

“Are you okay?” A city worker had run down the hill to where I was. “I saw you get in the car a minute ago, then this happened. Are you okay?”

That’s when it hit me that… it didn’t hit me! I had forgotten that only three minutes earlier... well, I could have been in a different world for sure.

At that point, everything shifted from studying for finals to filling out police and insurance reports, getting damage estimates, coordinating temporary and long-term reimbursement with the City, etc., etc., etc.

I called Dad that night and several times that week. I was so bummed. I remember telling him how awful my week was going. I wasn’t getting cooperation from the City. I still had finals. I was starting to feel sick. I was so frustrated.

Dad and mom told me that they were praying for me and that everything was going to be okay. That was easy for them to say, I thought. They're not here to deal with all of this.

I want to pause here to say two things. First, notice that every sentence two paragraphs ago began with the word/letter “I.” That was my basic state of mind that week. Not good. Secondly, I really hope that 21-year-olds today are not as stupid as I was to think that finals week and my associated crises were akin to Armageddon and, thereby, significantly more troubling than the problems that others—particularly my mom and dad—were facing.

I made it through finals. Got a rental car arrangement worked out with the City. Drove home Friday while listening nine hours straight to my Cole Porter CD. Got home ‘round midnight, by the way ;). Dad helped me bring my bags up to my room and sat down on the bed. Uh oh. Had they faxed my grades already? This wasn’t looking good.

These aren’t exact quotes, but it went down something like this…

“Had a rough week, huh?”

“The worst,” I said.

“Your mom and I knew that, so we wanted to wait until you got home to tell you that she had a biopsy last week."

“Ok??”

“She has breast cancer.”

{Silence}

“She’s going to start chemotherapy and radiation immediately. But we’re trusting the Lord.”

The weird thing is that though I have pristine recollection of that whole week, the next few minutes that transpired are a blur. I was blown! I had never had a more awful experience. The next thing I remember saying was,

“I’m not going back.”

“We have all summer to talk about that.”

“Ok. But I’m not going back.”

And I didn’t. Of course, I could blog forever on the divergence of my life path for which, in retrospect, I am eternally grateful. But I made up my mind, in less than a minute, while sitting on the side of my bed, on a Friday night in May of 1990, that I was not going to graduate from college in Chattanooga.

I soon became aware that churches around the country had been praying for mom for days. Many of my college classmates and the faculty at TTU were aware of the situation but were sworn to secrecy--for my benefit.

And I was having a bad week?? The conviction was so real that it makes me want to “I John 1:9” all over again.

But Dad and Mom never complained. They were never short with me on the phone. They empathized and showed genuine love even while dealing with all of this.

In fact, through all of those years of chemo, radiation, surgeries, pain and countless sleepless nights, Mom never complained. I never saw her worry or question God. I never even saw her cry. Through all of that she managed to rear two younger children, function as a Pastor’s wife, speaker and counselor. She built and directed a child development center. She missed no more than three church services through the whole ordeal. She was verbal in constant affirmation that, “My God is good.” Her faith and testimony have inspired thousands.

And now, nineteen years later, she is cancer-free.

This blog entry has been mostly about me, but it’s not intended to be. Today is my mom’s birthday. And every year, on October 12, I tend to reflect on that week in a spirit of thankfulness for the incredible mother that I still have. I consider my parents and my family to be my greatest earthly blessing. This year I chose to write about it.

Happy birthday, JB! I love you. You are the most faith-exercising and God-loving person that I know.

Do You Make Me Proud?

I realized just now that every one of my posts until now has been about ME. Yeah, I know, that's the nature of blogging, right?? No? Ok. Then it's just pathetic.

So setting narcissism aside for a moment I'd like to share a recent experience centered around someone else. How 'bout that?

I visited Regent University in Virginia Beach this week at the invitation of a first-year Theatre graduate student. Diana Coates came to our church at age nine with her mom, Denise. I have had the honor, and I really consider it to be that, to have a small part in her life since then. I watched her grow up, go off to college and now, embark on this new journey.

Through all of this, she has stayed faithful to the Lord.

I met Diana on Thursday evening in front of the Communications Building. From the moment I saw her it was obvious that she was in her element. This was her domain! She gave me an unauthorized tour of the stellar facility that will be her academic home for the next three years. Diana is one of only ten accepted from a pool of hundreds of applicants to Regent's intensive Master of Fine Arts program. From the look in her eyes and the tenor in her description of every room from the experimental theatre to fight choreography room--she doesn't take this opportunity for granted.

So I was there because she and first year students had been invited to a barbecue at the Chancellor's home. They were each permitted a guest. Denise couldn't make it because of work, so I got the privileged nod. When Diana asked if I would come I didn't hesitate. I mean, it was a great chance to check up on her--make sure she was behaving. :)

But really my thoughts ventured to... hmm... theatre department, worldwide Christian television network, potentially deep pockets. In other words, a great Miracle Mansion opportunity!

Like I said, I didn't hesitate. Cleared my schedule and took the drive.

Regent University is one of the most stunning campuses I have ever seen. It is distinctively "Virginia", boasting stately colonial architecture amidst tree-lined knolls and cobblestone sidewalks. Thursday's afternoon, pre-autumn breeze was just deft enough to coerce a stray drop or two from one of the nearby concrete fountains.

And the house. What?!? The spectacular brick mansion that just screamed, "Want me," was flanked on all sides by continuous 6-foot hedges abutting an impressive iron gate. The large driveway--which could accommodate many more vehicles than the four that were there--led to an outdoor, half-radial staircase and stately entrance.

From outside we could see that Matlock was playing on the TV in the study. A brass lamp illuminated a gorgeous bookcase and framed artwork of the Virginia countryside. I was inclined to suspect all of this to be staged so as to create a sense of "homey" perfection for all of us gawkers. Mission accomplished.

We--Diana, myself and 100 others--were directed past that vision of Americana to a side walkway leading to an expansive, football-field-sized, garden of Eden-esque backyard.

Mm. The aroma of pulled pork provided the warmest of welcomes. With faint recollection I've managed to remember fried chicken, cole slaw, potato salad, baked beans, rolls, lemonade, iced tea, apple pie and a dixie quartet playing standards from the deck. I could kick myself for not

being more observant.

The happy eating crowd came to a hush about 20 minutes later as Dr. Pat Robertson appeared on the deck sporting a jogging suit and cowboy hat. He recently underwent heart surgery and was unable to join the party but came out to share a few words and offer a prayer of blessing for the new students.

"Our graduates change the world," he said. His voice echoed in the evening breeze. "You are here to learn how to leave your mark on the culture."

As he quietly returned to the privacy of his home, the band resumed and so did the eating. Too perfect.

We happened to be sitting at the table reserved for the Communications Department. We also happened to be sitting next to the Dean of the Communications Department. We also happened to have Miracle Mansion brochures that Diana had stuffed in her intentionally large purse. Oh yeah.

After my thirty-minute, unplanned introduction of the Project to a very interested University Dean, it seemed logical for him to meet the actual invitee, lol. He had obviously heard of Diana, being the one ultimately responsible for her induction to the program. Now he was able to put a name with a face.

I listened to the two of them converse about her goals and the many opportunities that she would have to hone her craft. The glimmer in Diana's eye had returned as she expressed her desire to learn and develop her gift for God. The Dean listened again with intensity, stopping to compliment her on her early achievements in only a few short weeks at Regent.

"She's really, really good, too!" For some unknowable reason I suddenly felt the urge to break into their already effective conversation with the unsolicited bias of an obnoxious American Idol parent.

We reluctantly left the barbeque, and it was clear to me that Diana had been noticed. Not just for her talent but for her passion and determination.

And, she is already making her mark as a committed first-year student with convictions reflective of her non-apologetic, conservative Baptist upbringing. An extremely rare breed in that beautiful, impressive, but very "not-Baptist" place.

We got to talk for several more hours as I had the special privilege to meet her local "mom," Darlene French. This special Christian lady opened her beautiful home to Diana and her roommate, Erin. Man, I would've killed for a setup like that in college! But as nice as the accommodations were, it is Darlene's spirit and obvious care for Diana that reiterates the fact that God has smiled on this 21-year old kid.

The intended short visit to Darlene's home turned into a three-hour one that included testimonies of God's goodness, singing around the piano and a bit of jealousy over her pristine vinyl record collection. Finally, around 11:00 p.m., I began the 3 1/2 hour drive back home. But that was only after Mrs. Darlene insisted that I lead us all in prayer and standby for a goodie bag packed with PB&Js and other road treasures.

I've made a habit of analyzing the impact of events in my daily life. By the time I reached the Hampton Bridge Tunnel I had outlined the things that stood out about the day. First, I want a house like Pat Robertson's. Ok, that's true, but it wasn't a prevalent thought. :)

My overwhelming impression was simply how proud I am of Diana. So many things that I saw that day convinced me that she is exactly where God wants her to be. The stand that she takes and the passion she exudes made me so thankful to have had a small impact on her life. I texted Denise to tell her that I couldn't verbalize my sense of pride for her daughter's early accomplishments without getting emotional. There are few things more exciting than seeing someone grow up and maintain an intrinsic desire to live for God.

The second thing that struck me was the reality that God honors faithfulness. Even as a single parent, Denise's faithfulness to the Lord was instilled in Diana, and now, Diana is experiencing the rewards. I love it when God's people shatter the notions of stereotypical-ness.

Way to go, D! Do you make me proud? Duh.

"I have no greater joy than to hear that my children walk in truth." (3 John 1:4)

After the storm.

I’ve never been in a really bad storm. You know, the Katrina type. Having many friends in the south and almost as many in the Caribbean I can only live vicariously through their experiences. They tell me that going through a hurricane is one of the most horrifying things one can imagine. The indescribable noise, the rumbling and shaking of things that shouldn’t, the destruction and fear of it—it’s pretty much an ordeal that I am happy to have dodged.

On the rare occasion of a hurricane or tornado threat in our area, preparatory warnings and survival instruction are free-flowing. The storm supercedes the news of the day on all the TV channels and at every water cooler. And so the scurry begins to stock up on plywood, batteries, canned goods and eggs. For some, consolation can only be found on an evacuation route leading to safety.

But I have in my “young” life—don’t correct me J—experienced some figurative “storms.” Let me say first that I consider myself to be exceedingly blessed. I have a wonderful family, fantastic friends, the best church in the world, I could go on and on. When I look at what others have endured, the notion that I’ve had a hard life is laughable. Ridiculous. God has been more than good to me. Maybe that’s why storms in my life are so memorable to me—much like the infrequent “real” storms here in our area of the country. And maybe that’s why they are seemingly so hard. I’m not really sure. Maybe I’m just a wimp. Maybe all of the above.

I’ve been through a storm—really recently. There are many reasons why I won’t go into detail, the most prevalent being—it’s none of your business!! Just kidding. The specifics are not important. You might ask, “then why blog about it?” You know, that’s a great question. For me, blogging forces me to think about the situation in a logical way. It’s a form of verbalizing something personal—which is not one of my strong suits. In fact, my inability to properly do that has prompted a storm or two.

Basically, blogging helps. There is no other agenda here.

But I’m getting off point. Like I said, everybody seems to have advice on how to prepare for an actual storm and how to weather it. Similarly there are innumerable sermons, devotionals, poems and songs on how to handle the storms of life. (Even now tunes are going through my head). And trust me. I have read the verses, sung the songs, and prayed the prayers. It still wasn’t easy, but these things sure help. The relevant truth being that God’s grace is so sufficient! How could we survive without it?

But somebody please tell me where the Cliffs Notes are for dealing with the aftermath of the storm. So you made it through. You survived the devastation. But a careful survey of the landscape presents a striking reality. Things like emotions, perceptions and even relationships have been uprooted and strewn all over the place. What was “normal” is not normal anymore. There is a lot of cleanup to be done.

Then, the most candid of all realities sets in. Things will never, ever be the same.

So what do you do? What happens after the storm?

One thing I have learned as someone who is expected to have all the right answers is that I don’t. The more I live, the more I realize how very little I know. I have also found that theory is no substitute for experience. So what I share now is based on two things: my understanding of the Word of God and my own personal, limited and current experience.

First, evaluation. What in the world happened? I think this is important to ask because every trial—whether self-inflicted, not self-inflicted, or something in between—is allowed of God. Sometimes storms are God’s chastening. Jonah’s headline could have read: “FLEEING PROPHET SUBJECTED TO WAVE WHIPPING AND INTESTINAL INCARCERATION.” These are the worst. Basically it’s God taking us to the woodshed. Not fun. Then, there are storms God allows in order to test us and strengthen our dependence on Him. Satan often has his fingerprints all over these. Furthermore, there are those storms that we basically bring upon ourselves, and though God allows them, He might have preferred to teach us in a less turbulent way.

The point is, that there is always something to be learned from the storm. What is God trying to teach me? What is He doing in my life? What is He sparing me from? What should I have done differently?

Without evaluation, particularly of my own actions, the pain and devastation is in vain. Every situation in life—whether good or bad—brings with it a lesson in experience that can’t be gained from a book. And when there are people involved, there is the great likelihood that somebody, perhaps me, coulda-shoulda-woulda done things differently. Such are the often uncomfortable lessons of life.

Second, forgiveness. This is surely a two-way street, as forgiveness is either a request or a responsibility. If I am honest, I’ll probably come to the point where I need to be on the receiving end of this two-way street. “I AM SORRY.” Three rarely used words in our language. I have learned that as soon as I realize that I have done wrong, it’s time to ask for forgiveness—of God and of others. If I don’t do it right away I’ll either talk myself out of it, justify my actions, blame shift or minimize the seriousness of what I’ve done.

Many times the aftermath of the storm requires you to be the forgiver. The Bible tells us,” But if ye do not forgive, neither will your Father which is in heaven forgive your trespasses” (Mark 11:26). I can’t get forgiveness from God if I don’t forgive others. It’s that simple.

By the way, our forgiveness of others is required whether or not it is sought. When I feel wronged, when I feel mistreated and misunderstood, I have the responsibility to forgive even if the “forgivee” doesn’t ask for it or admit wrongdoing. I also must fight—really, really fight—the urge to retaliate or to seek revenge. None of this is easy. But it is right. And it’s the only way to clean up after the storm.

Finally, rebuilding. Too often people fail to recover from the pain and destruction of a trial. Their life remains a permanent picture of devastation. This is more tragic than the storm itself, because God wants to make something good out of bad. Consider Joseph’s life. He was hated by his brothers, yet he still dared to dream. He was thrown into a pit and sold into slavery, but he demonstrated character and scored the dream job. When the boss’ wife falsely accused him and landed him in prison, he maintained his resourcefulness and became a favored prisoner. Eventually he discovered his destiny when Pharaoh chose him to save the world. He had come a long way from his pitfalls. But it wasn’t by accident. In every case he made lemonade. He stayed faithful to God. He didn’t stay down, he got up. And in the end, just like after a real storm, the final product was far better than what he had before the wind even started blowing.

Rebuilding takes work. Again, I’m no expert, but here’s what has helped me on the recovery road:

1. I fell on my face. It was time for a real heart-to-heart with God. Tears had been shed over and over. Forgiveness had been acquired and the requests for grace were abundant. But now it was time to commune. It was time to fellowship with MY God. It was time to fortify the most important relationship in my life. It was time to hover under the shelter in the time of storm. It was time to thank Him for the storm—as hard as that is to do.
2. I got into the Word. Nothing is more comforting than God’s Word. His precious promises, the reminder of His faithfulness, embracing the reality of His goodness and forgiveness.
3. I clung to my most cherished possessions. It is such a mistake to focus on the things lost in the storm rather than on the things that I still have. My amazing wife, my beautiful children, my extended family and my invaluable friendships—they’re all still here! God has a way of augmenting our appreciation for the blessings in our lives. After the storm, my family seems more special than ever. After the storm my friends seem more encouraging. Sure, the loss is really hard. The storm created a painful void. But what remains is priceless and deserves to be loved and embraced more than ever before.
4. I made some changes. This might be the hardest part of the rebuilding process. But it’s not so bad with the realization that change can be good. Sometimes we have to make tough choices, decisions we’d rather not, all for the greater good. This will make us better equipped for the next storm or able to avoid it altogether. We make changes with the faith and assurance that it’s going to be alright. It's gonna be better than alright!

So that’s my post-storm blog. As honest as I can be. Maybe what helped me can help you in the aftermath of your particular storm.

“For thou hast been a strength to the poor, a strength to the needy in his distress, a refuge from the storm…” Isaiah 25:4

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