Just Two Guys

So this is a lot like Two Chinese Boys or Numa, Numa or any of those, but I still can't help laughing... Just Two Guys

Hey Steve Blog

I just discovered that a friend of mine from church has a blog and it is stinking hilarious. A sample:

you might be an evangelical if you bought advance tickets to the Left Behind movie.

you might be an evangelical if you're baffled that the Newsboys concert didn't sell out, because "how could such a great show not be sold out?"

you might be an evangelical if you think your church should do a survey to find out why "worldly" people aren't coming to your church.

you might be an evangelical if you think being culturally relevant means that you can do power point in your services.

you might be an evangelical if your youth pastor actually said these words, "You can be a Christian and be cool too!"

More at ___________________ - url removed for purposes we do not wish to discuss.

Thoughts on Acts 5:27-42

There are the apostles, waiting in the hall for Gamaliel to finish his speech. I wonder which of them first exhibited the attitude of gratefulness for their coming punishment. It had to be someone. Maybe Peter. They didn’t all take a flogging and then, leaving the court, smile at each other and say in unison, “That was great!” No, they were nervous in the hallway about what was coming. But one of them was full of foresight and faith. And the others followed his lead. He may have said, “I hope they flog us, boys. We’ll be the first people beaten for the name of Jesus, the first persecuted!” The Sanhedrin might have killed them instead. Did the leader in the hallway welcome that, too? To be the first martyr? And imagine what might have happened had the Apostles of the church not taken the attitude they did. What if they had complained against God for allowing them to be beaten? Would we still take that attitude and teach it in our churches? Would our doctrine today be void of the concept of gratitude for suffering? Would we miss opportunities to depend wholly on Jesus in times of trouble if our fathers had missed this one? And just as these twelve may have unknowingly rose to an important challenge in the history of the church, how often do we face challenges that might affect the lives of our children, grandchildren, and brethren in Christ? Will we reenter the trial chamber with faith and leave it, having received our scourging, with rejoicing?

Are You Ready?

I set my TiVo Season Pass for Olympic curling today. Opening ceremonies are tonight. Have you set your recorder?

Steve Nash is 32 today.

I miss him.

Some Fun Friday Stuff...

onepeat.com


And just to keep this site an equal-opportunity make-fun-of-er:












In the proud tradition of Numa, Numa, I bring you...TwoChineseBoys.

And finally, the song that is making Aaron Burr famous again: The Chronic-what-cles of Narnia

Chinese Proverbs

I got one of those forwards today complete with PowerPoint show telling me 16 times that if I didn't pass along the ancient Chinese proverb from the Netherlands originally published by Emperor Constantine that I would have bad luck in four days. What the heck! These things drive me crazy for so many reasons.

Mostly because of the content. Is there really someone who wrote this and someone else who sent it to me who takes this seriously? Have I really given my friends the impression that I'm simple enough to wade through the hideous spelling and grammar, ridiculous historical claims, and inane PowerPoint to believe the story of the orphaned African boy who just wants to see his worldwide spamming dream come true?

I also wonder how these things get started. I'm guessing there's a guy in a cube somewhere bored stiff who decides to make this thing up and see how far it will go? Like maybe he's got the next dancing baby here and he'll be Internet famous even though no one will know who he is? He'll just be able to tell his buddies, "Hey, you know that stupid Chinese proverb forward you've got 18 times? I made that up!"

Of course, it's just as silly for me to lambast this miracle of modern Internet culture. But oh well. It's kind-of a slow day.

Nature

I went to the woods today. I don't know what it is, but something in my soul needs the woods. I should spend at least four hours per week in the woods. Is everyone else that way and just nature-repressed?

I'm sorry. I just can't resist Uranus jokes...

From Fox News...
















More Rings Found Around Uranus

Thursday, December 22, 2005

LOS ANGELES — Astronomers aided by the Hubble Space Telescope have spied two more rings encircling Uranus...

Get the whole story here:
http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,179538,00.html

Did you also know that Uranus has features named R/2003 U2 and Rosalind?

Zach!

Finally, baby Zachary is here! He was born Dec. 15 at 12:12 p.m. Daddy is so proud.

Remembering Rex

I was honored to write an article for this month's Chatter (church newsletter - www.chattermag.com) about Rex Greenstreet. Rex was an incredible person who I looked up to. Even though I didn't know him well, what time I did get to spend with him was very encouraging. I suspect that if I spent every day with Rex, every day would be encouraging.

Rex Greenstreet, a Legacy of Service

On October 1, 1987, Rex Greenstreet was baptized in a backyard swimming pool in Irving. He was carried to the water by friends and held afloat by IBC Pastor Andy McQuitty and, as his roommate John Roberts remembers it, he was terrified. It might have been the first time Rex had been completely submerged since a swimming accident 26 years earlier had left him paralyzed from the chest down.

Rex recalled the accident in a 2001 interview. “I dove for the water headfirst and hit bottom. I was immediately paralyzed from the neck down, but I never went unconscious. I thought I was going to drown lying there face down in the water. I couldn’t move.”

But despite his memories of water, despite being a quadriplegic, despite having every excuse not to venture into that pool, Rex did. Turns out, that wouldn’t be the last time Rex overcame fear with obedience.

Rex’s life mirrored his baptism in many ways. He had every reason to avoid obedience, to be bitter at the hand life—or God—had dealt him, to sit back and let others leave their comfort zones while he stayed in his familiar, if not ever entirely comfortable, chair. Instead, his ministry was so faithful and so courageous he became the first person ever to have an IBC ministry named in his honor. Rex died on September 25, 2005. He was 67.

Rex Wharton Greenstreet was born in Fort Worth and raised in Midland. He loved sports and the outdoors. In his youth, he was a cheerleader at Midland High School and a middle weight boxer, winner of Gold Gloves awards. He went to the University of Texas, played a lot of handball, married, took a job with Liberty Mutual Insurance and had a son. The photographs on display at his memorial service showed him young and strong, standing tall with broad shoulders and a broader smile.

Then there was the accident at Lake Lavon that severed his spinal cord. Rex was 23 when it happened; his son was nine months old. He spent three weeks at Baylor Hospital in Dallas and 10 months at Massachusetts Memorial Hospital in Boston. He was separated from friends and family. His wife left. The doctors said he would never walk and probably never regain use of his hands. Physically, emotionally, relationally, his was a paralyzed life.

Remarkably, Rex regained enough control of his body to return to work. He moved back to Dallas and to his job at Liberty Mutual where he became a claims adjuster. But Rex was convinced there was something more to do—something his life was missing besides strong legs. He started to watch Billy Graham on TV and listen to Charles Stanley on the radio.

“It seemed like every time I turned on the TV, those guys were on. And every time they were on, they were giving the gospel.” Rex said. But the gospel they were preaching was about humility and surrender—a message that didn’t sit well with Rex. “My dad was a survivor, and I was brought up to be that way. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps. Frankly, I had always thought that anyone in any religion was just escaping from the world. Just wimps.” Even from his wheelchair, Rex held to his strength. The prospect of yielding to anything—misfortune and God included—scared him.

But there was a night when Rex awoke in tears and gave his heart to Jesus. “That night, it just all came together,” he remembered. “I said, ‘God, I don’t know about all this, but I want you in my life.’”

Not long after that experience, Rex’s nephew invited him to IBC. Again, he faced a frightful prospect.

“You can’t really sneak into church in a wheelchair,” Rex remembered. “I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know if they were going to run me up to the front and try to heal me or what. I was scared.”

But the pattern of obedience over fear was being established in his life. Rex came to IBC and stayed. That first visit was in 1986. He was baptized in 1987. And soon after, he was invited to take on a ministry that would make him the voice of Irving Bible Church to thousands of visitors. Again, it was an invitation that terrified him. He was asked to take visitor cards from the service each week and call visitors at home.

“I was a claims adjuster for 26 years. Most of that time I was on the phone and it was always confrontational,” Rex said. “I didn’t want any part of phones. The last thing I wanted to do to serve the church was to call people.”

By now, though, Rex knew what to do with fear.

“People really appreciated me calling,” he said. “I just got to where I loved it.”

And he was good at it. Years of phone calls with insurance claimants had taught him to listen well and take copious notes. Soon, the church staff discovered the value of what they called “Rex Notes” for discerning visitors’ interests and ministry needs.

From 1988 to 2003, Rex called every IBC visitor—sometimes more than 50 calls per week. In the last five years of his ministry alone, Rex placed more than 20,000 calls, and prayed for as many people. “I always pray before I dial,” he said. Often, the calls were all protocol and information. But many times, Rex said, they were personal and poignant.

“Sometimes people are hurting and they just want to talk,” Rex said. “Most of the time, people just need someone to listen.”

Hundreds of people who are now serving in IBC ministries made their second visit to the church because of Rex’s call.

“I’ve had people come to me and say, ‘You know, Rex, the only reason I’m here at IBC is because of your phone call,’” he said. “That makes you feel like you’re helping.”

But the greater blessing may have been for those who knew Rex beyond the phone calls. IBC Community Life Pastor Nat Pugh can trace his ministry at IBC to the welcome phone call he received from Rex after his first visit. And Nat can trace the route Rex took through the IBC halls every Sunday, stopping for a cup of coffee that he placed on the make-shift rubber pad he had glued to the cover of his Bible so it wouldn’t spill. “He always stopped at the kiosk and got three butterscotches,” Nat smiled. “I’ll miss seeing him.”

His roommate, John, remembers Tuesday and Wednesday mornings as the highlights of his week. Those were the mornings after Rex made his phone calls on Mondays and Tuesdays.

“I couldn’t wait to get out of bed and go to the living room,” John said. “Rex would be there drinking coffee, and I would get to hear the stories about the phone calls. Imagine living with someone like that. You grow every minute you’re with him. Rex used to drive around the neighborhood and give out money or food. He used to mail his testimony to people blindly. One of his favorite verses was ‘faith without works is dead’. Rex was alive.”

When his failing health finally forced Rex to stop making phone calls, the church placed an announcement in the worship bulletin telling of the need for volunteers to take over the job. The project was named the Greenstreet Ministry. And it took eight people to do the work.

At his memorial service at IBC on October 5, the photos from Rex’s later years seem to look more and more like those from his youth. The broad smile is there. There is strength in his expression if not in his legs.

“I’ll miss that sparkle in your eyes that revealed the depth of your love for Christ. You gave so much to us and never complained about your situation,” eulogized Barbara Greenstreet, Rex’s sister-in-law.

But the most concise praise at Rex’s memorial service may have also been the most complete, from the man who baptized him in that swimming pool in 1987, a witness to Rex’s fierce obedience in the face of fear.

“I couldn’t imagine myself being in the position he was and having the level of joy he had,” Andy said. “Rex, you lived more powerfully and influentially, from your chair than most people do in perfect health.”

On September 25, Rex answered the call to come home. Now he stands—yes, stands—in the presence of God, his smile broad, his fear gone, his reward complete and, probably, with three butterscotches in his pocket.

Identifying Jesus

Still thinking about getting to know my heart, cultivating it, keeping tabs on the issues of my soul. It’s not easy for me. My heart seems a fickle, inscrutable thing that may lead me down a risky path only to stop at its precipitous end, peel off a mask and declare, “I was only joking. You are not who you thought you were!”

Jesus must not have been like that. He must have been as confident in the mettle of his heart as he was in the Father’s. I’ve often wondered how he gained such confidence. Just from the still, small voice in his private prayer?

Brennan Manning wondered the same thing…

“I believe that at some point in his human journey Jesus was seized by the power of a great affection and experienced the love of his Father in a way that burst all previous boundaries of understanding. It may have happened during his hidden years in Nazareth (sometime between the ages of twenty and thirty before he began his public ministry). Throughout the equivalent of his high school and college and post-graduate years, Jesus prayerfully ponders his relationship with his Father. Finally the day arrives when Jesus announces to his mother that he has to leave Nazareth. The intimacy of trust and love for God has become decisive enough to call Jesus away from home. He must follow his own inner light and be where the Father is for him.”

I don’t know if I agree entirely. If Brennan is postulating that Jesus experienced some extraordinary measure of grace or an avenue or experience with the Father that defined his person and heart and mission with some extra measure of certainty, I don’t want to buy it. After all, isn’t Jesus even more impressive if he went on with such great courage and faith as to give his life in torture without an iron-clad, etched-in-stone, videotaped-for-replay-and-reassurance declaration that he was a member of the Trinity?

But I guess he did have those kinds of experiences – his transfiguration and baptism. Brennan continues:

“At about age thirty Jesus sets out for the River Jordan to meet with the Baptist. John is bluntly calling the Jewish community to repentance and arousing the first stirrings of conversion. Jesus gets in line. His behavior reveals the sense of identity and mission that has been growing within him. John reluctantly confers baptism and Jesus identifies with the brotherhood of sin. ‘He made Him who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf’ (2 Cor. 5:21)

“Then it happens! Whatever the external manifestations were, the baptism of Jesus Christ in the River Jordan was an awesome personal experience. The heavens are split, the Spirit descends in the form of a dove, and Jesus hears the words, ‘You are my Son, my Beloved, on you my favor rests.’ What an earthquake in the human soul of Jesus! The heavenly voice confirms and fulfils thirty years of search and growth in Nazareth. It ratifies his reply to his mother in the temple at age twelve: ‘Don’t you know I must always be where my Father is?’ In this decisive experience at the Jordan Jesus learns that he is Son-Servant-Beloved of his Father. The Father speaks the word that confirms Jesus as the Christ: ‘You are my dear, beloved Son,’ a clear, core identity experience filling Jesus with a profound sense of his person and his mission.”

Is the Jordan where Jesus “learned” those things about himself? Was he going on hunches before then? Can I go on hunches? Has God given me such defining experiences (sans the dove and voice) but I have been too dull to notice? And even if I had such an experience, would I etch it in my heart forever? Would it fade over time or would it take deep root and direct my paths every day until I met a glorious, sacrificial end? Would it take daily or weekly or monthly attention – revisiting the identity God gave me – in order to stay pole-straight?

Just wondering…

Kids, Restaurants, Trouble

Two days ago, my daughter turned two. Last night, Christine and I took her to a restaurant. Turns out, we were one day over the cuteness age limit. I think they almost kicked us out. The disturbing thing is that we did this even after reading and laughing at the column below this week...

Babies and restaurants are the
Chernobyl of parenting

BY DAVE BARRY

If you're a new parent, there will come a time when either you or your spouse will say these words:

''Let's take the baby to a restaurant!''

Now, to a normal, sane person, this statement is absurd. It's like saying: ''Let's take a moose to the opera!''

But neither you nor your spouse will see anything inappropriate about the idea of taking your baby to a restaurant. This is because, as new parents, you are experiencing a magical period of wonder, joy and possibility that has made you really stupid. You are not alone: All new parents undergo a sharp drop in intelligence. It's nature's way of enabling them to form an emotional bond with a tiny human who relates with other humans exclusively by spitting up on them. Even very smart parents are affected, as we see from these two quotations:

Albert Einstein Shortly Before The Birth Of His Son: ''To know that what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty, which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their most primitive forms -- this knowledge, this feeling, is at the center of true religiousness.''

Albert Einstein Shortly After The Birth Of His Son: ''Daddy's gonna EAT THESE WIDDLE TOES!''

After a month or so of bonding with their baby, the typical parents have the combined IQ of a charcoal briquette. This is when they decide it's OK to take the baby to a restaurant. I know what I'm talking about: My wife and I have a baby daughter, and we have repeatedly taken her to restaurants, even though by now experience should have taught us that it would be far more pleasant and relaxing for us to stay home and play tic-tac-toe on our foreheads with a soldering iron.

But we cannot help ourselves, and neither can you, if you're a new parent. That's why today I'm presenting these Helpful Tips For Dining Out With A Baby:

1. THE INSTANT YOU GET TO THE RESTAURANT, ASK FOR THE CHECK.
You want to be able to pay and get out of there as quickly as possible when your baby screams, or decides -- as babies instinctively do, in restaurants -- to grunt out an impossibly large output, such that you experience a dreaded condition known to diaper scientists as Projectile Huggies Leakage (PHL). So it's best to pay your bill as you enter the restaurant, adding a little extra (say, $800) to compensate for the fact that after you're finished, your table may have to be burned. Some parents never actually enter the restaurant: They simply drive up to the front door, hurl money out the car window, then speed off, their baby wailing like an ambulance siren in the night.

2. REQUEST A TABLE IN A LOCATION THAT WILL NOT DISTURB OTHER DINERS.
For example, if you want to eat at an elegant restaurant in New York City, you should try to get a table on the roof. Or, better still, at a Bob's Big Boy in Cleveland.

3. SELECT AN APPROPRIATE CUISINE.
Of the wide variety of cuisines available today -- Italian, French, Chinese, Tiny Portions Of Meat With Some Kind Of Inedible Decorative Stuff Dribbled On The Plate In A Pattern As If It Were An Art Project Instead Of A Meal -- I would say that the best kind of cuisine, for the parent of a small baby, is a cuisine that you can eat with one hand. You, of course, need the other hand to keep putting things into your baby's mouth, so your baby can spit them out (a baby is not happy unless it is emitting something from somewhere). In fact, you may need both hands for this activity, so you might want to order an entree that you can eat with no hands, sporadically lunging your face down to your plate and snorking up food Labrador-retriever style. You will not have time to taste anything. Restaurant employees know this, and sometimes, for fun, they serve prank entrees to new parents, to see if they'll notice. A Boston restaurant recently got a new father, distracted by a small baby, to eat a whisk broom covered with melted cheese.

At least he ate something. Sometimes I spend the entire meal carrying my daughter around the restaurant, crossing paths with other nomadic parents carrying THEIR children around, each of us leaving a trail of drool. Our big night out! It may not sound like fun to you, but we parents of newborns are able to enjoy it because of our philosophy of life, which can be summed up by the immortal words penned by William Shakespeare shortly after the birth of his first child: ''Woogum woogum WOOGUM WOOGUM WOOGUM!''

Steep Reentry

IBC Director of Missions Kathy Appleton likes to say that missions ruins you for the ordinary. I’m ruined. Here’s why.

Today I started my day driving my four-year-old truck to my air-conditioned job. I checked email. Read some news online. Traded phone messages with coworkers.

A month ago, I started my day with a counselors prayer meeting held in a 40-year-old permanently-disabled school bus with torn seats and broken windows. I served meals for free to kids who usually have to steal their food. And showed my lack of Spanish literacy at the twice-daily Bible studies.

The difference is hard to take.

This summer, I was part of a team working with homeless kids from the streets of Mexico City. The presence of the enemy was palpable. Spiritual warfare was being waged constantly. We really were in a battle for the souls of those kids. I have never fought in war, but I understand from those who have that several things happen to soldiers in battle.

Time slows down. Soldiers say they can sometimes see what’s going to happen before it happens. For us, the enemy’s tactics were predictable if not easy to rebuff. Kids leaving addictions were rowdy, sometimes violent. Kids dabbling in witchcraft were scared away when the light of Christ began to shine too brightly around them. We knew such things would happen. We had people back home praying for just those situations.

Soldiers grow close to their buddies. When you face death arm-in-arm with others, you share a special camaraderie. Our struggles weren’t between life and death but between heaven and hell. Our team (five people from IBC and 16 from a church in San Diego) was certainly drawn together by adversity. We helped each other struggle and pray and fight.

Soldiers get a feeling of importance and find it hard to readjust to life at home. No one else charges into battle like they do so no one else should walk with the same swagger. Right or wrong, short-term missions tends to give the same perspective. You’ve spent a week or two handling matters of eternal importance. Somehow, when you return home, the “big game” or the TPS report seems trivial, almost beneath you. Your mind wanders. Your work can suffer.

Of course, by comparing my summer trip to a soldier’s deployment, I don’t mean to equate them. I never ducked a bullet this summer. Never feared for my life. My deployment required far less courage. But the similarities are there. Battle changes you, whether it’s a battle for political freedom or eternal freedom.

This summer, more than 150 IBCers waged war with the enemy in 10 countries on five continents. Back home now, they are changed. They are battle-hardened and, very likely, battle-weary. It’s hard for them to put their experiences into words. It’s hard for them to readjust to daily living. If you know such a warrior, do them a favor. Ask them about their trip. One of the best ways for them to readjust, I’m told, is by talking about their experiences. They’ll get to tell their war stories. You’ll get a chance to hear of God’s glory. And, if you’re lucky, you’ll both be ruined for the ordinary.

My to-do list today:

· Check with the printer to see when that job will be done

· Send a state-mandated notice of policy change to unemployment offices

· Update a media contact list

· Make changes to a logo design for a picky client

My to-do list a month ago today:

· Tell Jonatan I’m proud of him. He joined the kingdom yesterday and burned a symbol of witchcraft that he used to wear around his neck.

· Talk to Moises more about early church fathers – a subject he’s passionate about. Offer to help him buy more than the one book he owns on church history.

· Pray for Tapia, a new Christian who confessed to counselors this week that he has killed two people.

· Talk to the kid who practices “Santa Muerte” about why he cuts himself.

· Get to know Mariano better. He’s kind-of a loner, but said he’s interested in leaving his life on the streets.

Mexico Photos

Here are a few pics from the trip...














Me and Mariano.
















The Tapia brothers (in blue) and some kid I don't know. Eyebrow Tapia (middle) snuck over to a nearby trout farm and caught a huge rainbow.
















Here's the team from IBC along with the daughter of the missionary family who lives at the camp.

Mexico Report #1

My flight from Mexico landed at 2:35 p.m. yesterday and at 9 p.m. I finally finished telling Christine all about the week. There is that much to tell. I'll never get it all posted on this blog. But here's a very cursory overview...

• It was hard. The kids are tough. Their lives are hard. The whole situation is hard to witness, hard to address, hard to change. The kids are rude and immoral and sometimes violent. They steal (even from those who came to help them) and they do drugs. It's just hard.
• It was fun. Getting to know the kids, the other counselors (there was a group from a church in San Diego), and the Lampas staff was a treat. Plus it was a youth camp so it had to be fun! In 5 days, we probably played 20 hours of soccer! They loves them some soccer!
• It was rewarding. Seven kids received the gift of salvation! About five showed serious signs that they may be ready to leave the street. By the end of the week, all of them were much more calm, and much less dependent on drugs. One of the kids who was born again had been to camp and heard the message before. But he told us that he had killed two people and that he didn't think that the Lord could forgive him. He was one of the most rowdy, disrespectful, angry kids there. I was shocked when the counselors who prayed with him told me about his decision.

There are, of course, lots of little stories and lots of kids to describe. And there are several prayer requests for kids and for the Lampas ministry and for the camp itself. I think there's a big need for prayer in terms of a change of position with regard to discipline with the kids at camp. It's very hard to discipline them there, but I believe it should be done nonetheless. It's a big issue that I may write more about later.

Anyway, that's the overview. And here are a few kids to pray for specifically:
Tiapa: The new Chrsitian who said he has murdered two people. He left home at age 7 (abusive father) and was arrested for theft and in jail by age 9. Now he's in his late teens. He will have a terribly hard time following Jesus on the street, especially given his background, his drug addiction, and his attitude. Please pray for him and for the Lampas staff who will minister to him in the days to come.

Mariano: I got to know this kid the best of all last week. He was kind-of a loner. He said he was a Christian but I think his understanding of that was pretty limited. I gave him a Spanish New Testament with the Roman Road underlined. Pray for him to read it (he was reading it the day after I gave it to him) and understand it and give his heart to Jesus. And leave the street. I almost had him convinced to leave the street last week but when all the other kids loaded the bus to go back, he couldn't resist.

Mauricio (Caballo): Lots to tell about this kid. He was a big problem all week. But on Friday morning he gave a "testimony" about how he was thankful for the camp. He doesn't know Christ, but his heart was softened. He and I butted heads all week but as the bus was pulling away, Darren told me that he stuck his head out and, when he didn't see me, told Darren to say good-bye to me. Seems like a small thing, but after watching him all week it's a miracle that he even acknowledged another person, much less shown any thanks to anyone.

Lance

I know I'm a little late, but let's talk TdF for a sec.

1. Lance is clearly the greatest TdF champ in history. I would even say the greatest cyclist in history. Undoubtedly, if he had chosen another race on which to focus, or a series of races, he would have dominated those too. He chose the biggest and toughest race. I doubt we'll see any cyclist as dominating anytime soon - probably ever.

2. Lance has convinced me that he's reached these heights without the help of illegal drugs. I'm not saying that because I trust him or think that he's above such behavior, but because he has been tested so much and never tested positive. If he is doping, then he has spent more time working on how to get past the tests than he has training for races.

3. Lance, his kids, his mom, the Discovery Team, etc. are all living the rock star life right now. I worry what may happen next. If people forget about Lance, he might crash. Oddly, Sheryl Crow might be his saving grace then. She knows fame's harshness. If people don't forget Lance, he might go on into politics. He has mentioned running for governor. I wonder what party he would run with (I'm guessing Dems). But I almost hate to see that because I think the best thing for Lance would not be to have another distraction - another race to win. I know some guys who know some guys who know Lance. They confirm (so I obviously have this on the best authority) that he is a fanatic. He has said so himself. For seven years (more, actually) he has completely immersed himself in cycling, and specifically the Tour. I heard a story about him calling up a young rider from Dallas who had recently been named to his team on Christmas Day and asking him if he wanted to go for a ride. Family time is not as imporant to Lance as saddle time. If it had been, he might not have won 7. With that challenge gone, I suspect he'll look for something else to eat, sleep, and breathe. But I suspect that the thing he needs most is not to have such a distraction so that he can deal with the deeper issues of his life - a father who left, a stepfather who cheated, a divorce, etc. Of course, I'm psychoanalyzing Lance without even having ever met him, and that's not fair. But it's also the price of fame.
So I look for Lance to do one of two things: become a successful politician (he'll run campaigns like he ran USPS team and squash competitors) or crash hard, losing his wealth and family. Whichever happens, I hope he finds some quiet time to reflect and a Christian friend to help out. From what I know of him from his book and other interviews, he wants little to do with Christians (the stepfather who cheated was a Sunday School teacher), says he doesn't believe in God, and (though I don't know all the details) left his wife to date movie mavens and rock stars.

It's hard not to like the guy who cheated death, beat cancer, and then became one of the greatest athletes in history. You've got to admire that. But I also see that his life is not all wine and roses and I wonder if he thinks the price was worth the glory.

Big Steps

Lots going on:
I've taken a new job (though I haven't given notice at my current job yet so if you know my boss, keep it on the down low, will ya?!)

On the side, I've started to organize a small group of creative people that, I hope, will someday become its own Adverstising/PR firm. Our group is called ICHTHUS. You can read about it at www.ichthuscreativeguild.com. Pass the word and bring us business!

From Colorado to Mexico. I leave for the mission trip tomorrow (7/29) and get back August 7.

We found out today that we're having a boy! Zachary James Sanders is due December 17.

Rocky Mountain High...

Well, I'm off to Colorado so I won't be blogging for a while. I know, all the thousands of people who read this blog will be devestated.
As a parting gift, I'm posting a short story for your enjoyment. Enjoy.

It had been less than thirty hours since the gully-washer that filled the low spot called Crooked Creek and only a few puddles remained. The ground had returned to the light brown shade that revealed no evidence of the rain, as if the water had slipped through its fingers into a hidden, forgotten chasm. Cagney Wolverton bounced in the cab of his 1992 Chevy pickup along a quarter-mile stretch of fence that marked the southernmost boundary of his family’s acreage, dust rising behind him like smoke from rain cloud sacrifices to a jealous, parched Earth.

An early morning phone call from Jess Niberts, his neighbor whose home, two miles south of the fence line, was the closest to the spot, had Cagney jostling Eastward over yucca toward one of those Texas mornings whose clouds and colors quiet the soul and the scenery. A fence was down. Jess had noticed a Wolverton momma and calf wondering along the county road just beyond the fence on his way into town. Cagney had thanked him for the information. Must have been the storm. Neighborly of him to call.

Cagney’s Chevy steed hit a rut and coffee sloshed from the Styrofoam cup he had been cradling carefully. He switched hands with the cup and shook away drops of the steaming elixur without taking his attention off the waking land around him.

Ahead, he could see the section of fence in question, stretched over Crooked Creek well above any height that could normally be called a waterline. Two years ago, Cagney had braided a grid of barbed wire and hung it from the bottom of the fence with a long, horizontal post fixed to its low side. The grid served as a downward extension to the fence in dry weather, and when the water rose, the wooden post served as a float that allowed the creek and small debris to pass beneath it.

Now, the grid was gone and the barrier to which it had been tied had been pulled to the ground for fifty yards on each side of the gully. Reaching the bank of what had been a roaring channel the night before, Cagney spotted the culprit. In a muddy bottom one hundred yards downstream, a mangled wad of wire and cottonwood rose higher than the banks.

The posts on this section of fence were wooden, black and gnarled. Driven into place by Cagney’s father, thirty years before, probably on a similar cloudy morning after much-needed rain had come so fast it had slipped to greener climes before the thankful Earth could take a sip.

Cagney sipped his coffee. There were 30 posts to set, 100 yards of fence to stretch, and a floodgate to build. He looked over his shoulder at the pile of T-posts and spools of wire in the scratched bed of the Chevy and surmised he had enough, barely enough to do the job, but it was going to be a long day.

He dismounted the Chevy and unloaded a few posts, a post driver and come-along. He pocketed a few black metal cylinders – knobs they called them – around which he would wrap the wire once he had attached them to the posts. He could see the escapees just to his east, grazing on the narrow stretch of land between his fence and the county road, their squared frames silhouetted against a salmon-colored horizon. Jess would be back down the road in an hour and had promised to stop and help gather the strays – a task Cagney didn’t want to attempt alone if he didn’t have to.

He walked to the Easternmost post that hadn’t bowed to the weight of the rafting cottonwood with the come-along. He would stretch the wire to the post, then cut it on the downed side. But as he was starting to ratchet the fence taut, he saw two more would-be escapees meandering toward the breach. Most of the herd was at the north end of the pasture, where Cagney had sounded the Chevy’s horn and then dumped one hundred pounds of cake on the ground. This pair must not have heard the horn.

Cagney whistled, walking toward the cattle. He needed to turn them away before they left the property. The whistle didn’t work. Seeing he wouldn’t reach the hapless animals in time, Cagney picked up a rock and took aim. It struck the lead cow in the neck, just behind the right eye and she wheeled and loped away, leading the other with her.

Still got the arm, Cagney thought with a smile. He always had a good arm. As a boy, his father took him along on outings like this one – mending fence or doctoring cattle or cutting pregnant cows from the herd. Between tasks, Cagney would kill time throwing rocks at any target that presented itself – cattle, barrels, tires, birds, other rocks. He dreamed of being a baseball player, taking the mound in a major league park. After high school, some of his coaches said he was good enough play Double A ball, but his father frowned on it. Wanted him to save money and go to college instead. Now, thirteen years later, Cagney wondered if he could still play in the minors. He knew he’d never be a star, but maybe he could be a professional. Few could say that had done so. Maybe he would talk to his wife about it tonight. Maybe he would lease the farmland and chase a little boy’s dream for a few years.

Maybe.

By the time he had set the fourth post, the salmon sun had turned yellow and baked away the clouds. Sweating, Cagney walked back to the Chevy. He pulled it forward, abreast of his progress. From the bed, he retrieved a pair of chaps that encased their wearer’s legs in metal from the knee down. He put them on over his jeans and walked back to the fence, armed now against rattlers who might be sunning themselves in the grass and might not like being interrupted.

The chaps flapped against his thighs as he worked and reminded him of his clandestine career in rodeo. It had lasted one summer. It was never the rodeo lifestyle or the competition that drew him to the arenas on Friday nights in his early teens. It was the experience of doing something dangerous, and doing it without his parents’ knowledge. He rode saddle bronc, partly because the junior division didn’t allow bull riding and partly because he had his own saddle, which gave him an advantage.

While he could manage to smuggle the saddle in and out of the tack house on rodeo nights, he couldn’t hide the broken arm a bronc gave him near the summer’s end. His parents were offended but understanding, and more open to the idea of a rodeo career than Cagney expected. But the injury and his parents’ blessing seemed to take the thrill from hiding under the lights of the arena, and he soon abandoned the pursuit. While he drove the next post, Cagney wondered if he would still enjoy the thrill of riding a wild animal. Maybe even a bull. Maybe he would take a hand in the Jaycee’s annual amateur rodeo next year.

Maybe.

By noon, the strays were in. Cagney thanked Jess for his helped and bounced back toward the fence. On the way, he looked over his herd. There were two cows who would calve soon. He could tell by the way they walked – slowly and unevenly – and the way they grazed – rapaciously. He wondered how the cow’s body knew that it needed the extra fuel for the coming birth. Wondered how even a dumb animal could instinctively plan ahead. He used to ask those questions, but he grew dissatisfied with the answers. “That’s just the way it works.” “That’s the way God designed it.”

Surely, the design and the designer were reliable. But Cagney wanted to understand that on which he relied. He knew that the more he learned about the cattle, or the crops, or the computer software his father used to keep track of their business, the more successful his herd, harvest and family could be. He studied doggedly in college, but college had been short-lived. Two years at a junior college had cost his family more than tuition. It cost them time that Cagney could be helping his father. They hired another hand, but his wages and the payments for school mounted quickly. As strongly as Cagney believed in the importance of education, he believed more strongly in the importance of family, and fulfilling responsibility. The Good Book said it’s a man’s duty to take care of his family. He earned an Associates Certificate in agronomy before he quit.

Unloading the last few posts from the Chevy, Cagney thought he might return to school some day. Maybe he could take night classes once the kids were in school. Maybe he could finish his degree. Maybe he could learn what makes a cow hungrier two days before she calves.

Maybe.

The last post seemed the hardest to drive. On the higher east bank of the gully, the water had only smeared the top level of soil before running to join the current below. The earth was unforgiving and his hands rattled with every vertical stroke of the T-post driver.

The sun, which had woken, warmed and dried the pasture while he worked, now turned malevolent. It parched Cagney’s throat and coated his shirt and the brim of his hat with sweat. Clicking the come-along, he stretched the wire until it moaned and twisted in a taut lament. His father had taught him how to stretch fence. Now, too weak to do most of the work, he spent his days in town at the coffee shop and his evenings doting on his grandchildren. Cagney winced at the thought of his father’s weakening. For Cagney, fatherhood meant strength. His father was never weak in frame, in fortitude or in faith. He was a leader that his son, and his community, followed instinctively.

Cagney wondered if his son would see the same strength in him. Would Jess Nibers? Or the other men in town? Maybe, he thought, he would show up to a few more Lion’s Club meetings. Maybe he would be mayor some day and carry on his father’s legacy. Then maybe a state representative, and make his father proud.

Maybe.

Before it reached the horizon, the sun found a patch of cloud and seemed to split it open with rays of unimaginable force. Cagney had driven the last post and stretched the last wire. He was in the gully now, twisting wire around two of the downed wooden posts that he would use as the bottom of his flood gate. With the last twist of pliers, the new grid was finished. Cagney stood and wiped his brow. Before he attached the gate, he paused and surveyed his work. He ducked under the fence and walked up the gully bank on the other side, looking at his land and his work from the outside. The new fence was set firm. It was good work from this perspective – work that he could be proud of.

The sun appeared below the patch of clouds and turned the drying brown landscape to gold. Ragged edges of yucca flowers turned to silk and sent streamers of silver into the light. Balls of cottonwood coasted past like floating festival lights.

Cagney lingered outside his farm. He turned and faced the road to which his cattle had escaped – the road that led to town and beyond it. To dreams awaiting chase. To adventures unembarked. For a moment, the world was quiet in quandary.

As slowly as sunrise, a smile broke onto his face. Cagney took one last look up the road, then turned with purpose and stepped inside the fence.

When he got home that night, maybe he would hug his wife once more than she expected. Maybe he would give his young son his first baseball lesson. Maybe he would thank his father for teaching him how to mend fence.

Certainly.

Cols Are Cool

Today the storied tour made its way to the high mountains where the riders turn upwards toward the heavens...where the roads lie on the hills like pieces of discarded string...where men dance on the pedals of anger...the great and fearsome Col du Galibier represents the highest point in this year's race and a high point in the career of Alexandre Vinokourov.















Vino deserved this win. His all-day breakaway was the first of this year's tour that didn't end in heartbreak. And he looked, on the slopes of the Galibier, comfortable and formidable, as if he was suffering no more than the race leader in the pack or the ghosts of great climbers before...