part of me

another ordinary day

2011-01-14T19:08:00.002-05:00

So let me lay down in this field
And stare up at the sky
I hope the days and clouds
Turn into something
As they pass us by
And maybe you could settle
For a skyline faded blue
I hope that you might settle
For this love I have for you

—taken from "These Ordinary Days" by Jars of Clay.

It's been just another ordinary day today. I am hoping God makes something of them as they keep adding up. Kylee has been dead now for almost 10 months. It feels like 10 years and 10 minutes sometimes in the same day. Helen and I are having a baby and he or she is due in August. I'm stunned at the notion of becoming a father in just over half a year. I keep thinking of how awesome it would be to tell my sister that she's going to be an aunt. She never was able to be an aunt—not officially. A friend recently told me that I can tell my sister—that somehow she can hear me in the heaven/earth crossover. I suppose it's possible. I have told her, actually, though telling the quiet night air that you're having a baby can be rather sad.

I guess I lied when I said it was an ordinary day today. I was on a national radio show today, for almost 10 minutes. As I was driving this afternoon delivering flowers, I was listening to some random catholic radio station here in south Florida. The show host was talking about infant baptism and a number of other things on the show and I decided to call in and ask him his opinion about the subject. To he completely honest, I didn't care to know what his opinion was—I just wanted to be on the radio show. Didn't think I'd get on, but as luck has it, I did. It was a nice brush with fame for me. I told that to Kylee too.

Love,
Shane

While I'm in Kenya...

2008-12-28T01:32:00.003-05:00

I'll be blogging on

www.missionarieswithipods.blogspot.com

just FYI

Where do I start?

2008-10-31T22:42:00.003-05:00

What is there to say when you've not spoken to someone in FOR-EV-ER? When you see someone you've not seen in years, the let-me-catch-you-up-on-my-life update is exceedingly drastic. Instead of "Oh, I cut my hair shorter last week and we rented Baby Mama, it ends up being more like, "We got married and had a few kids since we've seen you last. And, oh yeah, we moved to Oklahoma."

And so I'm trying to tell you that I now live in Tulsa. At least figuratively.

Instead of detailing a long, interesting string of events, I'll just tell you that I'm now engaged to the lovely woman in the above picture.

If you're brow is furrowed with inquiry, then good. It should be. And the story is amazing, as God is in the habit of writing some big doozies. Parting the Red Sea, turning rivers to blood, bringing the dead to life - surely finding me a wife was the next logical miracle in this string of amazing events God has authored.

More to come on this bizarre story, but for now I leave you with a quote from Martin Luther (1483 – 1546):

"I have held many things in my hands, and I have lost them all; but whatever I have placed in God's hands, that I still possess."

On being a drunk at heart.

2008-06-13T22:36:00.000-05:00

Since the garden there has been
Gaps and holes and cracks
Filled with wanton acts or conquests
There’s been tears
Murder and excuses
Rape and blood and fatherless children
Unprotected little girls left crying alone
With emptiness growing each day
Silent Adams and lonely Eves
Finding no place to meet in the middle

We’re desperate for something
Searching for chemicals
For love, lust, or flesh
We long for touch
Long wanting for words
That soothe or heal or comfort
Anything, really, that speaks to our hurt
Or makes us forget it completely

Reach in my body, Oh God
In my veins and bone and soul
That reek of booze
And are raw from sin
In this body that’s broken from evil
Forgive me my trespasses
Forget my unfaithfulness

Sow love, healing, and purity
Where there was indiscretion
Give us hope where suicide lived
And let us be called Your Redeemed Ones
Let us find the road to you
And learn how to endure
The pain that comes from the fall

food.

2008-05-10T05:56:00.000-05:00

I would like to revisit this subject of eating. Once brought up, self-deprecating thoughts and dysmorphic opinions of what I really look like and how I eat usually produce an overwhelming response from people about how "normal" I actually am. If I may, I'd like to traipse down that path again, flush out some misunderstandings, and redefine what it means to eat like a cow.

One of my many flaws is to over-explain myself and, in keeping faithful to that, I'd like to set a ground rule here. Understand what I'm saying: we're good friends in this discussion and I don't expect you to discourage my perception of myself or other people. I think it's good to be objective and even comedic when looking at your own eccentricities.

Having said that…

Everyone has a certain way they relate to food. Some people view food as fuel to nourish their muscles, flesh, and organs and in doing so take only from food what is necessary for survival. To them, food is a dutiful slave; a puppet that will perform the way they will it too. It's a useless and inanimate object when their body does not need fuel. I often find these people show-offish in the way they parade their self-control by tucking in their shirts and how seldom they attempt suicide.

I have come to realize that I don't have a clue what part food should play in my life. I'm bewildered at how to define this essential and pleasurable component to living. Should my relationship with food be strictly platonic? Do I only resort to food when I need nourishing fuel and all other avenues of sustenance – sunshine, prayer, and laughter – have exhausted themselves? What do I focus on in order to make healthy food choices?

I sometimes think food is like poetry. When carefully chosen, ingredients can become intoxicating components - individually distinctive and collectively one. Some foods communicate eloquently: you do not need me to live and you do not want life without me. I cherish it.

I recently watched a food show on the travel channel about a man who traveled the world to find exotic and extravagant foods. He had a genus palate that could appreciate subtle differences in south-east Asian cuisine. He even said something like "I love how the flavors just dance around my tongue."

That man loves food. He loves, savors, and enjoys it.

More often my relationship with food resembles co-dependency, or rather, total dependency. This week is nurses week and it claims to celebrate the accomplishments and importance of nurses. It's hidden and more subversive purpose is to keep us fattened like prize calves. Neighboring health facilities sent us tubs of bagels and cream cheese. The medical director of the ER offered a cannoli cake, a gargantuan spread of sub sandwiches, and a buffalo chicken wing tray that was approximately the size of a kiddie pool. Another gift was a silver platter tray (no kidding) of little chocolate and German chocolate cakes. When I first went back into the nurses lounge on Thursday to put away my Subway sandwich, I was awestruck at the extravagance. I just stood in the doorway of the room for a moment in total shock. I feared, too, that my poor Subway sandwich would never live to be eaten as it had so hoped only an hour before during its creation. I was correct.

Being the reasonable man that I am, I believe that olives are evil and so had no difficulty bypassing the platter with sandwiches devilishly speared with olives. I had one chicken wing right away just to show my appreciation for the doctor's generosity and then headed off to work.

As the night progressed, though, the smorgasbord of decadence called to me from down the hall – a sort of brothel for overeaters – and I couldn't resist the temptation. I would visit the lounge when nobody was looking and have a taste here and there of the different foods. By the end of my night, just before I was to go home, I went back into the lounge to "get my things" – which is to say that I was going to eat what was rightfully mine.

I was reminded of a scene in Kate's Secret (a melodrama from the mid 80's starring Meredith Baxter, an upper-middle class woman who struggles with an bulimia). After all the guests of an afternoon party left her house, Meredith was alone in the kitchen with the leftover hors d'oeuvres from the party. She couldn't resist the temptation and began stuffing her gut with the luscious treats. She became frantic about grabbing fistfuls of food. She pawed the food like a bear, shoveling it in, and pushing the surplus of food back in her mouth with her soiled fingers. She was a complete animal about her consumption.

And I completely get that.

Sure, eating like that could be considered - by some - to be a bit unhealthy. But those are the sort of people to be on faddish soapboxes pooh-poohing public indoor smoking or crystal meth usage. I myself like to remain open to different ways of looking at things and if someone wants to stuff their gastric pouch with as many buffalo wings as humanly possible, I think they have that prerogative.

I showed little restraint when consuming the wings just before I left for home and, although I demonstrated more civility than Meredith in my rate of consumption, I was merciless on the chicken platter. I'd pick up a chicken wing, lift it to my mouth, and gnaw at it until the bone was bare and then I'd toss it in the garbage. I repeated this rhythmic cycle for a few minutes while catching up on all the department notes and clinical reports pinned to the walls of the lounge. I consumed battered and deep-fried chicken wings while educating myself about anti-platelet drugs and heart attacks.

On my way home, the food finally hit my stomach and I began regretting the last fifty or so wings. I knew that I would pay dearly for my binge and that God would teach me why gluttony was a sin. By using simple physiological responses to overeating and processed food, my body began protesting at its misuse and would soon be in full-blown revolt. At first, I was listless and uncomfortable. I tried to sleep and felt like (what I imagined) a pregnant woman goes through every night in bed. I flipped back and forth searching for the most comfortable, or least uncomfortable, rather, position to rest my incubating enemy.

I finally fell asleep only to wake a few hours later experiencing severe cramps, gestative contractions, and pain. Delivery was imminent and so I walked, hand on belly, to the birthing room. What happened next was not the miracle of birth like so many claim. It was sheer misery.

"I promise, God, if you teach me how to use food, I'll never do this again" I lied on the toilet. I really meant it, I just knew that I couldn't keep a promise like that and so did God. At that moment, though, I needed to show God that I understood the fullness of my depravity and repentance from it. I honestly asked God to show me what kind of relationship I need to have with food and how to be faithful to it. I knew that I was giving birth to intentional sin and I knew that it felt horrible.

I'm a little gun shy now. I had dinner with friends about 12 hours ago and haven't eaten much since. I'm wondering how restart a broken relationship without getting into bad habits right away. A couple of hours ago I ate a Kashi snack and had some coffee. That didn't fill me up, but I figured it'd be a step in the right direction because it's all natural and organic. Well, the Coffeemate creamer wasn't organic, but everything else was.

I'm feeling like my body needs fuel – like it' needs nourishment and I'm at a loss for what to give it. My head's a hodgepodge of mixed thoughts: my cheeks are pudgy - I really should go exercise – I want some chicken nuggets – a beer would be really nice – maybe I'll have some grapes – is McDonald's open – I'd go on a fast if it wasn't for that lasagna dinner on Sunday.

My pangs are growing now and I know I need to eat something. I'm just so confused as to how to make the right choice. I think I'm going to look in my pantry and focus on having more energy and tucking in my shirt.

This sucks.

I'm ready now.

2008-03-23T08:56:00.000-05:00

There are times when everything seems right with the world. Ice cream tastes good and you wouldn't trade the warm sun on your face for all the riches in the world. I really cherish when moments like this come my way because I had a long period of darkness in my life and I really welcome the light. I welcome the love from an unexpected place or feeling unified with creation.

The problem seems to come, at least for me, when these feelings are nowhere to be found. What do you do or how do you think when everything you know, love, or value is suddenly gone? What is there left to bring hope?

Yesterday, I had two patients who tried to commit suicide. One patient came early on in the day and was not interested in connecting with me in any way. Well, I take that back – she did bite me and kick me a bit, but it wasn't the sort of connection I was hoping for. The second came close to the end of my shift when compassion is much more of an effort than a gift. I was bandaging up his arm after it was repaired and talking with him. I asked him a couple of carefully chosen questions and he answered. He had nothing to live for without chemicals, money, or his girlfriend. That was the sum of his existence and it had been taken away yesterday.

I got home to find a friend in my driveway. My heart was broken for his broken heart and there was nothing I could do but listen. It kills me when I can't offer more than a listening ear, but someone told me recently that the act of listening can be worship and so I worshiped with him last night. I heard of the pain that surges when someone you love so deeply and selflessly is ripped from your life. I worshiped as he told me about how much it hurt to know that there was nothing that he could do to bring her back – that he just had to sit in the pain and hope that, one day, it doesn't feel as blunt as it does right now.

Just before I went to bed last night, I was contacted by a friend of mine who was really struggling with hurting herself. She communicated the pain she was in and that cutting was a drug that made her feel alive. I felt helpless against the enormity her pain – like I couldn't do anything to take it away. If I could, I would swallow her pain and hurt in an instant so she could feel freedom, hope, and love. These are the things I wanted for her and couldn't figure out how to communicate them. I have big dreams for her freedom and the people she will reach once she is unbound. Last night all I could do is tell her I love her and that I'm here for her.

It's Easter morning and so many of the people I love are hurting. I woke up less than an hour ago, sat up in my bed, and began weeping for the intense pain that I felt yesterday. Suffering is vast, endless, and everywhere and this is the morning that we celebrate the rise of Christ. What a dichotomy. If this story is true, if Jesus did live, die, and rise again, then he is the common thread woven through each of these lives. If he is able to swallow our pain, take it on himself and suffer in our place, then knowing him intimately is the only relevant thing in all this.

And so we are ready for his return.

The smell of smoke and rain.

2008-03-07T22:26:00.002-05:00

It isn’t so hard for me to imagine how he could drag the knife across is arm like he did. The wrist is such a sensitive and passionate part of the body, it seems only natural that’s where he’d choose to go first. I’ve seen all kinds of suicide attempts over the last few years and I think they are the patients I can identify with the most. They are the ones who have experience the brunt of life’s ugliness and have decided that they have had enough. I get that.

The thing about cutting, too, is that it gives something legitimate and physical to mourn. The lacerations are symbolic wounds giving eye to something much deeper and undefined. The pain of failure, uncertainty, disappointing your wife, failing your children, a myriad of deep passions not pursued – these all go unseen in a man’s heart until one day he cracks. A cut in the skin brings that to the surface.

“Talk to me,” I said.

“About what? There’s nothing to say.”

“Tell me about the cutting, the alcohol. Tell me about your day.”

As he shared about his delinquent son and disconnected marriage, there were a few things that stood out to me. One is that his hair and demeanor were remarkably like that of Gene Wilder – spry and unruly. The other thing I noticed was that his eyes smiled when he looked at me. A smile slowly climbed my face as I listened because I believed there was hope for him.

“You get it, don’t you?” he asked me, not in reference to anything he was saying.

“Yes, I do. I get it and I get you and I think you’re brilliantly normal,” I said. Oddly, I was saying this in a quiet room saturated with the smell of this peppermint schnapps soaked body. I was saying it to a man whose wrist were bandaged from self-inflicted wounds and I don’t think that makes him abnormal. I think that makes him broken and human.

I later took him outside for a cigarette and I listened, mostly, to the things he loved about his son – about the hopes he has for him one day. It was getting dark and the thunderstorm was at it’s peak when my eyes welled. It broke my heart to think how my life would have been different – even just for today – had he pressed down just a little bit harder. I took in the aroma of smoke and liquor and rain and I couldn’t help but think how this smell crossed me as perfect, just perfect.

hey, yeah, wait a minute mr. postman.

2008-02-04T20:33:00.000-05:00

it's sunday afternoon and i skipped church this morning and felt quite justified as i saw over the rhine last night in orlando. their music is rich worship. when i woke this morning, i entered the living room to find my mother in almost tears over our latest mailbox snapped in two; the top half on my breakfast table and the bottom half a spike still cemented in the ground ready to slay sky-diving vampires.

"why tears," you ask. two reasons.

one: all of my family members (both sisters, mom, dad, and myself) can cry at the drop of a hat for no identifiable reason at all. some say we're emotional wrecks with our bladder too close to our eyes and my shrink says it's because it's how god uses us to communicate. i'm going to choose to believe the latter because the first on makes me want to cry.

two: our mailbox saga has been an ongoing drama/trauma over the last few months. our first mailbox kept falling off of the pole. our mail man would open the box door and it would fall over backwards to the ground and our mail would go tumbling after. at first the mail guy was nice enough to get out of his car and place the box back on the pole and move on. in the last years of the mail box's life, though, he would just open the door, place the mail in and close it, then just let the mail box fall to the ground and he'd drive away. i thought it would be easier for him to just drive by our house and throw our mail on our driveway like the sunday paper and move on, but he never did. i watched this play out a couple of times from my front window and i felt sad for him that he had to deal with such incompetent civilians who can't even fix a broken mailbox.

the day came last month to 'raise the new barn' so to speak. my mother's ga-ga over country-like decor so she bought a red barn-looking mailbox for about $100 and we set it up, proud as could be, right where our old box would regularly get decapitated. it looked stellar.

until this morning. this morning it looked like weaponry from 'interview with the vampire' and all our effort had been snapped like a twig last night by some careless driver. i talked my mom off the ledge as she was pretty distraught that her would-be-neighbor-impressing mailbox was the latest victim of neighborhood hoodlums.

she went to the store and purchased a new post while i dug the old one up. she, my neighbors, and i toiled for about two hours until it was all complete. i dug this hole a bit farther back from the road so that drivers have more leeway in their drunken state, poor things. thankfully this all played out on a sunday when the post office is closed. it's all ready for tomorrow's delivery and when the postman comes and closes the mailbox door, he'll have no clue the drudgery involved in ensuring he can stay in his car this time.

2007-12-23T23:29:00.001-05:00

I just found this and the only disappointing part of it is that I didn't create it.

Enjoy.

Captivated

2007-11-10T03:14:00.001-05:00

Okay, I'm sitting in Starbucks right now and I'm in awe of the busyness of the store. The holiday drinks and merchandise have just been put out and people are playing games, guitars, and batting their eyes in puppy love. Okay, maybe that's a little nauseating, but the point is that it's the place to be.

I've always wanted to be in 'the place to be' and usually have (not because of innate popularity, but rather popularity by association.) One thing I'm learning is that God wants me to be in a place of servanthood and that, although I enjoy these chic locations, there's so much beyond that. There's so much life to be lived outside the lime-light. I hurt for the people who live to be seen because I've lived so much of my life this way. I know what it's like to have to sculpt your movements, clothing, and words in such a way that the masses will look upon you and approve. I know what it's like to feel that what you have to offer isn't enough.

I've a growing heart for people that go unnoticed. Not just because I spent the summer out of the country, but because of people close to me as well. There's a girl that I encountered a few days ago that lives with a birth abnormality. Through no fault of her own, she has to live life largely unseen because her attractiveness takes a bit longer to recognize. Speaking with her for only a few moments, I could quickly see that she was bright, sweet, and fiercely giving. Her posture and eye contact spoke volumes about how she sees herself. You can tell she's used to feeling invisible. I don't know if her 'invisibility' is due to her physical attributes or if there's something more behind it, but I have a desire to get to know her. I want to listen to her life story and tell her she's deeply valuable to me and to God. She's gone too long without hearing that. I can't explain how I know this, but I do. I grieved for her because she has to work harder at being known and it looks like she's given up on that fight. She doesn't have the luxury of being born into a frame that we all value.

Sitting across from me at Starbucks now is a group of six people. They're probably a few years younger than I am and all of them are unfairly attractive people. I can sense that they're a group that wants little do with the awkward and unpopular. They're laughing and dropping valuable words like 'Myspace', 'Prada' and 'iPhone' (the kind of words that I have felt a narcotic buzz from publicly uttering.) They want so badly to be as valuable as the things they speak of, wear or wield. What I want more than to be accepted by this group of commercial socialites, is to be sitting here with that shy, lovely girl; to listen to her story and know her. Even more, I wish the people across from me would want the same thing. My dream is that one day, all seven of us would collectively lean into her, hear her every word and be captivated by her beauty.

and all the people said.

2007-04-30T02:48:00.000-05:00

be still and know that i am God.

these feelings of intense romance come late at night for me. during the day i'm moving. if not my body, my lips and mind never cease their rambling and i wonder why i don't know God. when everyone i usually call is sleeping, i'm left awake just being. i've gotten into the habit lately of laying in my back yard and looking up at the night sky. elizabeth and i usually count shooting stars and i never realized how many of them there were. we usually see a couple here and there but last week we counted four in only a half hour. FOUR! tonight i saw but one. until recently, though, i could count on a single hand the number of shooting stars i saw in my lifetime. i don't think there was a shooting star shortage before i hit my twenties - i just never looked up long enough.

one time a few years back, i was talking with my friend genesis on the phone. i was at my wits end and was looking at the sky as she was talking. with my feet on my driveway, i silently begged God to give me a shooting star. kind of a way to tell me if i was going to screw everything up or if i was going to pull through. it may sound dumb and it may be dumb, but the star covered the sky that night. i knew what it meant then and i know what it means now.

tonight i was thinking of all the people that came before me that made a difference in this world. not only people that made history like martin luther, mother theresa, or c.s. lewis, but people whose lives never got recorded - mothers who sacrificed so much for the sake of her children; fathers who loved so fervently that their children knew what a father's love felt like. it was their drive for choosing right over ease that changed the world. i think of them because i'm under the same sky they were under. i'm under the same God they were under.

i want my relationship with God to be a dance, not a walk. our movements to be in beautiful unison. i want him to draw me close and tell me his love for me will never ever end.

Lord, my God,
embrace me in my entirety.
hold my soul,
arouse my sleeping heart.
take my hands and purify them for your work.
let me find rest in your strength,
shelter in your house,
peace under your night sky,
and satisfaction in your arms.

amen.

kat troubles at 3am

2007-04-26T02:47:00.002-05:00

has anyone seen bjork lately? she's looking quite peculiar.

in other news, when i got home from church last night, i found a cute little kitten at my back yard. she's not actually a kitten - she's a cat. but she's so stinkin' adorable so she falls in the 'kitten' category. she's tortoise shell calico and she's got this really long pretty hair. the hair in her ears is matted. that and her skinny body leads me to believe she's a stray.

i felt bad that she was probably hungry, so i poured some beer on the concrete for her to drink up (it's all i had in hand.) at first, the foam of the beer scared her and she went running, but after a moment, she came back and lapped up the puddle. i offered her more then realized that, even though she may like it, it may not be good for her (it was ultra light, though.) so i went in my fridge trying to think like a cat and find what a cat would like to eat.

"i'm a cat and i like milk" was the first thought that i conjured up. unfortunately, the soy in the very back of my fridge was - let's just say unsuitable. then i found some sugar free international delight french vanilla creamer in the icebox door. i don't use creamer in my coffee, but i always have some around just in case a guest would like it. i considered Kat a guest and so poured her a pool of it in the quintessential cat-milk bowl. it was a perfect moment.

Kat began lapping up the "milk" and i wanted to take a picture, but when i got back to her with my camera, she was done and gone. figuring she'd want more in her tummy than beer and coffee creamer (seriously, i wasn't trying to kill her), i decided to find her real food. i had some tuna-style foil packaged white meat chicken and opened that and dumped it on a paper plate. Kat didn't hesitate scarfing that down either.

a couple of hours later, she was back again to show some love and even sneaked into my house to poke her nose around. she didn't seem phased by the smorgasbord of decadence i fed her earlier. she can hold her alcohol well for a homeless kitten... it's only 3am now, but i woke up to the sound of a cat's meow just outside my window. not sure how she knows it my window. maybe she just recognized the silhouette of the beer bottle on my window sill and would like some more.

freedom in the fog

2007-04-17T01:47:00.001-05:00

When my life is over and my body is cold and still,
I’d like for you to carry this out for me, this wish.
Burn me ‘till only ashes are left and remnants unremarkable,
And walk to the end of the dock and wish me a new journey.

All rivers lead to the sea unending.
With ebb and flow the river and I will merge.
Twining through weeds and creatures and currants,
I’ll be free as ever with no cage to bind my flesh.

Jealous of the swirling fog and it’s freedom,
I’d sip my coffee on the stillness of the dock,
Wishing to be set free from my burdened heart,
And released to live as one who flies.

It is for freedom He has set us free.
No longer refusing my heart’s desire,
Each breath will sing of His rescue,
Until they cease and these ashes are thrown in the river.

washed from the inside out : :

2007-04-15T21:17:00.000-05:00

I think the idea of holiness means different things to different people. I certainly don't think that I understood the word very well at all, at least for most of my Christian life. Correct me if I'm wrong, but most people don't grasp the true meaning of the word. I'm a lover of semantics and often play with words to change the shape of how people hear a message. I think this quality causes me listen to messages, namely sermons, more carefully and brake down what words are being said and what message is being received. Often times, there's a big difference between those two things.

I may be having wine with a friend and I ask her, "Do you think you've had enough wine for this evening?" She'll likely interpret my statement as saying, "Hey sister, back of the juice. You're getting hoovered." Perhaps my intention for asking her was only to determine if I needed to pour her another glass or put the bottle away. She heard something different, though, and got her feelings hurt. My words were not received how I intended to transmit them and so I failed as a communicator.

All the more, this is imperative when we are speaking and teaching scripture. If we are not cognizant of how our message is being received, then the essence of it is not being transmitted and the intent of our words remains unheard. Message transmission is a huge part of communication.

Back to holiness. If you ask someone with knowledge of the scriptures (namely, someone other than me), they'll probably tell you that, essentially, holy means to be set apart. I remember learning this when I was in college and it stuck with me for some reason. Probably because my teacher repeated it about a million times in one lecture (later to be found on an exam. I love teachers like that.) If holiness means to be set apart, then why do some people understand it as pious, soft spoken, angelic, or just plain good?

I suppose some of those things are set apart by their very definition, but when I say I want to be holy, I don't mean I want to be turned into a weakling; someone with no cultural relevance and no opinion. I don't want to listen to the laments of my friends who are in deep sorrow and merely reply: "God is in control. Let go and let God. In His time. I'll be praying for you."

None of these things are innately wrong. God IS in control. We do need to relinquish our fierce grasp on our lives and allow Him to lead us by faith. And we DEFINITELY need to plea to God on behalf of our loved ones when they're in need. Intercession is part of what being a Christian is about. But when we reduce our responses to serious life issues by using a cliché, we're not being holy. We're being robots.

The following verse, Romans 7:4-6 (The Message), Paul talks about being set apart. Not only that, he talks about the difference between obeying law for the sake of obedience itself and obeying law out of a deep love for God and an understanding of the law's purpose.

"So, my friends, this is something like what has taken place with you. When Christ died he took that entire rule-dominated way of life down with him and left it in the tomb, leaving you free to "marry" a resurrection life and bear "offspring" of faith for God. For as long as we lived that old way of life, doing whatever we felt we could get away with, sin was calling most of the shots as the old law code hemmed us in. And this made us all the more rebellious. In the end, all we had to show for it was miscarriages and stillbirths. But now that we're no longer shackled to that domineering mate of sin, and out from under all those oppressive regulations and fine print, we're free to live a new life in the freedom of God."

If Christ "took that entire rule-dominated way of life down with him and left it in the tomb, leaving you free" then why are we still teaching people on a regular basis how to control sin? Why do we preach about miniskirts and homosexuality (!) and the wretchedness of sin itself when it is God's kindness that leads up to repentance (Romans 2:4)? I think that sin is so abundant in our culture and it's easy to point to the horrific things that are going bad in our world and say, "This world is getting what's coming to them." Sure we may not say it in so many words, but it's relevant in our voice inflection; what we choose to emphasize and what we don't. It's noteworthy to notice what certain people emphasize as 'bad' sins and which ones they don't.

For example, in the past, if I was talking about adultery you may have heard a more harsh tone in my voice than if I was discussing profanity. I've had some close friends deeply hurt by extramarital affairs and have no personal struggle in this area. Adultery pisses me off. Cursing, on the other hand, is something more personal. I've been known to say a less than honorable word before (please hold all comments 'till the end) and so would be shedding light on my own personal dirt by fire-and-brimstoning foul speech.

All I'm trying to say is that focusing on the management of sin does not produce holiness. It manufactures innocuous people with dead faith. Most of my life, I've focused on avoiding sin. Many of you reading this may be quite surprised to hear that as my behavior hasn't been- how shall I say this- set apart. It's true, though. I've focused on not having sex, not smoking weed, and going to church. I thought that if I wanted to be a good Christian, then I must read the Bible to figure out what all the rules were and then follow them. All I became, though, was a sexless church attendee without a buzz. It sounds funny, but ask a non-Christian why they don't like church, and you'll often hear 'I don't like all the rules."

I heard that. I don't like the rules either. What I like is a God who has saved me. What I love a man who's rescued me from the pain of failure, the darkness of depression, and the wretchedness of addiction. What I can't sing enough about is the glory of it all. That's what makes me want to be set apart. I want to love and please my Maker and by doing so, I abstain from the things that he didn't create my body to take part in.

It's much simpler than following a set of rules. Our outward cleanliness should only be a reflection of our inward desire to honor God. When Jesus was talking to the Pharisees about their grave misunderstanding of scripture, he said this:

"You're hopeless, you religion scholars and Pharisees! Frauds! You burnish the surface of your cups and bowls so they sparkle in the sun, while the insides are maggoty with your greed and gluttony. Stupid Pharisee! Scour the insides, and then the gleaming surface will mean something."

I'm a touch frightened that some of the Pharisaical teachings are sneaking their way back into our message. We're teaching people about the Gospel of Sin Management - namely, how to avoid sin and look squeaky clean for the sake of looking squeaky clean. We may not intend to convey this message to people. Perhaps we discuss sin so much because we're concerned for the people steeped in it; we grieve for the ones who are being ravished by its merciless path. But by talking so much about the problem and not the solution, we're conveying the message that holiness is primarily the absence of wrong actions. Being set apart comes from the renewing of our minds resulting in obedience, not the other way around.

"Therefore, I urge you, brothers, in view of God's mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God—this is your spiritual act of worship. Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind." -- (Romans 12:1-2a).

dead, twisty trees, dysentary, and lemon jelly:

2007-03-30T12:51:00.000-05:00

i went to another tasting last night at the cork and olive. it was nice and the same guy was playing live music. i almost enjoyed that more than the wine. almost. his name is shane and i hope to hear him again in the future. he played a lot of dave, some tracy chapman, and bob marley. when he does 'no woman no cry' i want to fall at his feet and weep- i didn't though. i was also able to make a getaway with a case of some good reds. i'm pretty excited about that and will give my kindergarden critique as the corks are discarded. the crowd at the shop last night was pretty modish and i didn't seem to tow the line as far as fashion went. i was in flippies, jeans, and a t-shirt. whatev. i could buy them and sell them... just kidding.

it was on to color me mine after the tasting and i'm quite excited about what i'm painting thus far. it's a dead, twisty tree with birds flying over the side of the plate. it's hard to explain, but i'll post it when it's finished.

plans for kenya are moving along swimmingly so far. i'm excited about this summer and can't wait to see what god's going to do. if i'm lucky, maybe i'll contract some curable disease whereby ensuing drastic weight loss before i return home... it's not why i'm going, i promise. if that were the case, i'd go to fat camp. all i'm saying is a little amebic dysentery would do just the trick.

the journey of desire, so far, is a great book. i remember starting the book long ago, but i was dead inside then and so talk of following my passion was as useful to me as a airplane mechanic manual. it's making a lot more sense now. i suppose i had to get to the point where i was living outside my desire in order to feel what i wanted. i stumbled upon this webside called 'simplystrengths.com' and it looks pretty neat. i've yet to explore all of what it's about, but i'm going to check it out on my free time.

humm... anything else... oh, last thing. i downloaded a funky group the other day and can't get enough of them since. they're called lemon jelly. there's something about their style that leaves you just a bit above the earth and happy to be alive. i recommend checking them out and maybe even downloading them. if you have but one song to download let it be 'elements' from lost horizons. that'll give you a snapshot into their world. don't say i didn't warn you, and enjoy.

everyone always misses

2007-03-14T15:02:00.000-05:00

i honestly think and write about more than just work, but when i've been there for nights on end, that tends to be what comes out of my noggin. that's actually a big problem for me. when you are always at one particular place, you begin thinking that that's how the whole world functions. when i went to christian college, my mindset was inside that bubble (it wasn't a bad place... even though they kicked me out). i simply thought that FCC was a microcosm of the rest of the world... then i lived in the world and changed my mind.

the problem with being at the hospital so much, or any place for that matter, is it becomes your reality. you tend to start thinking that everything functions by the laws and workings of whatever structure you're surrounded by. this is where my job gets to me. don't get me wrong, i love my job, i just hate getting in that mind trap. i don't want my whole world to be about filling out forms properly (something i don't do very well), nursing documentation, and making patient's and family members happy.

last night the second floor called down and asked if anyone could come up to the floor and try and start an IV on a patient with bad veins. i always love a challenge and the nurse that called down doesn't particular care for me, so i decided to go and give it a shot (no pun). i figured that if i was willing to come start her patient's IV, then she would see that i'm not really a bad guy. i'm just not a pushover like my personality leads me on to be.

when i got to the floor, she seemed surprised that i came up, but she expressed her gratitude and told me that this patient was 'a really hard stick' and i should start praying. i told her i did that on my way up. she looked suprised a second time (note to self: investigate why people are suprised when they find out i'm a christian.) i went into the patient's room and sat at her side and began to talk to her. i figured it'd make her more relaxed and i could tell she was anxious. she told me about her illness and how it was really trying her patience and fortitude. then i asked what she did for fun when she wasn't causing problems for nurses. she chuckled and told me that she and her husband liked camping. she said that they sold everything they had about 10 years ago and traveled by RV around the states. she said that it was the best decision she ever made.
i agreed with her and, without getting into much detail, i told her that i had recently simplified on a much smaller scale. i said it felt good to not be so bound. i told her about my upcoming trip to kenya and my reasons for going. then she gave me the biggest complement i'd ever received: "you seem like you have God in you."

with that, i placed the tourniquet on her arm and picked a vein. she told me that everyone always misses and it always hurts bad when they do. i told her that i'm not everyone (and prayed one more time), and started her IV. as soon as i was in the vein, she began crying.

"i'm sorry," i said. "i tried to be careful."

"i'm not crying because it hurt. i'm crying because He answered my prayer. i didn't even feel you start the IV and what's more, He sent one of his precious people to do it for me."

she kept crying tears of happiness and i was left wondering: who am i to be the person that answered this lady's prayer? i'd become despondent over the last few days at work because it had been so busy and i had not made that many people happy (if you can't tell by now, i'm a people pleaser at heart.) i'd begun feeling overwhelmed and, in an instant, she changed all that.

redemption for my spending

2007-03-09T07:08:00.000-05:00

i love meeting new people. if i could figure out a way to make it into my paid occupation, i'd do it. i suppose that is kind of my job now, but it would be nice if the people i was meeting weren't sick... i guess i did that when i worked for starbucks, too, but i made $7 an hour. i want my pie and eat it too.

i hung out last evening with liz, shay, and my newest pal maggie (actually named 'ashley' but her resemblance to maggie gyllenhaal was so uncanny when we met that i instantly ascribed her the alias.) we were jiving it up at sangria's tapas bar in hyde park.

[side note: my mom just interrupted this very important message with a phone call. i told her about my night and she sounded shocked. "shane, i can't believe you went to a topless bar!" - "not topless, mom. TAPAS. it's spanish food..." - "well, i guess that's okay, then" she said. glad i have her approval.]

we found that we shared a love for food and an undue apprehension toward carbohydrates.

[another side note: the starbucks barista must work for the dark side because, just as i was typing the above sentence, she offered me a sourcream doughnut sample. it's bad enough that she had to shove the tray in my face {spilling crumbs on my MacBook} but the smell is still in the air and she walked away over three minutes ago...)

anyway, i need to get to my point before i start writing about something completely different (i'll never be able to write a book - i've got the ideas in my head, but it would be 1,000 pages before i came to an absolution...) our bill came and, long before we began our night, i decided to pay. i love paying the bill sometimes and with certain people. it's the people that don't expect it that appreciate it the most. what i was shocked about was that a pitcher of sangria was $34. who doesn't ask how much something is before they order it? i'll tell you who does. me, liz, shay, and maggie - that's who. between the sangria and endless orders of tapas, our bill was over two hundred dollars.

"who cares" i said. "i'm loaded. selling that lexus was the best thing i ever did. it cost more to drive that thing for a week!"

and, honestly, it did. i miss the car, but i don't miss what it brought every month. i was feeling pretty bad about the extravagant meal, though, and so paid off a credit card this morning (only one more left[!])

if that ain't redemption, i don't know what is.

what's up with my friends not answering their phone?

2007-03-03T10:19:00.000-05:00

As I sit here in Starbucks, I hear this song over my head playing in it’s warm, muggy tone saying: “Jesus was sailor when he walked upon the water… He was broken before the sky was opened…”

I find it interesting that Starbucks, a Mecca for today’s culture, plays this song. Not really surprising, just interesting because although Jesus was controversial, society doesn’t seem to reject him as a person. I’m not saying that they accept all that he was, but just that there’s not contempt for him like there is for televangelists. I hear no songs about Muhammad, Mother Teresa, or Ghandi. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not saying that this means much at all. I just find it interesting. Greater still is that this song was followed by Sarah McLachlan’s ‘Ice cream” (does it get better than her?)

There’s a bit more about this that I would like to say, but I only want to produce original thoughts here and so will leave it at that.

Sitting in this very seat last night, I came here to read, drink coffee, and just be. All of my attempts to meet up with my old Orlando friends failed (i.e. they didn’t answer their phone when I called) so I ended up here. Just as good a place as any, I suppose.

Shortly after I got here, I ran into a guy that I have crossed paths with far more often than is common for this semi-large town. When I worked for Barnes & Noble 7 years ago, he was a café regular. When I worked for Starbucks thereafter, his caffeine addiction thrived. And when I worked for Banana Republic, that’s right, he frequented there as well.

So, last night, we got to know each other not as server/customer relationships are bound, but as two coffee-loving strangers ready to talk. I found out that he’s preparing for residency in internal medicine and that he’s passed two of the three board tests needed for practicing medicine (if I understand him correctly.)

He lit up when he talked about his family and home country of Syria – about his recent visit there and how it rejuvenated him. We come from vastly different backgrounds and yet we seem to see people and life very similar.

It was a suprisingly delightful evening. I’m glad nobody answered my phone calls.

coffee and suicide

2007-03-01T05:05:00.000-05:00

On my way into work Tuesday night, I was trying to resist being overwhelmed with dread. I had to be in charge and, if you don’t understand what that means, let me just say that I feel unqualified at best to fill these shoes. There are two full time charge nurses and when they’re both off, I’m the only idiot that doesn’t refuse the charge hat (there’s not an actual hat, but I suppose if there was, it would be a bit more fun).

There were three nurses on and we worked as a trio last week as well. With one of the nurses having recently fractured his pelvis dirt biking (a pass time sent, I believe, solely for the purpose of population control) and the other nurse having JUST gotten off orientation, I felt I was boarding the Titanic.

That night last week didn’t play out very well at all so I was pretty despondent about having these same deck of cards. I did my usual prayer time before I go to work begging God to keep me from killing anyone (this includes co-workers. In fact, they are more in danger than my patients, at times.)

A little bit after 9, I got a guy in from a psych facility in need of medical clearance. He stopped taking his methadone about a week prior and was experiencing withdraw symptoms and a great deal of pain.

“Why did they baker act you?” I asked.

“Because I told them I’m going to kill myself. They don’t like that for some reason,” he responded.

“Why did you want to kill yourself?”

“I didn’t say that I wanted to kill myself,” he said. “I said I AM going to kill myself. It’s not a choice of whether I want to or not. I have to now. I’m not going to live this way any more. I refuse to. I’m in so much pain every moment I’m awake I can’t stand it. So, when the time is right, I’m going to end it. But don’t worry, I’m not going to do it in here [he saw me eyeing his shoe laces]. This isn’t the right time or place, but mark my words, it will happen.” Hearing the certainty with which he spoke gave me goosebumps.

I continued triaging him and gave the chart to the doctor. I kept thinking about what he said and thought about suicide. I was brought back to the time in my life a little over a year ago when I thought about suicide on a regular basis. I remember seeing images of guns to my forehead like a flash from nowhere – this would startle me to the point of flinching and I’d be left wondering, ‘where did that come from?’. I’d decided that, if it was going to happen it wouldn’t involve a gun. That’s not my style. But still, the images of the guns would visit me while I was busy at work and sometimes while I was dreaming.

I remember one morning I got up at about 4am and was supposed to run about 8 miles that day. I dreaded the running schedule and hated life so much. Before I was supposed to leave the house I sat on the edge of my bed and wrenched in tears until my body physically hurt. I’m surprised that I didn’t wake up my roommates who, at the time, were quite worried about me. I knew that I couldn’t run in that state and so kicked off my shoes and fell back in bed. I continued to cry for maybe an hour and finally begged for God to take my life as I slept. I thought that would be the perfect out to my problems. I wouldn’t have to cut myself, my family wouldn’t have to deal with the issue that I ended my life – it would be natural (as natural as a 23 year old dying for no reason could be). I just didn’t want my own blood on my hands, figuratively speaking. When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed that I walked into a live power line that was down from a storm. I felt my body surge with energy and then everything turned white and I looked up (kind of like that guy did when he was being sucked up by the UFO in ‘Fire in the Sky). God said “I can take you now, in your sleep, or you can stay. Your choice.”

“I’ll stay,” I repeated a few times. And I did. I woke up. I got up and shortly thereafter began the slow upward climb out of darkness.

I could feel this patient’s pain and I wanted to connect with him, but he didn’t seem to want to connect with me, so I let him rest in his bed. I went about my business and busyness putting out fires wearing my little charge hat (again, not an actual hat.)

When it was getting close for him to leave, I went and told him about the transfer back to the psych facility. Noticing that he had been keeping his eyes closed, I asked him, “how’s your pain. Is it any better?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Is it any better? No it’s not better because you’ve not given me anything for my pain. I’m just sitting here like a number – like a part of a herd of cattle just waiting for you to push me to the next place. ‘Is you pain any better’ – you’ve got a lot of nerve you little punk. I told you when I got here that my pain was excruciating every hour of every day. But you can’t comprehend that and so you think that I’m a medication seeker. You think that everyone who comes in here is after narcotics so, because I look like I’ve had a rough life, you think I want Demerol or Dilaudid. Well, I don’t. How about a fucking Tylenol? Something to ease the pain… you people, man. All you do is see people as numbers.”

The whole time while he was talking I was sitting on the edge of his bed looking directly in his eyes thinking, “God, use me.” Every word he said (and I’m sorry if my candor offended you) was dead on. He had no reason to live, no reason to believe that I was anything more than the sum of my surroundings. I failed him.

I brought in some Tylenol (the only thing the doctor would order for him because he was a ‘seeker’ [his word]) and I sat the med cup and two juices on the edge of his bed.

“Here’s two Tylenol if you want them. I’ll leave them here,” I said quietly as I left the room. I could sense that his eyes never left me when I was in his room… He wasn't somebody i wanted to loose the approval of.

After leaving his room and for reasons I don't quite understand myself, i sat down and wrote him this note:

"You’re completely right. Most patients are seen as numbers and with that I cannot contend. What I am about to say I mean with all of me: I am truly sorry that your life is so miserable. There’s little more I can say that that. I’ve not had to deal with chronic pain and I cannot empathize with you, only listen and try to understand. You may not believe that what you said made it in my brain, but it sank in so much deeper than that. You think that I see people as numbers and I have no desire to try to change your mind, but please know that not everyone sees people that way. My heart’s desire is to try to love people like God does and many times I fail. I did today. My role in the ER today was to evaluate weather or not you were in a medical emergency and clear you for transfer. often empathy is lost in the mechanics of a job I’ve done for years. Sometimes its impossible for me to treat everyone holistically. That is where I fail, and for that I am truly sorry."

After he read the note, he asked me to forgive him. I said ‘ditto’ and we started talking. He wanted a ciggy and some coffee, so I brewed my special Starbucks Casi Cielo and bummed a pote from my co-worker. We sat outside in the 3am fog and he told me why he wanted to die so badly. He told me of the jobs and the money that he’s had the privilege to have in his past. He told me the horrific story of the car accident that preceded his life of pain. His wife that tried to run him over.

“Wives don’t try to kill their spouses for no reason,” I said, trying to be the devil’s advocate.

“You’re right, they don’t. But she's in prison now and I'm sitting outside drinking coffee.”

I shared with him the story of my depression. Sure, it didn’t seem as made-for-TV-movie as his did, but he listened all the same.

“So why didn’t you?” he asked.

“Well, at first I didn’t have the balls, but just when I was getting the courage to follow through, God opened my eyes to the truth of it. That it never ends pain, only starts it. So, I stopped wallowing in my own selfishness and here I am talking to you… there’s a reason I’m your nurse you know. You’re not supposed to go through with it. You know that. You just have to believe it and I’ll pray you do – sooner rather than later.”

To that he smiled and finished his cigarette. His paddy wagon arrived to cart him off to the pscychiatric ward. A place that he no more belonged in than you or me. Before he got in the van, he shook my hand and said, “Thanks for everything. You know, when you hit the fuckin’ bottom, you’ve only got one place to look.”

And having said that, he pointed upward.

sleepy-eyed and soaking wet

2007-02-27T17:18:00.000-05:00

i had two separate dreams where i was drowning last night. two.

i'd wonder if it was just happenstance had it only been one dream, but it wasn't and there must be some significance to it. i'm no interpreter, but drowning can't be a positive thing. i don't feel 'under water' at the moment, really. work hasn't been exactly easy, but it never is...

i don't know if it means i'm doing too much, not enough, not the right things. there's something to it though. if nothing else, no fluids before i go to bed.