From Hear to There

Let’s start with I am not preacher, I am not a teacher, I am not good student, in fact, I can’t figure out the most basic magic tricks.  Those shells, and the little thing underneath one or all of them, I haven’t a clue.  The second you tell me to keep my eye on it, it’s gone.  

But what I am NOT is stupid.  What I am is quieter than I appear, louder than I should be and more stubborn than what is good for me.  I hear, I ignore, and then, only because of a Very Strong Right Arm on my head, I bow, and I listen. 

I was told once by someone that I “just don’t respect the process.”  He was right, I didn’t because THAT process was stupid and a waste of time.  But the process above:  Hear; Ignore; Bow and Listen, I love that process. There is something about a process that contemplates “the good of all” that makes it less of a process and more of a really narrow, grassy, cool summer path.

What prompted me to write again--I only do rarely because frankly I don’t have much that I want to hear me say--is the thinking about the process of what makes a sacrifice.  Someone said to me recently that they “have never sacrificed anything for God.”  Wow, I thought what a heathen.  What a sad lost soul.  I kind of had a "Thank you that I am not like this wretch" moment.  Right then a process began. I felt a Strong Right Arm, firmly pressing not on my neck, not gently tugging on my heart, but crushing from me the life of which I was so proud.  And a voice, loud and strong and angry.  And I knew, like I did when I was a boy, I was in trouble because I was wrong.

It was the pressure from the hand, the press with anger on my entire person, near panic, near failure, utter loss.  I had never really sacrificed anything for God either.  So in total darkness I asked, what does it look like?  That is one of my favorite questions because you can’t answer it with trite, stupid replies.  You have to describe it in words that are visible and understandable.  And they can’t be under a shell.  They can’t include, “look over here.” 

I thought about what a sacrifice really was.  Typically a lamb.  It was to be killed, bled, cut up, burned and totally eliminated.  One right after the other, death after death after death, because the “Good” could not be fully satiated.  Not yet.

So I asked myself, what makes a sacrifice.  The friend who rightly said that they “have never sacrificed…” was right.

I set out to list all of the things I have sacrificed for God. And the list is absolutely astonishing because it is identical to my friend’s.  So I knew I have to change that.  And then the press of the Strong Right Arm came down on me again.  And this time, I felt real terror. 

It is not the Sacrifice that matters; it is the One that makes the sacrifice.  And I knew in a flash, a serious flash, a blink of an eye, I neither have an appropriate sacrifice, NOR DO I WANT TO BE A SACRIFICE! 

"I heard a ROAR and I looked and I saw a Lamb standing as if slain"  A sacrifice I cannot make, a sacrifice I do not want to make, a sacrifice I do not want to be made.  And that lamb reaches out with His strong right arm and touches my head and then I hear, I bow, and I listen.  A whole new process, allowing me to make it from "Hear" to There.

What's in a name?

What a totally rewarding year.  My son got married to a fabulous, Godly woman who will help him carry on our family name.  That is HUGE!  My youngest is getting married next month to another young, Godly woman.  And my oldest boy will be married soon to a beautiful Christian woman that
is precious and makes him smile like he did when he was a boy (with real joy and a slightly diabolical bent).  On top of that, my oldest brother is alive and healing after a terrible accident.

I have an adversary in the business world that is angry at me and thinks I have really been out to get him.  It’s not true, but it is how he feels so he is fighting back.  Against nothing really, but he is fighting.  At first I was mad, then I took stock of the situation. 

What a sad situation he has.  He was abandoned by his father and mother.  He was taken in by a Sacramento Businessman and raised without rules.  He is, for all intents and purposes, an orphan.  His adoptive father threatened to sue him in court if he used his last name.  It is tragic at best and a tragedy that I can’t take part in.

My father on the other hand, provided for me, wrestled with me and loved my mother until the day he went to heaven.  I was allowed to bear his name from the day of my birth and that was a badge of honor to him.  What a life I was given.  While others are despised by family, I was made a part of one. 

I came across a letter my father typed to himself 47 years ago wherein my father states "God's blessings to me and my family is unabounding, and yet as is said of the disciples, 'they forgot the miracle of the five thousand.' It seems that we shrink in our faith as we encounter the obstacles of life. Allowing others to be our assurance." [sic]   As I read that I thought how proud I am of him and how blessed I am to have been his son, to watch as he and my mother raised us in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.  No threat of loss of our name.

Then I realized that I have a more valuable name that I am allowed to bear, in part because of Mom and Dad, but more because of a great God and Father who took dead and lifeless bones and breathed life into them and called him His child.  Not based on any personal merit in the man, it was a gift.  And I can say with my father “God is good to Israel, even to such as are of a clean heart."

Our Days are Numbered

You tell me.  What are your thoughts about it?  Have you looked it up?  These are the questions and comments we would get when we had a question about anything, but mostly Scripture.  Dad loved to read, and talk about the Scripture.  Dad and Mom, never let us think lazy.  He would not offer an answer when the world was our encyclopedia.  We needed to bring something to the conversation and he would gladly discuss it, dare I say debate it?

People have only so many days to live, but what people do and think and ask during those days can live beyond them.  18,108 days ago, I was given to Jim and Dee Lewis, I am forever their son.  How they lived, how they loved has kept right on living in and through me each and every hour for 434,605 hours.  That’s ominous if you think about it, and thanks to dad and mom, I think about it a lot.  What will live on after you?  That’s what I ask myself.  What have I been doing for 434,605 hours?  As I look back, I think so many things.  I dislike myself more and more with every thought.  I wish I could hide.

After about the first 3,650 days of my life, Dad used to take us on Sundays to the local Convalescent hospital where we would sing, and laugh and feel sick and watch as people at the very end of their days would “Well up” as Dad would say.  They cried, as Mom played the piano and 5 kids sang “Why should I feel discouraged?  Why should the shadows fall?  Why should my heart feel lonely, and long for heaven, and home?  When Jesus is my portion, my constant friend is He.  His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.”   They cried as dad proclaimed to them that Jesus loved, could and would save them from eternal death, if they would only reach out to Him and ask Him to forgive them.  They would forever be sons and daughters.  Probably some heard, by God’s grace, and believed.  Who knows, but Dad and Mom did the work of an evangelist in those days.  That is how they lived and loved.

365 days ago, my Dad had 2 days left on earth.  24 hours earlier he left me a message because I did not have my phone with me.  “If you have time, maybe you can call the Neurologist and check on his findings from the tests. Don’t feel like you have to, I know you’re busy.”   He had lived 27,304 days the last 40 were the most challenging.

How could it be that the events of 15,000+/- days ago, singing, and laughing and crying during that simple little church service for dead people, at the end of their lives, could mean so much more to me, than it could ever have meant to them.  By God’s great grace I can look back, on those hours that formed me because of how a man and his wife, just a man and his wife, lived and loved.  And those Sundays continued on in my life and heart and mind as will that day 363 days ago when that man and his wife read together for the last time Ephesians 4:4-7 "There is one body and one Spirit--just as you were called to one hope when you were called—one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all.  But to each one of us grace has been given as Christ apportioned it."

Just 2 more days and my Dad would, fall on his knees, with his head bowed low and “well up” and cry out in anguish, mixed with fear, and ask what does all this mean? And then in my mind’s eye dad would feel the fingers on the strong hand of Jesus reach out and lift his chin toward His own face and Jesus would ask dad in reply, What are your thoughts about it?  Have you looked it up? 

He had, more than 18,108 days before, many times.  He is forever a son.

From each according to his ability...

It’s freezing cold and windy out there.  There is not a single cloud above me but there are dark clouds way out there at the edge of the earth and right where the Pacific Ocean ends.  It’s amazing.  The wind is blowing east off the water at about 15 MPH.  The water is crashing hard on the rocky coast and I literally love every sight and sound.


As I sat, and looked out at the water, the wind blowing in my face, freezing my brain, I started thinking about the ocean again.  Did you know there are species of sea life that can not live at 20 or 30 feet below the surface?  They have to be miles below to survive.  Still others can’t live below 30 to 50 feet below the surface for too long.   There are multiple strata of Sea life that require different things from the ocean and give different things to the ocean so that the circle of life can continue.  Each is appointed to his lot.

As I looked at the water and thought, I saw a red-tailed hawk, there are lots of them out here on the west coast, soaring in one spot.  It is alone in the sky to my view.  There is no other bird flying overhead, or on the ground, or even at this moment in the ocean.  It is all by itself in this endeavor.  It did not move an inch; it just hovered, freezing cold wind blowing in its face.  It steels itself, immovable, tipping its wings to keep the wind flowing under it keeping it aloft while tilting its tail side to side to hold it steady.  Six minutes passed and I almost forgot about the ocean.  In an instant its tail tipped and its head pointed down to the earth.  It dropped like an arrow and deeply sank its talons into the flesh of a small field mouse.  The hawk now readied itself to eat.  Then an amazing thing happened, it was not 2 seconds and in flew a large black Raven to claim some portion of the prey. It was amazing.

It struck me that here you have in the ocean so many species each living out its life, each is appointed to its place and each cannot live or thrive outside of its place.   And with this backdrop to this scene of one hawk, willing to risk everything, work hard and brave the storm and claim the prize a Black Raven watched and lay in wait to do what it does best, steal.

I Saw…

Grandpa used to say a silly little limerick to us as kids “I see said the blind man to his deaf wife, as he picked up his hammer and saw.”

St. John tells us that the Angel said to him, LOOK, and I turned and I saw…
 

I am at the ocean today and all this past week.  Anyone that knows me knows that I love the ocean.  I sat on the Rock that I always sit on and I listened again.  It seems like it would be easy to swim out and reach the Horizon.  It’s not that far away really, it is really just right there.  The problem is that when you go looking for something you aren’t satisfied with the object of your first glance.  The further you go the further the Horizon is to you.  It moves away from you.  That’s what I saw as I looked at it from that Rock.
 

I looked at the Seals in the ocean; they peek out of the water and float like a bobber on the top of a small wave.  They dive directly into the big waves, not sure why I can’t see what they're doing.  Similar dilemma with the birds:  they float, they fly, they dive, they always eat.  They seem to be right where they want to be.  But they are still short of the Horizon by a long shot.  It’s like they have no clue what is out there for them.  I do. 
 

Walk with me for a minute along the shore.  It's easier to walk on the sand that has been washed by the ocean.  There’s that line where the tide has soaked the ground and made the normally loose sand more firm.  But the closer you get and the easier it is to walk the more imminent the potential danger “Rip Tides” the signs warn “NO LIFEGUARD.”  It’s the most dangerous place near the edge.   As I walk further from the shoreline the sand is dry and harder to walk in.  But you can smell that ocean so clean, and so self-sufficient.  It contains all that it needs to survive and to thrive.  The closer that I walk to the ocean, the more firm and solid my footsteps become and my feet don’t sink and slide back as I try to walk.
 

So that’s the beach, that’s the shoreline, but the goal is always the Horizon.  I want to reach that.  Not by plane or boat, or some other form of transportation, but me, I want to reach it.  It can’t really move.  It doesn’t really get further as I move toward it.  It just makes no sense.  That edge is where I need to be, and I will reach it.
 

Looking down from the Rock, and having been sitting here for about one hour, and listening to the crashing tide hitting the base of the Rock.  The Rock never moves, it is so incredible to sit on it and look out at that Horizon.  But back to the tide, listen to the sound of the tide when you are here.  It always sounds the same but never the same.  The sound is great.  The smell is just as good, salty, fishy, sandy, and full of clean oxygen.  Man, you can really breathe out here.  The sound and the smell are great but you can’t get over the feel of that tide as the waves crash on the Rock.  A mist, almost imperceptible, cools your face and any exposed skin on your body.  For me it’s typically my face, neck and arms.  Never really on the small of my back, that would be weird.  Sound, smell, feel, it nearly transports me from the Rock to that Horizon. 
 

Then I looked down and I saw the Tide from the Rock.  It was hitting the Rock but not angrily rather like it was saying “We’re together like we always have been.”  See, Creation is all about God, it is NOT God, but it proves God, His glory, His power, His beauty, His sweetness, His very character to the extent we can see it.
 

And for what seemed like the first time I Saw the Horizon in the Tide.  It doesn’t move away, It comes to us if we are on the Rock and it speaks to us, and breathes with us and touches our face and neck.

The Ring

To the Three Knights of Carmichaelia

…As they came into the clearing where the battle was being fought, they looked and saw the small, lifeless body of one of the best scribes ever to serve the King.  Giarc Siwel is gone…

Pulling his body behind the horse, they carried him to the Hill of Bones to place his body among byegone warriors.  Large rocks surround the hill, huge outcroppings as high as the highest trees, 10, 12, 15 times as tall as a man, and no entrance--it must be scaled.  In a way, it forms a giant crown, with its diadems polished by the flesh of those dead.  Moss covers the rocks partially; rain falls and grips the stones making it nearly impossible to climb.  The bodies of the dead are pulled up the sides of the stones; fresh blood dripping down them permanently stains the sides of the green slick boulders.  As they reach the top, they fall, and find themselves nestled among the remains of great men who served the King and died.

For a warrior, death is the next promotion.  The men know not to remove sword, rings or personal belongings, not even under garments, a warrior must be put to rest as he died, no change.  

The lifeless body Giarc is hoisted up, scraping the stone and aiding in the polish of the stone wall.  Slowly pulling the rope until his body drags up over the crowning edge and falls to the bottom on the opposite side of rock with men each greater and yet more humble than the other.  On his right hand Giarc bore a gold ring.

As the body of Giarc fell inside the citadel, each man struck the rock with his sword.  Seven strikes, three times, and the men sighed, deep, agonizing breaths, knowing the job on this battlefield, on this day was made more difficult by the loss of one of their own.  And the rock remained immovable. 

As they looked down, small bits of the stone lay there--some larger than others but the significance of this stone was immeasurable.  It was on this Stone that the King’s own Son swore off the finality of Scratch’s deadly bite.  Here, at this rock, He won the battle’s end, yet by His own mercy, allowed the battle to rage on.  These stones drizzled with the blood of the fight that they embody, were gathered to present to the Knights.  One stone for each Knight; each to remind them of the battle which rages, while won, no substitute could ever replace these first stones.  There is no “new stone” of this kind.

Careful selection was made of the gold that would hold the bits of stone for the Knights.  Gold previously won in battle, to remind them that only victory labored for is at once beautiful and savory, while painful and sweet.

They forged the rings, which held the stones.  The King personally inspected each stone, considered it, and commanded that His servant bless it.  Each shone with a color different than the other but each bore the blood of a warrior which had stained the stone of the great hill.  In each stone the King saw the Son, and in the Son He saw His martyrs, and the servant, and the Princess, and the Knights.  And in that Rock they remained, immovable.

And at the King’s command the servant said out loud:

Blessed art thou oh Lord Our God ruler of heaven and earth,
Who gives children as a gift;
Who makes each a diadem more valuable than diamonds;
Who forgives sin where no forgiveness is sought;
Who remembers the faithful;
And Who restores what is lost.

And with that, all that was lost was restored, and a new beginning began, and a Knight was returned to his place, never to be brought low again.

My Hero

Dad loved his family. He defended each one: their character, their position within the family, and their right to make their own choices.

He made us a team. He kept us together and we always played, and ate dinner, and went to sleep each night together without fail.

I remember (kind of) being dressed in a white T-shirt, tucked into my perfectly pressed jeans, and my Hoss Hat. Dad wore a yellowish short sleeve shirt, pants, and tennis shoes. I sat on the handlebars in front, and I knew I didn’t have to worry about a thing, so I guess I just fell asleep. Totally relaxed, because I also knew that dad was right behind me holding that bike up. He was my hero.

We lived in a small house on 1101 Silver Lake Dr., and I remember it like I lived there my whole life. So many good times. Dad hated it because it was a dangerous area and we could have gotten hurt. Looking back though, I can see that he kept his eye out for me and I never even thought about being in danger. He was always right there with me, and I never had to worry. I just rested.

After work sometimes, Dad would come home and I remember he almost always had candy in his pocket. He would hand it out to us, and that was nice, but we really loved when he would wrap his arms around us and wrestle us to the ground. Playing like that probably only lasted for a minute, but it seemed like the greatest hour of our day. He was really there. Really present. We would all play, and eat dinner, and sleep.

There was always the pallor of financial stress, but Dad kept things going like he does. We were a team He was right there with me and told me everything was going to be fine. He never responded with judgment or anger to my rants. He just stayed with me and I never had to really concern myself with the things outside the team. Outside in the world. I just slept and everything would be ok the next day.

I was right there with Dad the day he and Mom made the decision to leave town for a city far away to start over. I felt so empty and so very alone. I was afraid, but he encouraged me like Dad does, and in the end I still didn’t have to stress. I could always rest and sleep.

I called Dad a lot. I like to talk to him. I would just invent problems to run past him. What the problem was didn’t matter so long as I could hear him work it out with me. He always had ideas, and would hear mine. He stayed with me through all my problems real or not and the answer was the same as it always was. Just rest and sleep.

Dad always made sure I remembered that other people mattered more than me. Not to him, but to that innate selfish desire we all have just beneath the surface of our instincts. Work was first for God, then for others, then for me. This is not an easy lesson to learn, and I am still learning it today, but he always reminded me, and taught me, and all I had to do was grow and rest.

This year was tough. Dad got sick. He faced what really scared him. I could see it in his face, and hear it in his voice.  He would call me often and always opened with “O, hi son.” And then would ask for my help with something. That’s how we always talked when one of us was scared. I heard in his voice that morning that he was facing a real lion. The Lion was victorious as He inevitably always is, But to Dad, that day He was was a lamb, waiting to usher Dad to Himself and into the only place where Dad can play, and eat dinner, and rest.


That Lamb, that is a Lion, is my Hero.

Happy New Year!!!

2012, what a year this promises to be. If you're like me, you get a little nostalgic when you stop and think that time and space as we know it are scheduled to end this year. The Mayan's were very clear about this; December 21, 2012 is the last day that anyone will ever be able to calendar an event.

That's right; the Mayan's predicted a total end to calendars. I'm saddened by this because what will people that don't know me give me for Christmas now? I like the calendars I get each year. My favorite of course is the Ronald Reagan commemorative calendar with many of his notable quotes. I also like the little ones I get from insurance carriers and that place we buy pet food. Gosh, I'm gonna miss the Word of the Day. But I wax nostalgic.

I also get a little scared because "Hey: When will it be ok to start singing Auld Lang Syne?"

It has been said that "necessity is the mother of invention" and I am confident in the people of this country. Someone somewhere will pull themselves up by the boot straps and will draw a grid of 31 boxes and place a number in each box and we will dance. We will all start setting appointments again.

Until then I say, "Thank you Microsoft Outlook, I will use you!" "I will use you until the end of time."

Who is This King?

There is a song that starts “Who is this King of Glory that…” and I thought that is a great question. That is something that great men have contemplated for centuries. I can picture David sitting on the rock overlooking his sheep and asking himself, Who is this King?

I love the Ocean; I love the smell of it, the sound of it and the vast expanse. I sometimes am blessed to go to that place on Earth where God speaks to me the loudest, Bodega Bay, CA. Gorgeous, it is gorgeous. I love to put on my jeans in the morning, not early, and my T-shirt and Leather bomber jacket that was my grandfathers and go down to the ocean. I sit on a certain spot, on a certain outcropping of giant rock and I stop. And I hear the voice “as it were the sounds of many waters” and I seriously marvel. Don’t think I am some strange spiritualist that thinks that sound is Actually God. I don’t, I just imagine. I move closer to Him on that rock.

The ocean really does hold clues. He is the great distance between me and that edge of the earth where the water falls off and pours out into eternity. He is the depth that can not be searched or ever fully known. He is every hidden thing that never surfaces, and every known thing that jumps from the water and reflects the morning sun back at me. He is the one that has raised men up and pulled them down. He is at once calm and tumultuous.

What is amazing to me is that you can’t even come up with enough words to describe all that He is. But what is even more amazing is that like the ocean, while He can’t be fully known or ever tamed, He can be gazed upon and enjoyed. He supplies all that the mariner needs. He cares to be ridden from place to place. He longs to be searched and to those that will with fear and trembling, He opens up and meets the deepest desires of the heart.

So, I go on looking and contemplating this King of Glory? As I think about Him, my mind explodes with thoughts about him. So many I am unable to report them all.

He is the height of beauty. He is the spark and flame of wisdom;
He is the giver of knowledge and the Knowledge itself;
He is a friend and confidant;
He rules over every thought and action of mankind;
He quickens the beast and the spirit of man alike, but not the same;
He is the One who must be known but can’t be grasped;
He is the giver of life and that very Life;
He is the door, the only portal to the Throne;
He is the supreme oracle of the Father;
He is the very first and the very last;
He is the flower on the hill and the hill itself;
He is the Lilly of the valley and the Bright and morning star;
He is the Rose of Sharon and the Rock of Gibraltar;
He is my Deliverer and my Captor;
He is the Servant while Master of all;
He can be fed upon but never exhausted;
He provides out of His wealth and spends nothing;

Then the waves crash again, and I flinch at the thundering sound of it. It is His voice telling me “Yes, all of that and more.”

He is Jesus, the Christ, the King of Glory, the Alpha and Omega. Nothing that is, is, apart from Him. He is the one that quickened my dead heart and gave it life. I did not seek Him, I did not know Him. I could not. But while I was still dead, He died and I lived. And He moves closer to me on that Rock.

The 7 Wonders of the World (We've All Seen Them)

Pick a town, and dirt road, and stream, a creek and put it back in time like 100 years ago. Take your mind there, picture that road. Walk down it, kick the dust smell the brush and trees. Look off to the left at the garden in the midst of the trees and fields. See that little chicken house surrounded by roses? Does it bother you there are only a few chickens and they don’t go in the chicken house, but those 7 silly lanky kids do.

Look at those kids, look at the faces. Those faces, 2, 4, 7, 10 years old are serious and weathered, worked, tanned, smooth and so full of joy.

Imagine them standing, waiting, each with a hoe, at least the ones old enough to hold a hoe. They have to be ready. Water is not something that comes from a faucet here, it comes from the man up stream. When he releases the water you better be ready to pull as much as you can into your garden. They need that water.  They need as much as they can get because it will feed them.  As the water flows at-will toward them, they all move swiftly and divert it into the garden watching as it washes over the soil that covers the seeds that they planted with their own hands.  Like the belly of the young child swooshing down the rollercoaster for the first time and feeling the fear that is drenched in the exhilaration followed by the gasp for air, they work hard.  This is not a joke, there is no time for frivolity now.

There is no food. Crops are not ready. There is no refrigerator they can run in and open and, without giving one thought to the God that provides, pull out a gallon of milk and drink up.  There is no fresh bread they can just grab and make a sandwich "Today is a scary day, a hungry day." They don’t have “too many of them, but they are real.”  They all looked at the sun, blazing on them and punishing them and they smile at each other. Only a few hours of chores left.

Finally, they have done what must be done for a family to survive. They don’t, not even one of them, work for themselves and what they might gain, they work for 8 other people, each loving 7 others, 7 precious people to whom they have a connection that will never find an equal. Without a word, the sense, the invisible communication, the plan opens up wide in each of them and at once as if commanded by a superior officer they run and shed the skins of labor. They tear off the shell of concern and they cast them on the floor, and run to the creek. Yes, it is the creek that you all pictured, the creek with the rope and the bank and the mud. With adolescent callouses on their hands they grab at that rope and swing out into the water where so many other beautiful kids from the “neighborhood” are swimming. In this creek, they were rich and ready to live and no one would tell them any different. You see at the creek, there were no castes, no wealth, no possessions, no title and no rules. They were all "Chicken-house, Brown-house kids."

Only four of them are left to tell the stories they lived. My grandma told me and my boys so many stories. I could tell you each of them as if I was there. She could tell a story. She didn’t think so; she didn’t think much of herself at all, but she was a treasure chest. Pregnant with history and adventure and love.

In her life, long, full and filled with trials. She smiled and laughed and loved. She traveled the entire world over and saw sights that were big and wonderful and amazing. She loved a man that was by all accounts bigger than life itself. But somehow nothing compared to the 7 wonders of the world. The 7 wonders that lived in that really little town, way down that little dirt road, close to the little stream, that ran into that creek with that rope and that beautiful mud, that took us back in time like 100 years ago.

Today is a full day, with food and drink and the absolute absence of fear about tomorrow. I sat with her frail fingers wrapped around her glass of water, no ice, as she tells me that “growing old isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.” I sit with her in my little yard, outside my little house, watching my little boys swim in my little pool. And I cry in my heart, thankful, because God let me swing on that swing, and swim in that creek and redirect that water into that garden, that grew into vegetables, that fed 7 wonders of the world and us.

A Knight to Remember?

“A Knight to Remember” What does that mean? I have been asked that by a few people. In their eyes, I see the squint of mockery. They’d be right if I was the Knight to remember. Heck no, I am not. I’ll tell you if you want to know. No, never mind. I’ll just say this:

There is a great King. There is a Prince who loves the King more than He loves His own life. And there is a people, small creatures, not stately in appearance, nor impressive of speech, but fervent in their desire to serve the Prince and meet the Great King face to face.

There is an evil. It is a gray cloudish power that wraps itself around you and chokes the life out of you. It will at once make you tingle with desire to know more of it and shiver in terror. As you read this, you will feel a harsh but soft, hot breath on the back of your neck. The hair on the body of a human is created to sense the blackness and hatred of the one that rules the shadowy region in which he dwells. In this land, a legion of dark and bitterly hateful spirits live and serve. Their weapons are potent. They wield a sword that cannot be seen by human eyes but can be allowed to sink deep into the flesh of the man piercing all the way to the soul and shadowing the light which makes men grow with belief, hope and love.

But, there is another realm ruled by the Great King and loved fervently by His only Son, the Prince. This world is far more real than the one you sit in today. It is more comforting than the bed you sleep in, or the arms of the mother that holds you. Life wriggles and moves and grows spontaneously, instantly and constantly there. There is Water to drink. There are fish that dance, and have danced, the same dance since they were put there. They wave each fin to move and pump air into themselves, yet not without each intricate motion being first ordered by the Great King Himself. There are birds, such beautiful birds. Pure white, soothing blue, and black with yellow throats, red and light grey. So many different shapes that to describe them would only force images into the mind of the reader which would not do them justice. Long legs, short legs, long beaks, short ones, fat ones, thick feathers or no feathers at all. There are creatures of every kind, small and large, weak and powerful. It is a place all at once calm and bustling with busyness. We don’t live in the world I am describing, but it is the world to which some of us belong.

But, in our present world Death lurks and waits to exact its price from every man.

“Death” was not by order of the King yet the King rules over it and ruled over its conception and creation. It is in itself an enemy of the King; an opposite if you will, yet in no way an equal. I suppose it acts as a servant to the King while acting on its own. It can’t do whatever it wants, but whatever it wants it does. It longs to take from the King His voice, because it is that voice that restrains it. Oh and what a voice it is. Low and powerful but smooth as honey and bellowing at the most soothing end of a scale that does not exist, it really just becomes.

In His most righteous anger He need not raise his voice, for if the King was to raise his voice, one millionth of an octave, in anger, the whole of creation from His world to ours would be changed. Not changed in the sense of changing one’s mind, changed in the sense that NOTHING would remain as it was. No substance would be the same substance, no element the same element. No one would be who he or she was. And no one who was, would “be” again.

And there are three Knights. They are all noble, loving and fair, to all they meet, and to the servant, you will learn of him later. But they are human, bound to both a body of flesh and of rules, neither from which can they escape. And they, and only they, can fight the fight for which they have been conferred the title of Knight.

And there is a Knight to remember.

Hell

Is Hell literal? I have been asked this question over and over again by the same guy lately. His eyes are cold but not calloused, more scared. "I want to know" He says. I do too. But I think soon I will.

I believe in punishment. But eternal damnation? It doesn't make any sense. "What's the point?" I think I know, because if there's ever anyone that deserved it, it is me. I deserve it. My heart filled with obvious, visible, palatable iniquity must needs be damned.

What then is this grace that is spoken so highly of? Why am I even breathing? Why am I able to sit and look at this screen and type this ridiculous rambling list of questions?

I do believe in my total depravity. My total, total inability to live up to a standard. Even my own standard. It is not possible.

Jesus, appeal my case! I am so dead, so devastated, so deserving of being crushed in the wine press of Your wrath. Clothe me, or destroy me. I only deserve the one. I can only attain the one. I can only desire the one. You can not be taken hold of, You can only take hold of. You are the Beautiful One.

God, have mercy!

Hell is not about punishment, but about the goodness and greatness and beauty, and perfection and righteousness of God. I am so bland.

READ THIS: http://www.desiringgod.org/resource-library/sermons/the-echo-and-insufficiency-of-hell-part-1

Smiles, Faces & Weeds

A picture is worth a thousand words. Several years of pictures sing volumes into the spirit of a man. I have more than 40 years of Christmas and Thanksgiving pictures that I rotate on the big screen with Christmas music and this year something hit me.

My Grandpa Lewis smiled big and he meant it. My Dad stays stoic and serious reading something I asked him to look over for me. My mother smiles big too. I know she means it, but truth be told, she is like me, there is a lot in there that no one gets to know. Sue is very happy to be there, wherever there is. Tricia doesn’t smile at all; she is the smile to everyone in the room and in the picture. She is the smile that is always in the room with me.

The thing that I can see clearly, is that there is a difference between a smile and joy.

Every year, my wife has a “Cookie Day” it is like Willy Wonka and the oompa loompas invade my house. I watch as kids who have been here for years and who are starting to decide on careers and school and bigger things come in sit down, and make a snowman out of a candy cane. They make up games and laugh. They drink soda and coffee and eat freshly decorated cookies. They have fractured tacos and eat and just enjoy each other. As they see the camera turn on them, they change in an instant to a moment of silly defiant mockery making faces and acting out what is really in their hearts, joy.

We talk to them, we being Tricia aka Mrs. Lewis or the Cookie lady to some, and each of them has a story.

One story goes like this: My Dad lost his job and hasn’t been working for some time, my mother is pregnant and we aren’t really going to have Christmas this year. Mom and Dad need to use school savings for food and bills. Things are going to work out though and I am going to be a Trauma Surgeon. What the...? I love this girl. She has it all, angst, fears, trials, Smiles and Joy. You don't get that by yourself, it's given to you.

Another is a beautiful young girl that is a little confused about who she is really. But she is for the time being very happy if not a little uncomfortable. She’s older than most of the others, but not really, not on the inside.

There are even some who lost their father tragically when they were very young, and they have survived and fought against the despair that must threaten them every day. And I have never witnessed bigger brighter smiles.

Some of them organize a small contingent and take to the streets, Christmas Caroling. Who Caroles anymore? Angels.

Then the pictures start rolling by on the big screen as Stille Nacht Heil'ge Nacht plays inside and out of my house. A fire burns in the fireplace and I watch as the central theme of Christmas dances in the eyes and the hearts of these very incredible people.

And I hear a voice in me that says “look at the faces.” I am, I respond quietly. “No look at all of the faces!” So I concentrate and watch them one after another after another. They are all smiling or smirking, eating and laughing while pointing.

Then I see it. I see what the voice is trying to get me to see. There is one picture, then another, then another and the same thing in it. The same person and I can almost feel thorns and roots and weeds wrapping themselves around him. He smiles, but only on the outside, I think.

So I keep watching, and listening, and then a little boy with denim shorts and a new baseball glove comes on the screen, his plaid hat askew on his head, and a pacifier in his mouth. That picture is followed by a snap shot of three little boys playing in a box pretending it is a fort that cannot be breached. Next is a baby picture of my youngest in a car seat with his typical smirk and gleam in his eye. And then finally a boy wearing deep blue feety pajamas and the brightest blue eyes you have ever seen, he turned 22 today. Then the voice I love to hear whispers to me “only on the outside.” And all at once I am filled with joy, and I get up from my seat and kiss that smile that is always in the room with me, and the weeds start coming off, even if only on the inside. And I feel like a smile.

So much I love

There is so much I love about her that so many hate or brush aside. She is the light that shines, for now, so that many can see in the night. She is altogether lovely. I marvel at the disdain for all that she has represented for so long, when all that she has represented is that "we all just get along." But that is not really what they want. They don't want her to live and love and care for and treat and help. They want to destroy her. Like a bad spouse they want to change her. They want to make her what has made them hurt. Misery you see loves company.

No, even more than that misery hates all that is good and all that does not live in misery.

Can darkness abide with light? Can right, truly suffer wrong? Should truth bow, half way, to inaccuracy? Has a Thief ever broken into a bank to correct a journal entry against himself? Why must good bow to evil in our day. Why should not right stand firm against wrong. What is law if it is only to be applied to the law abiding.

This is NOT God’s plan. This is NOT the model. We human beings, not white men, but living breathing human beings are duty bound to either acknowledge the boundaries established by law or be overrun by the anarchy of children too foolish to understand their error. Too foolish to see the evil they perpetrate. Too foolish and too ignorant to acknowledge the havoc they reek on good men. They think they love, care for and help. Perhaps they are, but really for the most part they love, care for and help the one they love the most.

Wake up kids, you didn't even know what was happening when we watched you vomit for the first time. Don't you think the Boundaries of the Ancestors should be respected. Don't you think we have seen it or been told of it. But you move them, you adjust them at your whim, but know this, there is a God and He started the story and He taught your elders and He said "don't be quick to move the Boundaries of your Ancestors" for a reason.

The Garden

It was so sunny and hot, in fact it felt like there was a heat wave. The old man’s rough, scarred and bony hands were gloved by burned, overworked sundrenched skin. Every day he would get up and go to work at a job that was truly killing him.

I loved to watch him leave and I got so excited when he would come home. He drove what was probably the last real, steel Dodge truck ever made. No, not some aluminum or fiberglass piece of junk, but real BETHLEHEM STEEL production grade metal Dodge painted a camouflage green, only without the camouflage. I can’t explain it, it was amazing. Not the truck, the time, the Epoch. It was a time of innocence, and education, and growth. I was a seed planted, watered, watched over. It was THE time that made me who I am. Every bit of who I am. Everything about that time the barn, the hay, the family, the neighbors, the garden had an remarkable yet unremarkable affect on me. Sleeping in a garage with three brothers, and spying, hearing him pray that each one of us and our sister would be protected in body, mind and spirit. It was great, I can smell it now.

I remember going out to the garden with the heat of the day beating on me and the old man, and he never complained ever. Oh sure, he would stop his work periodically and lean against a fence post and sigh a big deep sigh. I do that to this day and EVERYONE thinks I am sad or depressed, or something. People don’t get it, I am just conditioned, I am not sad I am breathing and I am smelling because the old man said I should. I do what my master taught me, I sigh and I return to my work. That day, that hot, late spring day, he told me how his dad taught him to plant tomatoes and corn and cucumbers, oh and radishes. It was great. I learned what it took, and what timing was all about. You see you don’t just throw seed on the ground or stick it in holes, you prep and you pray and you wait. Then you plant just before a full moon and your seeds will germinate more readily. I did it that way year after year after year, and each year they would grow and I would harvest and every time I picked a vegetable I felt joy, real joy. Oh yeah, each year, I planted and I prayed. I prayed that God, the maker of heaven and earth would say the word that would cause that seed to germinate, and drink in the earth and the water, and He does.

On that hot day, the old man made me cut rows by hand with a hoe and it seemed like it took hours. Row after row, we were chopping the earth making the soil soft and ready for a seed. He promised me that if I would ask God to help, He would help. I remember it like it was two days ago, he said to me, make a hole as deep as your finger up to your second knuckle (I had shorter hands then). Do that every 10 inches in the row. Put three seeds in each hole. Now we will water it. “There is nothing more we can do now” he would say. We would then almost ritualistically bow our heads and turn it over to the next Gardner and we knew He would always do what was right. What a huge blessing to have that time.

I mentioned the heat, because it is really integral to my story, and yours. I mentioned the old man’s hands because they were exposed to the heat day after day, month after month and year after year. The heat comes out of nowhere, and literally scorches you. You sweat, you tire, you thirst, you groan and you wipe your brow with your handkerchief (I know that because that is what the old man would do as he sighed and leaned against that fence). But as he told me that day, “Bub, if you will watch the ground where you placed the seed, and if you will water, weed and pray every day, the real Master gardner will say the word and make that seed crack open under the cool earth and out will spring a small root, and a sprout and then fruit.” But, he told me, “without the heat, there will be no death, and without the death, there will be no life.” There can be no fruit.

More than 40 years have passed since that day, two days ago, so much pain has come and gone in so many lives. So much anger from this world. So much heat. In the mornings, it doesn’t slow you down. It is cool and refreshing, so you don’t think about that heat coming. You feel like this is how it will always be, quiet, cool and restful. But before you even realize it, that old truck is coming up the lane and, turning into the gravel driveway, brakes squeaking and it dawns on you, that it is the heat of the day and you missed the morning. Worse yet, you realize the real work is about to begin.

Two years ago, I remember thinking that things seemed good or warm. I thought of that leathery old man and his lessons. But I complained, and I groaned and I wiped my brow and then I realized, it’s only morning, the real work is about to begin. I could hear the gravel under the truck tires and I knew I was about to get down to my chores. I wish I had recognized it earlier, I could have found so much joy in planting and waiting and praying.

In my house, in Carmichael, in California and in America, it is now late afternoon and the heat is beating down. Friends are fatigued and tempted to turn from us, and we from them, and many will. It is hot and we are looking for a post to lean on and a handkerchief with which to wipe our brow and cease from our labor, but the sun is shining and the old man would not allow it. “Pick up the hoe now” he would say and let’s ready that dirt for the seed and the seed for the word that will be spoken. And when it is spoken, the moon will pull as only it can, and the sun will shine down and the water will soften the hard seed and there will be a crack and a root and a sprout. And soon, very soon there will be fruit and a harvest and joy, real joy. I know this because the old man promised and I heard him talking to the next Gardner and I know He will always do what is right.

Choices

In the kitchen there is a big bowl of fruit. Sometimes it is all different, other times it’s all the same fruit. I was wondering which one was the best of the apples. I picked them up one by one, and I thought "I own them all, they are mine. I should just love them all the same, they’re all mine."

I picked them up and I smelled them. Each smelled so “appley,” and I loved it. I love the smell of apples. I picked them up, smelling and feeling each of them and then put them back in the bowl one by one. Experiencing each of them alone, and somewhere in my minds memory, I catalogued them. They are mine and I can have them as I want them.

I have owned a lot of cars. I started with one my dad gave me. I called it Kermit. It was a big, huge Mercury Park Lane. It was great. I also owned a Ford Courier. I got to have it painted by an expert Low Rider Artist. It was well, Bold. I also owned a Sentra, a Corolla, and a Maxima. But among my cars, I remember most my Ford Mustang GT. I drove them all, but I really drove the GT. It was fast, fun, loud and had that “throatie,” American exhaust sound that only a real American muscle car can make. It was for me, MY car I drove it, I really drove it.

Isn’t all that just boring? I spend a lot of time thinking. I drive a lot.

I thought back to the apples. Which one do I love the most? My boy Nate grabs one on his way to school, but it is mine. My wife may have one sliced up with her dinner, but it is also mine. Do I really love those?

Today, I had one of the apples. I picked it up. I was hungry for an apple. I smelled it. I held it in my hands and felt it. I looked at it, and I thought: "I can’t taste it. I can’t hear this apple." Then I bit into it. I tasted it, and as my teeth sunk into its flesh and the blood of the apple quenched my thirst and in an almost wasteful way, splashed onto my lips. I could almost feel the crisp crunch in my ears. I found the apple I loved the most. It was a miracle. One bite and I had my favorite. I didn't do anything for it, I didn't give it a gift, I ate it and I tasted it and I drank it in. It was so refreshing. It literally fed me while none of the other apples in that big wooden bowl did anything but sit there.

So now I am driving again, and I am thinking: "Here I am in my Chrysler 300C driving smoothly at 90 miles per hour. And I thought which one is in the bowl? Which one is my favorite? Which one do I really love?"

Then I looked in the bowl and in my mind’s eye, I saw all of my gods, and my God. And I wondered which one do I eat, and drink and smell and taste and love the most? There are so many, and only one that speaks to me or hears me. Only one that answers and cares. Only one that instructs me to Love Justice, Show Mercy and Walk Humbly before Him.

And He is the one I have not eaten completely. He is the one that stands and beckons me saying “come to me if you are hungry” and warns me “if you do not eat my flesh and drink my blood, you shall not…”

Truth is, the apple I eat is the apple I love. My lies are exposed, I can’t tell the one “I love you” but eat the other.

Shadows

I started thinking, as I often do, about a ghost, how did it get there? Really it is more of a shadow. The only real substance is that which I gave it in my mind, but it is there, I put it there.

When I was a little boy, it followed me. I remember nights when it would touch my neck and speak to me and the hair on my neck would literally go up and I would shiver. I began to move a little faster and work a little harder in the hopes that time and space would work their magic increase the distance between us. It never did. The specter was huge and I knew it was bigger than me, and if it wanted to, it could overshadow me and I would be insignificant.

Don’t think for a moment I care if I am significant. That is really irrelevant. The issue is this, the ghost was significant. The shadow was looming over me. I put it there.

Day after day, it would be there, it wasn’t mean, or angry, it was there. It helped me it punished me, and it comforted me. Every memory included it. Every thought was possessed by it. It was there, I put there.

I worked hard, I struggled with the things around me. Sometimes I would do things and I would make choices and the shadow would be there, it would say things and instruct me. I would be angry and yell at it. I wanted it to go away, I thought “I can’t see past you, move, let me see!” and it would move but it was there, I put it there.

I knew, I really knew, that it was there for me, the shadow was there for me and wanted me to see, to really see. It would stand with me in my success and in my error. Not like so many others who stood with me in my success, shoulder to shoulder, and in my error or in my weakness they fled like cowards. But not the shadow, it never left me.

Later in life people began to say, ”Hey you’re like that shadow.” No, I would say, I am not like that. I am me, I could never be like the shadow. Have you really seen the shadow, have you really felt the shadow? I don’t think so. I have heard it speak for 46 years, I have taken instruction from it, it has fed me. You have no idea how big it is, you don’t understand that I could never be like that shadow.

I have three boys, they're so great. I love each one of them for different reason. They are huge, they have substance that was put there by someone greater than me, partly the by the shadow, partly by me, mostly by the Great King.

They have character. They don’t think so, but they have such character. To each of them, they are all still dressed in old hand-me-down overalls and sandals. They are small and when I speak the hair on the back of their necks stand up, and they shiver.

They can’t see past me, they need to know I’ve moved. I’m small, I can’t even cast a shadow in full sunlight, but I’m there, they put me there.

But then again, there is an explanation

I own things. They have no say in what I do with them. Sometimes I care for every little need they have, other times, I defer my maintenance. My involvement with them is really more of an emotional response to the moment, because I don’t look at things and say to myself “If I do this or that, the thing will be better off in 5 years.” I don’t have that perspective.

Perspective is an interesting concept. When my nephew Samuel was very young, about five, I think, he drew a picture of a battle. His dad is the very best Chaplain in the US military and so Sam grew to love and respect the military early on. So in the drawing of the battle scene, Sam showed some very large people simply dominating the little midget-like warriors against whom they stood in full battle array. Looking at the giants literally destroying the dwarfs, my brother said to his son, “that seems like an unfair fight, giants killing midgets, doesn’t it?” To that Sam, with a perplexed look on his face said, “They’re not giants dad, they’re just closer.” That is perspective.

Someone once wrote “But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for God’s own possession, so that you may proclaim the virtues of the one who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light. You once were not a people, but now you are God’s people. You were shown no mercy, but now you have received mercy.”

A “Chosen Race” of all the races that find themselves on the earth today, if you are a believer, then you and yours are part of the chosen one. The race of those chosen before the foundation of the earth, not black or white or protestant or catholic, but chosen. That is perspective. From my vantage point I am the midget. I have enemies that are huge giants, and they want to crush me. To me, I am in the middle of turmoil, I am pressed on every side so that friend is enemy and foe seems like friend. It is perspective.

What must the giant’s perspective be? I’ll tell you my thought is this: that God, the Creator of Heaven and Earth, is that giant. We don’t need to guess at His perspective; we don’t need to care, because it is His perspective. His perspective cannot be mistaken because unlike any other creature filled with pride He has clearly stated where He stands, what He sees.

Have you ever been to a wedding? I was in one, I had to have my own to be in one. People don’t ask me to be in their weddings, but they invite me, so I have a real interesting perspective on weddings. No one anticipates the entrance of the Groom. He is ultimately important, and full of value. He is the real character that matters, but no one anticipates the groom. Everyone anticipates the bride. If you’re a guest, a male guest, you aren’t the groom, but you love the bride. As she walks in, a sense of envy rushes over you. You see her like her father intends for you to see her, as so glorious, so beautiful and so graceful.

But the groom has perspective. An unobstructed view up the aisle, there is always an aisle. He watches the closed doors of the sanctuary. they appear so grand, so big, bulging pressing forward, like they are holding back the sun. They seem to bend and bow under the stress of the moment. And for him they are. The music always starts with the dun, dun, dun-dun, and then with what appears to be an effortless movement, the doors swing open. Out comes a gleaming light which to the groom shines brighter than the sun which the doors held back, and in walks the most beautiful creature He has ever seen. Transformed from her prior state of gorgeous, to real BEAUTY.  It doesn’t matter what was the former state. Now, right now, she is nothing short of the last gasp of air He can muster. She is the life that breathes within him. She is the heart that beats in His chest. She is the Bride, the prize, that soul for which he fought and would now die. And from His perspective His knees buckle. He is stronger than ever before. He is whole and to take her from Him is to violently remove the life in Him.

In Revelation 21:9 I read “Then one of the seven angels who had the seven bowls full of the seven last plagues came and spoke with me, saying, "Come here, I will show you the bride, the wife of the Lamb.” This angel doesn’t say it as if to say, we can peek at her from afar, we can steal a glimpse and no one will know. No!, he is saying “Oh you have to see this glorious light, she was chosen by the butchered lamb.”

His perspective was that of one that was close up. He could really see her, smell her, and serve her. He saw her from the Lambs perspective.

Opus Dei

It’s gonna be a great year, it has to be. 2010 would have to be blindfolded and retarded with literally no control of its bowels not to accidently be better than the past few. By that I mean the last three years have just been fabulous. 2010 is shaping up to be a year.

I bought my wife a new car. She loves it. It gets her around in style. I bought it for our 21st anniversary on January 9, 2008. I didn’t realize that I was going to be selling my business and then escorted off my property by my friend of 28 years. But I understand his dilemma; a young convicted felon out of Florida had accused me of making him uncomfortable because I wanted him to do his job. The beautiful thing is that my Chrysler is paid off, that’s a good thing.

It’s fun to start over. You first spend lots of time thinking of all the alternatives, what your talents are, how you can apply them to the lives of others and how you can make money from them. That takes about 10 minutes and then you think you just need a job. This stage I have called “floundering”, because you feel like you’re just floundering. But hard work and some studying can help you realize that there is no way at 46 years old you are going back to school and getting a degree and then becoming a lawyer. This stage I called “WHEW!!” Because you can’t imagine how much more I would rather walk around with my entrails dangling outside of my body than go sit in a stupid college of nearly any kind.

Maytag went out of business immediately following the day the Home Depot guy said this is the state of the art washer and dryer. I buy nothing but the best. Does anyone really need a washing machine? People did without them for hundreds and thousands of years. My new state of the art washer started making continuous beeping sounds and the water won’t stop running. It’s just the control panel so it can be replaced for just over the cost of a new machine. My Grandma spent hundreds of hours reminiscing with me in my back yard and telling stories of her childhood. The hard work that she had to do, how much she loved it, how close it brought her to her family etc. So I don’t really need the washing machine.

My son totaled his car. He just wasn’t watching, that’s the best way to describe it. I want to say that the lady in front of him caused the accident by hitting the person in front of her and then slamming on her brakes, but that would only be technically true. He had the last clear chance, and was too close. Watch out kids. The positive note is that my insurance was paid so they fixed the car. It did save me $10,000 because I had a deal with him that I would give him $10,000 if he went until he was 23 without an accident or a moving violation. It is a great father that bets against his children.

Here’s a really interesting side note. In my Chrysler I keep a small container that I had filled with “Bag Balm” this is an ointment that ranchers use to soften a cows teat. It works on my teats too, but I mostly just use it on my lips. Well, I notice small bits of brown spots at the bottom underneath the balm itself, but it never bothered me. My son asked me the other day what that was at the bottom; I said just something that was in the container when I put the Bag Balm in. It was. In retrospect, what I think must have been in the container before I put the Bag Balm in was Bacteria. Because when I finally took the swipe of ointment that released the liquid poison that was built up into a bubble and wiped it on my lips without looking, naturally my lips began to burn like they were on fire. So being the younger brother of a paramedic-firefighter-military security specialist-bomb diffuser, I did what I knew, I licked them. I was able to keep myself from vomiting though, and only had an upset stomach for about 2 hours. Bacteria go away after a while.

My car was due for an oil change; I waited a couple of weeks because I have had so much to do these days. I took it in today and they changed the oil and rotated the tires and I asked for new windshield wiper blades. They found about $2,000 of major repairs that need to be done because I am leaking oil and fluids everywhere. They’re a great shop so I trust them. Oh yeah, I had the foresight to make the dealer GIVE me a 7 year/70,000 mile warranty on my car when I bought it 4 years ago. That’s because I am a very smart businessman. My mileage is 73,736. I bet Chrysler will work with me though;

Internal revenue is auditing my former company and they want my taxes as well so I am pretty sure at any minute, my doorbell is going to ring and a doctor wearing a tool belt is going to tell me that my testicles are being crushed with a hammer because “it just seems like the thing to do.”

2010 will be fun (said with a raspy high pitched voice)