Terry Started It

Terry stunk. Tall for his age, he had flunked a couple grades. Long messy hair, ratty clothes, constantly dirty. His chipped tooth protruded from his mouth and his voice cracked when he talked, always saying the wrong things. He didn’t fit in—anywhere. Too smelly and awkward to hang out even with the geeks, nerds, and dweebs. A true outcast.

And I was stuck being his friend.

It was Chris’ fault. He invited Terry to play with our foursome of Fourth Grade buddies that day on the playground. I instantly rejected the idea, but Chris, with his constant spastic energy, was the defacto leader of the group, and his will always won out.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if Chris had stuck around. But a few months later his dad took a job a couple hours away. By then Terry had latched on as a permanent fixture and the other guys in the group slowly distanced themselves. When fifth grade started, it was stinky Terry, and me.

That was the start of poverty for me. Not in money, but in spirit. Terry unknowingly started me on an uncomfortable path in life that I’m sure is destined to save me from myself.

This blog is the continuation of that journey that started 25 years ago. One in which I am finding God in the needs of those around me and in the poverty of my own soul. Come with me. It won’t always be this heavy. Sometimes goofy, often reflective, and maybe corny at times. Most likely, it will stink—like Terry. Like me. But that’s all part of it.

Gratitude Hurts

We were friends for only a year, but in a way, Terry was the truest friend I could have ever had. He stunk on the outside, but no worse than I smelled on the inside. His odor was nothing compared to my disdain for people lower than me, dumber than me, and poorer than me.

Not that I meant to or even realized it, but looking down on him made me feel better about myself. Even at eight years old, I realized that there were higher social circles that I didn’t belong in, but at least I wasn’t as bad off as Terry.

He only made it worse by occasionally fawning over me, thanking me for being his friend, grateful, because without me not a single person would have spoken to him except as an insult. Kids are cruel and I was Terry’s only refuge. His gratitude hurt though, revealing to me how limited my friendship to him actually was. Sure, we sat together in class and I’d take him to church with me. But it was an act of tolerance, not love or loyalty. I did it because I knew I should, not because I wanted to. It was pity, not friendship.

I feel so hollow about it now, so hypocritical. I’m glad I did the right thing. I just wish I had felt the right thing, too--had done it for the right reasons.

It’s possible to help someone and not love them, but it’s impossible to love someone and not help them. One gives charity, the other gives dignity.

Terry has helped me see the truth about myself. That‘s what a friend does.

A League of Your Own

He was in love with my sister. It embarrassed her to no end, of course. What is it about guys going for the girl way out of their league? Yeah, I had a crushes on popular girls, but I kept my mouth shut about it. Not Terry.

His whole existence was a faux pas that he was only vaguely aware of, if at all. You don’t talk that way, you don’t act that way, and you certainly don’t go anywhere looking and smelling like that. If he was embarrassed, he didn’t show it. I felt embarrassment enough for both of us.

As long as I was with him, I was an outcast by association. I’d catch the glances and hear the comments behind his back. In a small way, I experienced his world of rejection. And it hurt.

Through Terry, I discovered the difference between sympathy--hurting for someone--and empathy--hurting with someone. It’s a matter of reaching out of your league in the other direction.

Round and Round She Goes

I was at a Hardee’s fast food joint in another city when it happened. “There he is,” my brother said, but I didn’t believe him. A red bandana disguised his hair, but it was the same lanky stride, same smile, same voice. Four or five years hadn’t changed us that much.

Terry.

I can’t remember what I said other than small talk. Then goodbye. Glad to see you, we’ll probably never see each other again, have a good life. I meant it. I really wanted his life to turn out better. I like to think that he graduated, got a good job, found something meaningful to do in life, got married, had kids, and lived happily ever after.

I have my doubts though. Cycles are hard to break.

It was a dump, the home he lived in when we were in school together. Tall grass, weathered paint, rusty hinges—probably had plastic on the windows, though I don’t remember for sure. I thought it was abandoned, but apparently his family lived there along with some mangy cats that Terry wanted to show me. I don’t think his parents wanted to be poor, but they seemed content with it.

Terry’s was a cycle of lower class poverty and social misfit. Not an easy thing to overcome without some catalyst to break the spell.

I have my own cycles. Middle-class comfort. Educated arrogance. Poverty blindness. Many more. They too will roll on endlessly without some outside force at work.

I’ve finally found the magic that breaks the enchantment. Stick around and find it too.

But first, a few more stories. It’s all part of the journey.

Me Redefined

Jeans, panty hose, and high heels. It was probably trendy somewhere that year in the 1980‘s, but not in our town, not in our school. Theresa’s locker was next to mine and I heard her sobbing as she gathered her books. I had heard the snide comments from the popular girls as they walked by a moment earlier, taking an easy verbal jab at her.

She was another outcast. Not so far down the social ladder as Terry, but not so high as the average crowd either. I’d known her since first grade, but hadn’t spoken to her much. “Don’t let them get you down,” I heard myself saying. “They’re such jerks. You look fine.”

It wasn’t much, but I felt good trying to reassure her. Ever since Terry had moved away after fifth grade, I had moved up into a socially better crowd. Nothing drives survival in Junior High like popularity.

But Theresa’s predicament was one of many events during that time that kept me grounded. It kept awake my resolve to be a friend to the friendless and give dignity to people who are on the outside. I doubt my words did much to help her. But saying it out loud defined for me once again whose side I was on.

It takes only a small word or gesture to redefine who we are.

Just for Kicks

It smelled like a triple dose of peppermint down the entire hallway. His eyes were red and puffy with tears. Ryan was the fattest kid in Junior High, which meant that he was one of the loneliest. This time a couple bullies had emptied an entire tube of Icy Hot into his underwear while he was in the shower after gym.

I admit with shame that I’ve shared that story since and laughed at the thought of it. Ryan wasn’t laughing that day. The burn of that medicated cream would have made anyone cry. There was far more than that behind his tears.

It‘s horrible how our emotional scars cripple us. One day after that, Ryan started trying to kick me in the shins, laughing as I told him angrily to stop. I was his friend, or the closest thing he had to one, which might be why he felt safe enough to act out his frustrations. He must have known I would stick by him.

We need that safety--when we’re so desperate for affection and can’t figure out how to get it. Any attention will do so that even the anger of a friend feels like love. It’s better than nothing. At least someone responds to us.

The guys who did that to Ryan have probably forgotten all about it. Just another prank pulled on a dare. I’ll bet Ryan remembers though, along with countless other rejections and abuses. Only this time I’m not there to take the kicks. Maybe it’s his dog, or his wife, or his kid, or himself.

Hurting people hurt people. The bullies hurt Ryan. He tries to hurt me. Maybe someone hurts the bullies to begin with and that’s what makes them what they are. The cycle passes on.

Where does it stop? When healing removes the hurt.

Good Morning

I fell asleep for twenty years.

All of the stories so far have been simple snapshots from my childhood, markers which I’ve revisted to help me make sense of what’s going on inside me now.

I still smell Terry’s unwashed jeans. I still hear the sound of lockers slamming while Teresa sniffled. I still see the devastation behind Ryan’s eyes as he walked the hall alone. But I had forgotten it for so long. Until someone recently awakened the memories.

He’s smarter than people give him credit for. He doesn’t smell bad or dress weird. But he’s a modern day Terry. When he talks about how people treat him, I’m transported back to fifth grade where I am a refuge for an outcast, the closest thing to a friend he might have right now.

He struggles to find his place in the world and I hurt for him. I have very few answers except for an encouraging word now and then. Mostly I listen. Turns it’s the best thing I can do for myself. Yes, for me.

Yeah, he needs someone to talk to. But when I listen to him, I live the story of his hurt and it stirs something in me. Discomfort. My usual routine is disrupted, my awareness disturbed. My easy professional life comes face to face with the heartache of someone unable to keep a job, lonely, mocked behind his back, brushed off by everyone I’ve seen him with.

He woke me up to things that lay dormant for so long. He reminds me of people I’ve known before, of what I used to be about. He’s one more story in which I’ve though I was the hero, but find myself in need of saving instead.

He’s not the only one. Now that I’m awake, I’m finding more Terry’s.

Underneath

He doesn’t have all his teeth and it’s difficult to understand him when he talks. He’s always clean, but unkempt. Wrinkled skin and shaggy hair frame his hearty smile. Chatty and friendly, his outward appearance belies the fullness of his human worth, his heart, his intelligence. Like so many Terry’s.

His story is so much deeper, more complex and heartbreaking. I described here, but deleted it because it bothered me so much. Maybe because it paints him one-dimensionally, as if all there is to him is his poverty. Maybe it makes his difficulties too public. Maybe it’s just not my story to tell. It’s his.

He’s truly poor. Bankrupt. Can’t work due to his health and Social Security doesn’t pay all that well. Medicine eats up almost every cent. The trailer he calls home is falling apart and they have to move, but his wife doesn’t want to leave, for who knows why. It’s odd the things we cling to sometimes.

I want to help him, but I’m not sure how. A gift of money might help, but then what? The hole is so deep, it seems inescapable. How do you help the seemingly helpless?

The only answer I’ve come to is simply to get to know him as best I can. As small as it seems, friendship may be an even greater need to him than clothing, food, or money. So I listen. I ask questions. I want to know this man so that I can care for him as a friend and not just a mercy project.

In a way, it costs me much more than only writing a check. Takes more time, more effort. It’s uncomfortable. But it’s more rewarding. I’m not just meeting a need, I’m meeting a real human being.

Recipe for Change

Have you picked up on it yet? The secret?

I promised a few posts ago to reveal the potion that continually cures me (because I am continually ill) of my “whatever-it-is” that keeps me from caring or even noticing Terry’s.

Here’s my personal recipe (I’m still experimenting with it):

Take one frozen self, let thaw in the fridge of exposure to other people’s needs. Trim fat acquired from being so self-centered for so long. Remove thick skin accumulated from seeing needs just on TV, not up-close-and-personal.

Soak in marinade of thought-provoking books and true-to-life examples of people doing good in the world. Rub in the fact that the frozen self has had it so much better in life than most others.

To enhance tenderness, let sit for some time with an unloved person, doing much more listening than talking. (Note: If you find it difficult finding an unloved person, you may have to look beyond your normal routine and friends. It’s an essential ingredient if you want your dish to succeed, so don’t skimp!)

Throw self into a pot of personal challenges to stew and simmer. Chop and add assorted character. Season with experiences of actually helping others close by and far away. Dish up with a side of humility. Serves as many as needed.

Me TV

“Why are you watching that?” my wife will ask. I’m never really sure.

For the first four years we were married, we didn’t even own a TV. We still don’t watch it that much except for a favorite show each week or when I just need to turn my brain off after a hard day.

Occasionally as I’m flipping through, I’ll stumble across one of those shows that fascinates and disgusts me.

“Made” is one such show, usually featuring some high school kid dweeb who wants to lose weight, be homecoming queen or win a beauty pageant. I can’t believe I’m watching MTV…

“Intervention” is another—where families drown in the hopelessness of trying to save the life of their addicted loved one. Inevitably, after heaving 45 minutes through a person’s ruined life, the show climaxes in a confrontation, the addict agreeing to get help, and then an epilogue telling how he fell off the wagon six months after rehab. Depressing stuff.

For a nerd like me who generally prefers nature shows, Discovery Channel, and Sci Fi, these reality shows are a misfit. But I’m drawn to them...

...because these are shows about me.

I’m not fat. I don’t want to be homecoming queen. I’m not addicted to anything (except sitting at a computer all day and all night). But that’s me on the screen.

I have been on the outside of social circles. I have wanted someone to believe in me to achieve something impossible. I have drowned my hurts and numbed my pain in my own ways, if not substance abuse.

So I’m rooting for the underdog, watching my life vicariously on the TV, hoping against hope for the hopeless. Often, I’ll see something new about the type of people I’m watching. And if I take time to think about it, I’ll learn something about me.

'Fraid So

My drive to work takes me past one of several trailer parks nearby. Chris, my best friend as a child, lived in a trailer and I thought nothing about it back then. But lately I’ve been afraid of them.

Here’s how my emotional logic works:

• People don’t naturally want to live in a trailer.
• They must be living in a trailer because they have no choice.
• They must not have enough money.
• Without money, people can’t get their basic needs met like food, health care, and clothing.
• Those people must be cramped, hopeless, miserable, and ashamed.
• I don’t want to be poor, cramped, hopeless, miserable, and ashamed.
• I better stay away from trailers.

I don’t actually worry about being poor, but I certainly don’t want it to happen. So, unconsciously, I distance myself from it as much as possible. That’s why I’m uncomfortable driving past worn down sections of town, shopping in Aldi discount grocery, or seeing beggers on the street.

It’s why I feel good staying at a nice hotel, shopping in an upscale mall, wearing snazzy clothes, or sipping cappuccino in a Barnes & Noble. It keeps poverty at bay, misery out of mind, hopelessness far from my heart. I feel secure, upwardly mobile, successful just by association. It sounds shallow when I say it now, but it’s true.

But I’ve become the very thing I’ve been trying to avoid. My aversion to anything resembling poverty has me feeling ashamed now. I’m miserable in my middle-class comfort, knowing that people need help. I feel hopeless trying to figure out what to do. I’ve been too cooped up and cramped in this narrow way of thinking and living.

So now when I drive by the trailers, I feel less of an aversion and more of a connection. They represent now more than the poverty of their tenants, but the poverty of my soul. And that's a good thing.

Space Junk

Image above: Flight Engineer Clay Anderson, at the end of the station's robotic arm, jettisons the Early Ammonia Servicer. Image credit: NASA TV

With a shove, a refrigerator-size piece of man-made trash slowly tumbles into space, never to be seen again.

It’s the perfect picture of our human habit.

1. Get something.
2. Keep it until it’s no good or we’re bored with it.
3. Find someplace to dump it where we won’t have to deal with it anymore.

We do it with space junk, and it flies off to oblivion or to land in the backyard of some poor Martian.

We do it with clothes, cars, cellphones, CDs, toys, furniture, TVs, gadgets and gizmos, fashions and fads.

We do it with relationships.

Most times, things and people disappear. Out of sight, out of mind. Sometimes, they stick in our memories for better or worse. Occasionally, they come back to haunt us or delight us.

But they never truly disappear, no matter what we may think.

Throw Some Dirt On It

There’s only one hill in our county. I’d say it’s about three stories high, a square mile in area.

Everything else is fairly flat farmland, green and fertile in summer. But this hill is barren and brown. Sure, someday it will probably be covered in grass, maybe even a golf course. But underneath will always be a mountain of rubbish.

The first time I took a load to a landfill, I was overcome by the smell and the sheer volume of garbage. Never really thought about where all that stuff goes that I toss in the trash. Now I easily envision it being shoved around by bulldozers, jutting out of the ground like a corpse clawing out of its grave.

We always think we can bury our problems, whether its work, family, hurts, frustrations, or actual trash. But eventually we’ll run out of space. We’ll pollute our own drinking water. We’ll leave a mocking scar on the landscape that even our best efforts won’t disguise.

Better to deal with the junk than bury it. Better for you, the environment, other people, and future generations. But the best solution is to keep from creating the garbage in the first place.

Humans Suck

Whether you’re a Creationist, Evolutionist, or somewhere in between, I’ll have to argue about the whole coming from a chimp thing.

I say we’re direct descendents from leeches.

• Chimps live in harmony with their environment. Leeches suck life out of their hosts.
  
  
• Chimps eat what they need and move on. Leeches gorge themselves into a sickening bloated mass.
  
  
• Chimps meet each others needs, grooming each other for social connection and to remove pests. Leeches know nothing but host and self.
  
  
• Chimps create tools and solve problems. Leeches are fairly mindless, living only to eat and reproduce.

You may think of yourself as mostly chimp, maybe a little leech on your bad days. But as a collective, I’ll have to throw the lot of us into the leech category.

You be a chimp.

Think About the Drink

I washed my hair by a mountain stream once. We were backpacking for an entire week and I stunk. So I took an impromptu bath, rinsed my hair in the stream, and watched the bubbles drift downriver.

Didn’t give much thought to the hikers who would be collecting water from that same stream down below.

We live our lives with that same thoughtlessness. “I can live any way I darn well please. To hell with the rest of you.”

We wouldn’t say that out loud, or maybe even think it. But it’s how we live.

It’s what we do when we buy clothes made in third-world countries at the expense of someone else’s near-slave labor.

It’s what we do when we sip rich coffee grown and harvested by the sweat of people who will see almost no income for their efforts.

It’s what we do when we buy products that can’t be easily recycled. When we carry them home in plastic bags. When we toss away the glossy packaging and eventually the item itself with its non-degrading plastic and toxic chemicals.

It’s what we do when we treat the waitress that way. Or the co-worker. Former friend. Husband. Wife. Child.

What’s your trickle down? What are you dumping in the river for others to drink? What lives are impacted by your actions? Take a long, hard look downstream.

Recent Read: If They Give You Lined Paper, Write Sideways

Author: Daniel Quinn

Best quote: “You never change things by fighting the existing reality.” Original quote by Buckminster Fuller. p 134.

Summary: Groundbreaking anthropologist Daniel Quinn is known for his unique way of seeing and understanding human behavior, history, and our future. The book is a simple transcript of several days of interviews in which Quinn not only helps his interviewer understand Quinn’s way of thinking, but teaches her to how to think for herself in a similar manner.

What I liked: Quinn doesn’t take any statement at face value. He’s always probing deeper into the “common knowledge” that the rest of us easily accept. By the end of the book, I found my critical thinking skills sharpened, excited to put them to use.

He summarizes his ability to think critically:

1. Be Alert to Nonsense. While the rest of us are happy to accept “facts” handed down to us. He sniffs out the nonsense in our cultural beliefs.

2. Examine the Assumptions. When presented with a question or problem, he rarely tries to answer. Instead, he asks “Why has this person asked this question? What assumptions are driving their reasoning?”

3. Explore the Broader Assumptions. “If so-and-so assumes this is true, he is also likely to assume this and think this.”

4. See Where the Assumptions Lead. Our assumptions about the world are what drive us to certain actions. By examining the way we think (our assumptions), he can predict with accuracy how we’ll behave as individuals and a collective.

(The above steps are my summation of Quinn’s process, not at all a quote. The concepts are presented on pp 115-116 of his book.)

He portrays humans as “a species of being, which, while supposedly rational, are destroying the very planet they live on.” I resonate with Quinn’s insight and am saddened that Christians seem to be the most reluctant one’s to care.

Probably the biggest takeaway for me is the simple idea that when presented with a social problem, most of us are quick to push for some action to overcome it, as if legislation, protesting, boycotting, etc. will work. We don’t really care if it works as long as we’re busy trying. Far better, Quinn says, to aim our efforts not at changing people’s actions, but by changing their thinking. Seems obvious, but we don’t try it that way.

What I disliked: I don’t mind at all that Quinn isn’t a Christian, or at least my variety of one. Or that he doesn’t believe in the same kind of God that I do. It bothered me that reason he gave for his departure from mainstream Christianity was based on what I consider to be a faulty assumption—that Agriculture was a result of the curse God put upon Adam. I contend that God gave Adam that task from the very beginning in the garden and that the curse only made the job toilsome and difficult. Quinn makes a faulty assumption, the very thing he warns us not to do.

Critical Situation

I've been both kinds of people:

CRITICAL THINKER	CRITICAL PERSON
Sets aside his opinion in order to examine other points of view	Sees things only from his perspective
Comfortable with being wrong, willing to change his mind	Unable to accept being wrong, resists changing his mind
Asks many questions of himself and others	Makes statements about himself and others, but asks few good questions
Compares himself to others in order to improve himself	Compares himself to others in order to feel better about himself
Congenial toward those who he disagrees with	Bitter toward those he disagrees with
Continually re-examines his viewpoints	Dependent upon established viewpoints
A lifelong learner, he regularly takes in new information seeking new insights	A limited learner, he relies on past learnings and established insights
Reasons with both logic and emotion	Reacts with an extreme of either logic or emotion
Comments on both good and bad in what he examines	Focuses on the negative in what he examines
Pulls back from a problem to see the bigger picture	Fixates on smaller issues, missing the big picture

Which kind of person do you tend to be?

What characteristics would you add to these lists?

Waaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!

She cries a lot. It’s out of her reach and she really wants it.

It’s not that she’s lazy, but our 13-month old isn’t anywhere close to walking yet. She was premature, only 3 lbs at birth. Spent the first 8 months of her life in an orphanage. Pneumonia sapped her strength when we got her, quiet and unmoving.

Now she’s vocal, happy, and active, but behind just a tad developmentally.

So I entice her with favorite toys placed just beyond her reach. She’s delighted at first, thinking she can get them. Then wrinkles her face in protest, squawks a bit. Tries charming her way with that squishy smile. Squawks some more.

I walk away.

Seeing no other hope, she sloooowwwwly reeeaaaaaaaches. Misses.

Tries again. Strrrrrrrrrrrrrretch…

Gets the toy and coos with delight.

Cry all you want. Beg, plead, charm, squawk. Sometimes the only way to get to the next stage is to stretch for it. It ain’t fun. It hurts. But you’ll be glad you did once you learn to walk on your own.

I Hope I Growed Out of that Stage

“I drinked it, Dad!”

At three years old, my son can carry on a decent conversation, but he abuses the English language mercilessly. Oddly enough, he does it because he’s following the rules.

Without me teaching it, his brain has already decoded the basic rules of verbs. Just add “-ed” and you get past tense:

Drop – Dropped
Bump – Bumped
Walk – Walked

Of course, the rule only goes so far:

Draw – Drew
Give – Gave
Go – Went

There are countless irregular verbs that the poor boy will have to stumble through till he figures out that rules are meant to be broken.

Toddlers, bureaucrats, and religious legalists. They’re all just babies clinging to the few rules they know.

Some will grow enough to realize that there are exceptions to the rules. Some will eventually see that many rules are simply general guidelines meant to help us. A very few will mature enough leave the rules behind and live by wisdom, love, and grace.

Every Yes is a No

I’ve lost thousands of dollars in the past year—and I couldn’t be happier about it.

My oldest child wasn’t born when I started it five years ago, so my side business in graphic design didn’t cost me much. An evening now and then for a little extra cash.

But no one told me of the fine line between owning a business and having that business own you. I found out the hard way, saying “yes” to every available project until I was spending nearly every evening and spare weekend a slave to my own business.

Every “yes” I said to work, was a “no” I was saying to my family and to myself.

“No, Daddy can’t play right now.”
“Can you take the kids somewhere so I can work?”
“Let me just finish this and I’ll be right there.”

And for what? A few extra bucks in my pocket? Even though the money was good, it could never buy back what I was missing out on—fun with my children, losing myself in a good book, hanging out with a friend, sleeping peacefully.

So I turned to tables. “No” to business. “Yes” to my soul, my family, my life.

Oh, it hurt when I had to let people down who actually begged me to take on their project. It really hurt when it cost me several thousand dollars for a single job. But it’s a good kinda hurt. Ya can’t have everything in life, so you have to choose which hurts you’re willing to live with.

“Yes” to this is a “no” to something else. Make sure you understand what you’ll be saying “no” to before you say “yes”.

I'm All Ears

We call it the Wheelbarrow.

A long day with three kids in the house and no adult interaction is enough to reduce any adult to a babbling, incoherent mess. Add the stress of health issues, some bills, upcoming plans, and life in general—and her emotional Wheelbarrow is full.

So when my wife starts talking, I know by now that I had better be listening.

It’s tough sometimes. When my favorite show is on. When I’m in the middle of a really good book. When I’m so tired I just want to collapse into unconscious bliss.

Sometimes there are timeless gaps of silence while she gathers her thoughts. I sit there imagining a computer hourglass icon turning in front of her face while I wait.

Sometimes she repeats herself while she’s getting it all out. “You already said that,” I commented once. Don’t ever say that.

Sometimes my ears are full long before her Wheelbarrow is empty. I sit as quietly as I can, look her in the eye, nod appropriately, ask questions, and give insights. Or maybe I don’t do it as well as I imagine.

But this is love to her. Doesn’t want the gifts. Don’t waste money on the flowers. Can’t eat the chocolate.

Don’t just listen until you understand what she’s saying. Listen until she feels like she’s been heard. Listen till she’s all out of Talk. Listen until her Wheelbarrow’s empty.

Yeah, Well Prove It

“The virgin birth [of Christ] is such a beautiful thing, it just has to be true, whether it happened or not.”*

Curious to know how that statement strikes you.

I revel in its paradox. It is certain in its uncertainty. Willing to embrace mystery and contradiction without flinching.

It is the non-answer type of solution to a conflict between those who believe and those who don’t.

Personally, I believe wholeheartedly in the virgin birth. But laying that actual issue aside, what I love about this statement is how it ceases to argue logical facts in order to prove truth. Instead, it finds the very same Truth in an aesthetic way. It both scares and amazes me.

Modern Christianity has built its foundation solely on argumentative, logical, apologetic proofs and must shudder at a statement like the one we opened with. But there is another way to that same Truth.

It’s the Truth I hear in masterfully crafted music, art, narrative, and nature. Truth that is more felt than known. Experienced, not espoused. Ethereal and subjective, it calls deeply to some while making others scoff.

Maybe you’re a scoffer. But I say there is a mystery to Truth that logic can never touch, test, argue, or prove.

I like it that way. Sure, there’s a place for logic, but that’s only half of it. I don’t want a God that I can completely understand, a future that I can entirely predict, a Truth that I can prove without faith.

Give me not just a truth I can know with my head, but also with my heart.

*Paraphrased from a story told by Phyllis Tickle on the Emergent Podcast, July 15, 2007.

Obedience School

Educated beyond my own obedience.

I know exactly what I ought to do. I know what people would tell me to do. I know what I would want the best version of myself to do.

But I do the opposite.

Lately, I’m starting to come around a bit in the cycle of idiocy and wisdom. Getting it back together, doing the things I know I should be doing—the things I really want to do but don’t.

Like flossing.

Like recycling every scrap of paper.

Like using my own bags instead of plastic at Wal-Mart.

Like being more patient in shaping my children.

Like staying in touch with God every day.

It’s like going back to kindergarten and re-learning the basics of interacting with the world, God, other people, and myself. And it’s such a good feeling.

How about you? What do you need to re-learn?

Listening Down

“I didn’t get to have fun with you today, Dad,”

My five year old son sat on the other end of his bed sadly. Never mind that we had spent the day kicking the ball around, playing a board game, chasing around the yard, and giggling at the playground.

Figure that one out.

Took me awhile, but I eventually was able to listen down enough levels to hear what he was really saying.

Not, “I didn’t have fun”, but “I don’t feel connected to you”.

Love to this oldest child of mine has always been spelled T-I-M-E. I’ve known that. But it had escaped me that it was Quality Time he needed in addition to Quantity.

Yeah, we had played, but we hadn’t really talked and connected. Like his mama, he needs someone to listen to him.

So I opened my arms, he crawled on my lap, and we talked about essentially nothing. Somehow it met his need and we said goodnight.

It’s possible to pour love on someone and them not feel a thing. Then what may seem the smallest thing to us can mean the world.

Driven

“Hold your hand still!” she insisted, almost angrily.

“Someone’s a little testy today,” I thought.

This was our fourth trip to Cleveland to be fingerprinted electronically for international adoption, so my wife and I were no strangers to the process. As you would expect from a government agency, the staff were always aloof and robotic, but never this rude.

Somehow it didn’t bother me—not like it normally would. As this mannish, overweight woman wrangled with my fingers, her outer show of irritation did little to hide what was really just nervous insecurity. She was new at this, I discovered as her supervisor reviewed her work. Her sense of worth clearly came from her ability to meet his expectations. And she wasn’t very good at it yet. (Believe me, I know.)

I imagine the scene was just a revision of one that played out many times in her life. Hurt by how others viewed her, she made a show of anger to deflect attention off herself. As long as it appeared to be someone else’s fault, it couldn’t be hers. Just a mask to hide her embarrassment. A coping mechanism.

Ultimately, we’re all driven by our insecurities.

Driven to anger.
Driven to fear
Driven to please people.
Driven to win at everything.
Driven to not even try.
Driven to be the center of attention.
Driven to hide.
Driven to perfectionism.
Driven to be the smartest.
Driven to get guys to notice.
Driven to substance abuse.
Driven to be different.
Driven to fit in.

Personally, I’m driven toward perfectionism and distancing myself from people. What are you driven to? C’mon. Be honest.

Give a Little, Get a Little

She’s so frugal that if she had two dimes to rub together, she wouldn’t do it for fear she’d lose one.

I can always count on her to shut off the lights while I’m still in the room, turn down the air conditioning while I’m still sweltering, and use half the meat the recipe calls for.

And I love her for it.

The other night our junky ol’ computer monitor finally gave out in a blaze of blue hazy streaks. Grabbed a dinky spare we happened to have, but the text was so fuzzy, I couldn’t read what I was typing.

“That’s it,” I blurted. “I’m going to Wal-Mart and buyin’ a flat panel display.”

She stopped me, of course. Why spend the money? Why perpetuate the system of dumping computers in the landfill by buying more of the stuff unnecessarily?

She was right. Again.

So we borrowed a decent monitor from her dad for a couple days while she asked around for a free one on www.freecycle.org. Two days later, I sit here with sun tan lotion and my shirt off, basking in the glow of a huge 19” monstrosity, marveling at its clarity, detail, and color.

It was free. It helped the environment. I feel all warm and happy, and it’s not from the radiant glory of this monitor.

Do your part. Check out www.freecycle.org. Get stuff you need for free. Even better, get rid of some of that junk that’s laying around.

Free to Be Hungry

“Where do you want to eat?”

“I dunno. Where do you want to eat?”

“Wherever you want to eat.”

“Well, just choose a place.”

“I want to eat wherever it will make you happy.”

“It will make me happy if you’ll just make a decision!”

This would go on for 15 minutes and always end up with her choosing the restaurant, then frustrated through dinner. When we were dating, it drove my-now-wife crazy that I couldn’t speak my mind and just make a decision.

I was still in my boneless stage, without a spine for fear of upsetting someone—a leftover conditioning from my childhood. My parent’s divorce left me with dual families, dual holiday obligations, dual loyalties. My inability to ever please both sides left me unsure of how to please anyone, least of all myself.

Years later, I actually could not form an opinion about what I wanted to eat. I wasn’t hiding my thoughts—I had actually stunted my ability to think them for myself.

Took a tough turnaround, a very dark emotional journey, some caring counseling, but I emerged through it like a new birth. Emotionally stunted, but free to grow.

Free to choose.

Free to live.

Free to disappoint people. (Didn’t expect that one.)

But more on those choices later. Right now, I need a snack—and I know just what I want to eat.

Decisions, Decisions

How do you make decisions?

When presented with two options, I predict that we will take the one that will bring us the most pleasure or cause us the least amount of pain.

The other night I had the option of eating bean and spinach soup or going to my favorite restaurant to eat. Somewhere in me, the decision was made almost instantaneously without thinking. But logically, it looks like this:

Option 1: Bean and Spinach soup
- Pleasure from Eating: Fairly Low
- Pleasure from Saving Money by Eating at Home: Moderate

Option 2: Eat at Favorite Restaurant
- Pleasure from Eating: Really High!
- Pleasure from Paying the Bill: Fairly Low

The Fairly Low’s cancel each other, leaving the Really High to beat out the Moderate. Eating out wins!

Test it out for yourself. Think of any scenario and prove to me that you didn’t simply pursue pleasure or avoid pain. Leave it in the comments.

Jellyfish and Sociopaths

When I was younger I had a trump card that forced every decision. “Which option will keep other people from being angry or hurt?”

It seems selfless, but it’s not. I wasn’t out to make people happy, though it could appear that way. As a child torn between two families by divorce, I was out to keep my personal pain to a minimum. If I could keep everyone happy, I wouldn’t have to bear their disappointment, hurt, or anger.

It was the extreme side of decision making—always focused on avoiding pain and never toward gaining pleasure. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t please all the people all the time. I felt like a failure for causing other people to be unhappy.

Eventually I realized that it’s not actually my job to make people happy.

And I learned to balance my decision making away from total pain avoidance to include some pleasure seeking. (Neither extreme is healthy. One is a co-dependent jellyfish, the other is a hedonistic sociopath.) Sounds weird, but that’s when I finally started to figure out who I was.

Am I in the Dictionary?

Who do you define yourself?

No, I didn’t mistype that. I don’t mean “HOW” do you define yourself. I mean “WHO”.

My father’s family really defined me during my high school years. I was home-schooled, so I was with them all day and night. My dad was the pastor of our small country church, so family influence ruled there too.

I applied for only one college close to home, because that’s where my parents influenced me to go. Never occurred to me to go anywhere else.

I majored in music because my parents influenced me that direction. It was all I knew that I could do at the time. Never occurred to me to try anything else that I might enjoy.

I took all the classes that my advisor recommended. Never occurred to me to question the status quo.

I continued to attend church with my family because my dad was the pastor. Never occurred to me explore my faith independently.

Other people defined who I was and dictated who I would be. They all meant well and had my best interest in mind, so they’re not at all to blame. I’m certainly grateful for the foundation I had for becoming who I am, but at the time I was aimless, empty, and unsure of myself.

I simply didn’t know who I was.

So who has defined who you are?

Where in the World Am I?

I found myself in California. And Arizona. And a lot of other states. Europe even.

I know there are legends of cultures who send out their adolescent boys into the wilderness to survive on their own for a time before they officially enter adulthood. Oughta be a requirement for everyone. And I speak from personal experience.

In the summer just before college, when I was just 17, I went on a three-month long missions trip playing concerts every single night across the U.S and Europe. From the moment I stepped on the plane leaving home, I knew a radical transformation was beginning.

The people I was with had no idea who my family was or my upbringing. I was not “So-and-so’s son, or brother, or cousin.” I was an individual with permission to make my own decisions, have my own opinions, make my own mistakes, and choose my own path. I didn’t have to be defined by the people around me, but began to create the identity that would become Me.

We need both roots and wings to be fully ourselves. I was leaving my roots—the only small existence I had ever known—to take wing and see the world. It took a lot more years to come into my own, but that summer was a milestone.

Hold too tightly onto the roots, and you’ll never fly—never discover who you really are. Hold to only flying, and you’ll lose your roost—always be wild, aimless, without a sense of home, anchor, centeredness, belonging, and heritage.

I know both types of adults. Some who’ve never flown. Some who’ve flown too freely. Which are you?

I’m curious to know--what experience taught you to fly? How did you begin to discover who you are?

Oh, There I Am!

My problem wasn’t that I wanted to die. It was that I didn’t know how to live.

I didn’t know who I was all through my childhood and college. But as my senior year in college drew to a close, an immense amount of pressure built up, throwing me into a dark emotional storm and brush with suicide.

That dark time of my life set the stage for the dawn of discovering who I am. Through counseling, I understood that my inability to cope had little to do with my present circumstances and everything to do with mis-identifying myself.

It was a rapturous emerging as I gradually began to loosen my grip on the baggage I had lugged around for so long. My parents’ divorce was their own issue. It didn’t have to be mine anymore. I could be Me.

The positive parts of my upbringing were something to be appreciated, but that was just the foundation. I would have to make my own way now, building upon what I had been given. I could be Me.

The expectations of my instructors, my family, and my peers were theirs to deal with. I could choose to do what I loved and not be the person they expected. I could be Me.

I discovered choice! I could think for myself and decide what was best for my own future—not selfishly, but securely.

I discovered too late for it to change some decisions, but just in time for others. Now, over a decade later, I look back on the bold decisions I’ve been able to make, leaving a bold trail behind through thick wilderness, and I marvel to think how I would never have gotten here if I hadn’t been set free to be me.

Cloning is Inevitable

When you find yourself, you’re far more able to give yourself away. Others have said it this way, ”You have to love yourself before you can love other people.”

I’ve heard well-meaning people misconstrue that to sound like pride, as if it is instructing you to meet your own needs before you meet the needs of others—or to be self-absorbed with only an occasional thought to others. Hogwash.

It simply means that we all follow the same inevitable rule: You pass on what you are.

Hurting people reliably hurt other people whether they mean to or not. Whole and truly happy people can’t help but pass on wholeness, healing, and joy to other people.

The most selfless thing you can do is to come to peace with yourself. That’s a vague way of saying that ya gotta unload your junk if you’re gonna get anywhere.

Do the hard work. Make peace with your past. Get those relationships mended. Forgive. Be forgiven.

The saddest, most hurting people I know are the ones who won’t admit it even though everyone else sees how emotionally stunted they are.

They consistently make poor decisions. They can’t seem to relate to people. They hide behind all sorts of facades. They numb the pain in all sorts of addictions. They pretend, withdraw, fail, wound, drive, and end up empty—with a trail of broken relationships behind them.

Have you found inner peace yet?

Floaters and Sinkers

Is a zebra white with black stripes or black with white stripes?

Are you an optimistic person who is sometimes down or a pessimistic person who is sometimes happy?

I have a theory that we each have different emotional set points where we naturally gravitate to. For some people, life throws them a difficulty, but they will always float back up to a level of optimism. Ya just can’t keep ‘em down.

For others, life throws them some incredibly good things, but they will always sink back down to a level of ho-humness, blah, or outright depression. Ya can’t force ‘em to be happy.

Personality has a ton to do with this, but I don’t think our emotional set points are immovable, though they tend to harden the longer we live by them. I really do think people can choose to be happy, no matter what’s going on in their lives.

So which are you? A happy person who is sometimes sad, or a sad person who is sometimes happy?

I’m right about in the middle. I’ve never been a person to get overly happy or overly sad. Mostly, I just ride life out as it comes. Forced to choose, though, I’m probably a little more of a sinker than a floater. I'm pretty content with things, but so much of the wrongs in the world tend to weigh me down.

I’m doing better at choosing to be happy, in spite of some hard circumstances. Hope you’re choosing joy today too.

Choices Have Momentum

My wife is the only person I’ve ever met who actually does it. I’ll bet you can’t remember the last time you did it, unless you had popcorn last night..

Personally, I’ve been trying to do it more ever since the dental hygienist took out the jack hammer to get the crud out of my teeth.

Yep, talkin’ about flossing.

Embarrassed by the reprimand of my dentist, I’ve been trying harder to establish that habit. And, since there’s little else you can do while you flick teeth gunk onto the bathroom mirror, I found my mind wandering a bit while I flossed yesterday.

“Eureka! My life is like flossing!”

I usually only floss when something’s caught in my teeth, but this time I grabbed it because it was part of my routine. I chose to do it simply because I had chosen to do it the time before. Every choice to go ahead and do the darn thing made it easier to choose the right thing the next time.

Momentum!

Of course the opposite is true. Every time I go to bed too tired to floss, it makes it easier to just forget it the next night too.

That’s how habits are born and broken.

If you want something to change in your life, I’ll bet you can get it started by just doing that small thing once. That will make it easier to do it the next time. Then do it again. Before you know it, you’ve radically changed your behavior.

Stink. I gotta change the way I've been thinkin'.

Been thinkin’ a lot about choices lately. This quote came to mind:

Watch your thoughts, for they become words.
Watch your words, for they become actions.
Watch your actions, for they become habits.
Watch your habits, for they become character.
Watch your character, for it becomes your destiny.

I tend to focus on changing my words, actions, or habits. But I don't often think about the source and destination of those.

I keep forgetting how much power my thoughts have over the future, and how much power I have over my thoughts.

I keep forgetting how character is cumulative, chiseled out over years yet fragile enough to be destroyed in a moment.

I keep forgetting how my destiny is being shaped in this very moment of thought.

Choices are Hereditary

Was it my destiny to adopt a child from China? Why did I choose it?

• Because my parents worked a children’s home for needy kids?
• Because we had foster kids in our home growing up?
• Because of the missionaries who visited our church and stayed in our home?
• Because of the books in our home about life in other countries?
• Because of the missions trip overseas that my parents encouraged me to take?

There were a lot of other reasons, of course, but the ones above were foundational for me even considering international adoption.

Sometimes our choices are not entirely our own, but the bloom of seeds planted by the choices of others.

God knows how many negative things we pick up from our childhood, the lesser choices other people made that reaped consequences for us. But this time I’m just thankful for the positive ones.

I wonder what choices I’m making today that will shape the choices of my kids make someday.

Help Me! Or Not.

He came running across the parking lot to me, shouting and asking if I was an elder or deacon of the church I was walking into.

“No,” I was glad to be able to say. I wasn’t sure yet, but this looked like a situation I probably didn’t want to be involved in. Big, sweaty, frantic guys yelling and dashing my direction have a way of setting off mental alarms for me.

He just wanted to talk to someone. “C’mon inside,” I smiled graciously, “I’m sure we can help you.”

Once inside, however, I got a familiar story that smelled fishier than my grandpa’s tackle box. Still, I knew one of the pastoral staff guys would hear him out and provide at least some help for the guy if we could.

I asked Big Sweaty Guy to sit in a chair, but he started pacing. Asked him to wait, but he became agitated. His eyes weren’t glassy, so it wasn’t marijuana. Breath didn’t smell, so it wasn’t alcohol. Probably cocaine, we decided later.

His patience wore thin so quickly that he finally just yelled and stormed out the door. His crave for a quick fix driving him away from the help he really needed.

How is it that the people most in need of help, and with such easy access to it, can toss it aside so easily?

I’ve never been an addict, but I’ve done it. Like I’d rather live with the ongoing discomfort of a splinter than to go through a few moments of pain to have it dug out.

How do you help someone who doesn’t want help?

Here Lies My Life Before Kids

My life ended six years ago. It happened slowly at first, so I didn’t notice. But looking back at my first child’s birth, I see a headstone where my life as I knew it took its final resting place.

Parenting killed me.

The squirmy buggers start off small, and dads don’t do so much of the work, so I didn’t notice at first. Then I awoke up one groggy day and found three squidgets underfoot and realized that six years of my life were over with.

I’m just not the same person I was back when I was single and childless. Marriage didn’t require all that much adjustment really. The first child changed my wife’s life more than mine since she chose to stay at home rather than work. Until the kid was mobile, we still had most of our time free. By the time the second child was born, my Daddy hat was on quite a bit, keeping Kid #1 busy so mommy could have a break and so that he wouldn’t poke Kid #2 in the eye (“But I want to!” he said. True story.)

Now that Kid #3 is here, I have approximately 60 minutes every day in which to fulfill myself. That means cramming photography, writing my blogs, reading other blogs, eating a snack, surfing the net, reading a book (I have lists of dozens that I’ll never get to), catching a favorite show, fixing whatever the kids might have broken, scratching off something from my wife’s “Honey Do” list, and tying up loose ends on business projects. Very little of that ever gets done, of course.

Lest I catch the wrath of the Mrs. for sounding like I have it bad, let me admit right up front that she has it much worse. =)

But rather than mourn the loss of my free time—my luxurious, sensational free time—my only-means-of-coping-with-life free time—my how-the-heck-am-I-gonna-get-anything-done free time—my what-am-I-gonna-do-when-there-are-FOUR-kids free time—my what-did-I-ever-do-with-all-that-time-when-I-was-single free time—I’m just going to say something sappy about how I wouldn’t trade it for all the free time in an unbroken infinity loop ‘cause the kids are incredible, beautiful, and bring me more fulfillment than anything else in life.

It’s true. And it's worth dying for.

Drill Sergeant Dad

I was such a patient person before I had kids who didn’t do what I told them.

I was such a quiet person before I had kids who didn’t listen.

I was such a peaceful person before I had kids who cried at the top of their lungs.

I was filled with such wonderful qualities before those qualities were ever really tested by real life.

My kids are the most delightful part of my life, but there are moments when parenting has a way of bringing out the worst version of me, so that I barely recognize myself sometimes.

• When did I get so tense?
• Who replaced my voice with this Drill Sergeant’s?
• Where did I learn to give useless sermons about behaving at the table?
• Where’s the perfect dad that I was before I had kids?

Oh, parenting is hard, not just because of the work, but because it forces me to own up to my inconsistencies, my weaknesses, and my failures. And for that, I’m grateful, because as this crucible boils my patience to the limit and the gunk rises to the top, I get to see myself as I am and hopefully pour off the dross so that my character gets a little more refined.

Here I thought parenting was just about shaping kids. Didn’t know I’d be raising myself too.

Oh, Brother

They giggle at the table till more food is on the floor than in their mouths.

They chase their toy jeeps around, tearing through the house like bulls after a rodeo clown.

They’ll play happily one minute, then pull hair and pinch, then make up and play again like nothing happened.

They’ll stay up at night telling silly stories and chanting nonsense songs instead of sleeping.

They’ll walk hand-in-hand when they’re out somewhere new, both protecting and being protected by the other.

They eat together, play together, bathe together, sleep together, fight together, laugh together, learn together, and do pretty much all of life together.

That’s my boys. That’s why it’s great to have a brother.

To this day, I’ve never found anyone who connects with my brand of humor quite like my brother. Corny, intelligent, movie-quoting, linguistic, and dry.

We giggled at the table. We chased recklessly through the house. We played, we fought, we forgave, and played again. We stayed up when we should have been asleep. We watched out for each other.

Life was good. Life was hard. But I’m glad I had my brother to go through it with me.

Tell your siblings you love ‘em today.

Déjà Who

I swear I’m having 18 years of déjà vu. So much of what I experience as a parent reminds me of my own growing up that it’s like reliving my own life through my kids.

• I hurt for my son when I see him not excel at sports. I wasn't so good at them either.

• I delight for my son as he soaks up books, reading well ahead of his grade level. I loved books too.

• I hurt for my son when he’s frustrated by his own perfectionism. I cried over my paint-by-numbers.

• I delight for my son when he uses a big word in conversation. I loved language.

• I hurt for my son when his shyness keeps him from enjoying life. I was such a recluse.

• I delight for my son when I see him lost in his own imagination. I was a daydreamer and a doodler.

• I hurt for my son as he longs for affection, but doesn’t know how to get it. I remember feeling that way.

• I delight for my son when he excitedly shares a story about his day. I treasured the undivided attention of my parents.

So much of the memories are painful, but they give me sympathy for what he’s going through. So much of the memories are joyful, and I’m glad to relive the good times. Glad to have the chance to live life again and try to make his better than mine was.

Read Me Your Story

“We never really grow up. We just learn how to act in public.”

Don’t know where I first read that quote, but it’s incredibly true. Somewhere along the way, I realized that all of the adults I’ve encountered are just kids inside big bodies. They might pretend to be mature now and then, or suppress their childlike instincts, but there’s still a kid in there somewhere.

• Their childhood hurts are there, driving the ways they cope as an adult.

• Their childhood fantasies are there, driving their dreams and disappointments.

• Their childhood joys are there, driving their sources of happiness now.

• Their childhood training is there, driving their manners and public behavior.

• Their childhood family is there, driving their quirks, customs, and habits.

• Their childhood relationships are there, driving the way they communicate.

• Their childhood education is there, driving their occupation and interests.

• Their childhood memories are there, making them essentially everything they are today.

Childhood isn’t just a chapter closed, a prologue to the real story of your life. It’s the story itself, the part where the deepest conflicts, climaxes, and character development all happens. It’s the most interesting, formative, and change-filled, page turner you’ll ever read.

Don’t bury your childhood on a dusty shelf. Open the pages of your memory and live the adventure again. Awakening the child inside you just might make you a more complete adult.

Just a Burger and Fries

He wouldn’t tell me his name. The shame of having to stand in front of a McDonald’s and beg for food compels a person to stay anonymous.

He was young, probably 20s, tall. Puffy winter coat, shorts, tennis shoes, ball cap. Not dirty or smelly. Wasn’t drunk. Wasn’t high. Not yet anyway.

His eyes shifted, not from nervousness, I think. Just embarrassment.

“Excuse me, sir? Would you happen to have a couple bucks so I could get something to eat?”

I hadn’t been working for the Rescue Mission that long, but I had enough experience by now to know what to do. Don’t give cash. Do give food. Don’t give it too quickly. Do use it to open a door for conversation. You never know where it might lead.

“Sure,” I said. “I’d be happy to buy you a meal inside. But before I do, tell me what you really need.” A burger and fries would stop the growling in his stomach, but for how long? It would take more than a McDonald’s dollar menu to put his life back together.

I probed gently with my repertoire of questions, trying to open him up. He slept on the streets in this part of town. Never been to the Mission. Was looking for work. Beyond that, he didn’t want to talk about.

Inside, he quietly ordered his food. “You sure that’s all you want?” I offered. Small burger, small fries. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he replied.

We chatted uncomfortably as we waited, until he excused himself. I folded the receipt in my hands and prayed for him.

I caught him in the corner of my eye. He reached into the trash and pulled out a used cup. He knew I saw him, but acted as if he didn’t. The place was too busy for anyone else to notice him walk to the soft drink dispenser and fill his cup for free.

This was act of a man fully accustomed to hunger and homelessness. He’d lost the dignity that kept him from digging through trash or drinking from a dirty cup. But he had enough pride to keep him from taking advantage of my generosity. Allowing me to buy his drink was more than he could bear.

His order came. I offered to stay with him while he ate. He preferred to eat alone. I could respect that. In a final attempt, I recounted my offer to help him find a place to stay and offered to buy a bus ticket to get to the Mission.

“No, thanks.”

“I know it’s hard, man. I’ve been around enough guys and heard their stories. Ya gotta get help though. When you’re ready, come down to the Mission. Here’s my card.”

He thanked me, truly grateful.

Walking home at dusk, I knew he’d be sleeping on the street that night. He’d probably find a way to get some money, then silence his inner demons with his addiction of choice, probably meth.

You can’t truly help a person until they truly want help. But it doesn’t free you from the responsibility to try.

He’ll hit bottom eventually. When he does, maybe he’ll remember that meal. Maybe he’ll call the number. I’ve heard enough stories to know that it does happen that way sometimes. I can only pray that it does.