A Picture Is Worth A Thousand...

Today is school picture day and I can sum up my feelings about this day in one word:

Crap.

I know-- to many of you it’s an opportunity to show off that new outfit or haircut or teeth whitening, or perhaps you just like having your picture taken (sadists).  For most, it’s certainly no big deal.

Unless you’re me.

For me, picture day is really “let’s torture the fat dumpy kid and draw attention to his swollen pie face” day.

I’m not kidding.

As a kid, there was nothing good about being fat.  Back in the day, there was no “accept everyone” mentality, no political-correctness, no “look at what’s on the inside rather than the outside” philosophy.  Nope, you were fat and that means you were teased.

I can think of few things that bring out the worst in kids like having a fat kid in class.  From what I’ve been told and have observed in my many years of teaching, my fat experiences rank right up there with being berated for a physical disfigurement and being bullied for being gay.  I was called every name in the book as a kid (you’ve heard them all in some context or another so I’ll spare you now) and even had songs sung about my girth (my least favorite was, “Fatty Aron, two by four, can’t get through the kitchen door”).  “Family” was no exception as my step dad started in on me from the moment I woke up to the moment I went to bed.

School pictures were a lasting epitaph to who I didn’t want to be.  They were permanent.  They were on record.

Worst of all, they were in the school yearbook.

One of the most degrading moments of my childhood came when someone left their yearbook out in the hallway when I was in elementary school.  As I picked it up and began rifling through the pages, I saw scribbles above certain kids’ photos like, “cutie” and “hottie” and “coolest” and “love him”.

Then there was the title I had been assigned.

“Fatso”.

That’s an image, my bloated portrait with the word “fatso” emblazoned in red ink above it, that will forever be seared into my brain.

I stared at it and wept.

Is it any wonder that I hate school pictures?

Yes, I know kids can be cruel.

Yes, I know that was MANY years ago.

Yes, I know that I lost a ton of weight a few years back and now look nothing like that pudgy kid in all those endless years of school photos.

Yet, every single time I have a photo taken or look at a photo of myself, regardless of when it was taken or in what context, I inwardly cringe because I still see only “fatso”.

I told you, it’s seared into my brain.

So, today I’ll do my school duty and sit there smiling like everything’s okay, and then, when I get the pictures in a few weeks, toss them to my wife so that she can take one to work if she wants and hope the rest are never seen again.

At least by me.

Dust in the Wind

I’ve often joked that the only thing good thing to ever come out of Kansas is the band, and their best song is, of course, “Dust in the Wind”.  For the past week, my family has spent time with my mom and her husband in the dusty, windy, dying little town of Gas, Kansas, and, especially after today, I can’t help but think of the lyrics to that iconic song and reflect on their meaning to me.

“I close my eyes

Only for a moment and the moment’s gone

All my dreams

Pass before my eyes with curiosity

Dust in the wind

All they are is dust in the wind.”

I was always a dreamer.  As a little kid on the back side of my parents’ divorce and living with my mom in a neighboring town, life was tough and my dreams were just about all I had.  I dreamed of being an astronautbrainsurgeonarcheologistactorsinger, and my grandma, Daisy Ocie Ketcherside, dreamed right along with me.  Grandma always told me that I was special and that I had big things in store for me.  She made me believe that my dreams, regardless of their audacity, could come true.  I spent every moment that I could at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, a weathered but sturdy old farm house on the outskirts of town.  She was my best friend.  We gathered the eggs from the chicken coop every morning, fried chicken together, played hide-and-go-seek and dominoes, and laughed and laughed and laughed and dreamed of big things.  She came from nothing and had nothing, so I think she dreamed her own dreams through me.  She knew me better than anyone else ever has and her support was unwavering.  My dreams were her dreams, and that was love.

Most of all, I dreamed of getting out of Kansas, and Grandma supported me in that too.

“Same old song

Just a drop of water in an endless sea

All we do

Crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see

Dust in the wind

All we are is dust in the wind.”

Mom and I probably could have made it together if we lived closer to my dad (a boy needs his dad after all) and if she had married someone who actually cared about me.  As it is, we lived a six-hour drive from Dad and she proceeded to marry a loser who despised me.  Home was torture, but I always knew there was a safe haven at Grandma’s.  Grandma knew that living in Kansas was killing me slowly from the inside out, that Mom’s husband chipped away at my heart daily, and that any happiness I had was rapidly evaporating.  Grandma protected me, wrapped me up in her plump arms, loved on me, told me that everything was going to be okay, and never, NEVER gave up on whoever I was destined to become.  When I was ten, at my insistence, my dad took my mom to court to get the custody changed and Grandma came out in support of his efforts even though she knew it would take me away from her.  That bid ultimately failed (even in the era of “Kramer vs. Kramer”, most judges simply ruled with the mother as a matter of practice).  Two years later, in the summer when I was twelve and visiting my dad, mom relented and let me stay knowing that the judge said I could decide for myself when I turned thirteen a few months later and that my move was just a matter of time.  I only saw my grandma one time after that when she was still herself-- Alzheimer's began to steal her from me shortly after.

Grandma died on Halloween night, 1989.

“Now don’t hang on

Nothin’ lasts forever but the earth and sky

It slips away

And all your money won’t another minute buy

Dust in the wind

All we are is dust in the wind.”

We drove back to Grandma and Grandpa’s house today.

Wow.

Twelve years after my grandpa passed away, my safe haven from childhood is now a dilapidated old shack with broken-out windows like black eyes on my youth.  The roof is clearly falling in, there are boarded-up holes in the foundation, and the whole house is leaning ever-so-slightly to the south.  The weeping willow my grandpa planted as a sapling when I was a kid now towers over the ruins of their house and catalpa trees grow wild all over the property.  As I stood there watching my memories being eaten away like the termite-ridden house before me, I felt my guts screw up in knots.  So many good times were spent in that house, in Grandma’s house.  So many dreams came and went in that humble little place.  I never became that astronautbrainsurgeonarcheologistactorsinger, but there were big things in store for me and I feel like many of those dreams have come true.  I wish Grandma could have celebrated those milestones with me.  My heart of hearts thinks she’s looking down on me from Heaven and smiling.  Still, my sadness is palpable.  My house of dreams is gone.

“Dust in the wind

Everthing is dust in the wind.”

A Park, A Person, and a Prayer

I had a great experience today with my wife and students at Six Flags.  The temperature was right, the breeze was right, the lines were right, the Mr. Freeze roller coaster running backward was very right, but God's timing was absolutely smack-you-in-the-head perfect when He led me to someone in need using a full lunch table.

After riding several roller coasters, it was clearly time for lunch.  As we stood in line at one of the many excruciatingly slow pay-a-lot-for-a-little burger joints in the park, I found myself becoming impatient for a place to sit.  When we finally paid for our paltry burger and chicken strips and made our way to the only available table, my three students had already camped out leaving only one seat.  Of course, being the gentleman (and good role model for the two boys with me) that I am, I offered the seat to my wife and began to scout a suitable place for me.  The only open spot around was at the table right next to ours, a table that was occupied by a woman studiously pouring over a giant text book with her laptop next to her and her tunes in her ear buds.  I politely got her attention and she motioned for me to have a seat, but that was the extent of it, so I sat and ate the three-bean salad I brought in for myself and engaged in small talk with “my” table right next door.  As we ate, my table and I chit-chatted merrily and the woman across from me busily scribbled notes on a worn yellow legal pad and highlighted and underlined in the text book.  Being a curious fella, I tried to steal a glance at her text book and was excited to see that it was an upper-level biology book.  However, even more than the biology book, I was excited to see another book in front of her-- a worn, brown leather Bible.

Immediately, though she showed no hint of the same, I felt an overwhelming urge to speak to this woman, but didn’t.  I’m not good at initiating conversations, especially with strangers, as I always think I’m going to sound awkward or stupid, so I just sat there and continued to talk with my table.  My mind, however, was definitely back on that Bible.  Finally, as my group began to finish their meals and make like they were ready to leave, I thought, “Awww, to heck with it” and broke into her thoughts by asking, “Are you the teacher or the student?”  She said she was the teacher, and we fell quickly into a conversation all about “teacher stuff”.  After a few moments of this banter, I mustered the courage to breech the topic and, indicating the worn Bible said, “I see you’ve got the best book of all with you.” 

And suddenly all awkwardness and pretense vanished.

In some strange, twisty working of what I like to think of as God weaving all of us together in a big, beautiful tapestry, It turns out that this woman and I had a ton in common.  We had both been teaching the same number of years, we both taught science, we had the same last name, she knew folks that attend my wife’s school, we both have sons, and we were indeed both Christians educators, even though she taught in a public school on the other side of the river.  It was as if the two of us had known each other forever and she was suddenly so comfortable telling me about how she keeps her Bible out on her desk and plays Christian music in class (at her students’ request), and about how her students can see something different about her that they like.  It turned out to be a great conversation, and as my people prepared to leave, I asked her if it would be okay if I could pray for her. 

And that’s when I knew God directed me specifically to her.

She immediately grabbed my hand and asked if we could pray for her son who is deployed in Afghanistan, and just as quickly my people gathered around and I led them to lift her up before the Lord in prayer.  We thanked the Lord for her years of service to children and his years of service to his country, we petitioned the Lord to prepare her heart even now for a safe and effective school year this fall and for Him to put a hedge of protection around her son and bring him home safely, and we praised a mighty God who could engineer the meeting of two strangers who were kindred spirits with so much in common over a full table at an amusement park.

As we finished praying, she gave my hand a firm squeeze and we said our goodbyes, and as we walked out of the restaurant and on toward the next ride, I couldn’t help but reflect on how good the Lord is.  I have been down so many times with no one reaching out to me, yet here He takes me out of my comfort zone to do that very same thing to a perfect stranger.  Yes, the rides were great and I enjoyed my time with my wife and my school family, but what I really came away with from the day with was the reinforcement of the fact that when I am sensitive to the Lord’s leading, amazing things happen.  No one goes to Six Flags to grow spiritually, but I’m awfully glad it happened to at least two people in the park this day.

Winning

Ahhh-- the sweet contentment of victory!

Tonight, my oldest son won first place in his division in our church's annual pinecar derby race. This is a huge accomplishment in our house, as much for me as for him. You see, even though it's his car, due to his youth (and, frankly, his immaturity and ADD) I'm the once who must take on the majority of the car's construction.

Lets see...

Design: Me (with limited input from him once he realized that I couldn't make it look like some CGI spacecraft out of the latest Hollywood blockbuster)

Fabrication: Me (well, he's only eight and I would rather him keep all of his didgets, so I'll man the bandsaw)

Sanding: Me ("You know, Dad, sanding just isn't my thing.")

Weight distribution: Me (using a drill to hollow out spaces for tungsten weights, see "Fabrication" above)

Wheel preperation: Me (again with sandpaper AND the drill)

Weight extraction and redistribution: Me (using drill once more to remove the previously inserted weight as the danged car exceeded the weight limit by almost an ounce)

Autobody repair: Me (my kid with wood glue to repair major split from axel insertion-- never!)

In the end, I/we had a sweet car that finally weighed the exact limit and beat out the competitors handily. This is clearly proof of God as it's a miracle the thing worked at all with my/our track record from years passed. Even more miraculous is the fact that the boy was at least in the garage with me for most of the ordeal.

My son is like a little finch flitting from place to place and never having more than a thirty-second conversation due to his inability to focus his and his natural inclination toward chaos. All through the construction phase words such as, "Don't touch that switch or you'll cut your hand off," and, "put the spray paint down before you make Mommy's car look even worse," and, "Touch another tool without my permission and just see what happens," rang throughout the garage for the entirity of our time on the project. There were times he just about drove me off the deep end, and I'm sure he probably felt the same about me.

And then the real miracle happened.

The boy actually painted his entire car all by himself with my willing assistance and it looked very, very awesome when finished.

Beautiful to us, in fact.

Us. Not "I/we" or "my/our", but "us".

For that moment, we were a team and he was actually enjoying it! There was no yelling, no threatening, no whining, no tears-- just two guys, and dad and his son, working on a car.

Sheer unadulterated bliss.

We had a rare but exceedingly beautiful father/son moment framed in the context of a simple wooden car, and I wouldn't trade that for all the money in Fort Knox.

After the race, my boy was so happy for having won. He beamed from ear to ear. He was a winner!

And after the race, I was so happy for having built that car WITH my son.

WITH my son.

I'm still beaming from ear to ear.

Tonight, I am a winner not because I did most of the work, but because my son recognizes it as a collaboration with his old man.

Partners.

Yeah, I am a winner.

Tonight, I Hate

If I have learned one thing during my walk with recovery, it's the importance of forgiveness.  Unforgiveness sits within you and eats away at your soul like cancer, so I believe that to forgive is a matter of spiritual life and death.  Over the past several years, I've made it a point to forgive and seek forgiveness often.  It's not always easy, but you grant freedom to both parties when you forgive.

I've forgiven my former step father who vehemently hated me and was not shy to tell me so or show it with his fist.

I've forgiven my nighttime babysitter's son who threatened and frightened me into submission so that he could molest me for years.

I've forgiven my mother for letting both of these individuals into my life.

I've forgiven my oldest brother upon his request for being absent from most of my life up to that time.

I've forgiven the girl that ripped my heart to pieces after our brief but emotional summer fling so many years ago.

I look for opportunities to forgive because of the liberation that comes with it.  It's music to my ears and light to my eyes and love to my soul.  It's so very, very sweet.

But there's one person that I struggle to forgive.  He knows me better than anyone else and understands when he hurts me.  Intimately.  Frighteningly so.

The person I struggle to forgive is myself.

Sometimes, for reasons that may sound foolish to you, I hate myself.  Deeply.  More often than not, it's because of my dysfunctional and skewed relationship with food.

Today was just such a day.

As a person who has struggled with food's allure and control my entire life, especially as I've come to accept and understand this battle as a full-blown addiction, I know my limits.  Just as a recovering alcoholic knows he cannot take even one drink and expect to stay sober, just as a sex addict knows that a single one night stand couldn't possibly be enough, I know that I can't indulge in trigger foods as I will not stop, no matter how strong I believe I am at any given time.  I know that if I succumb to the temptation of even a nibble, a binge is guaranteed to follow that will leave me emotionally sick with guilt and anger and physically sick to my stomach.

I know this I know this I know this I KNOW THIS, yet addiction has a way of blurring reality and blinding you to the truth.  Addiction doesn't give a flying fig about what you know as it's only interested in what you feel, and for me, I always feel like eating.  Notice that I didn't say anything about hunger-- that's physical.  Nope, food addiction is emotional and all about the endorphin-laced high that comes simply from putting food, LOTS of food, into your mouth.  The trick to putting your addiction in its place is to not listen to its siren call, its lies, its pleadings.  You have to be smarter than it is.  You have to be meaner than it is.  You have to be more determined than it is.

And sometimes I'm not.

And that's when I hate myself.

Today, listening to my addiction tell me that they would be for my sons' Easter baskets, I took the only tip I've earned in weeks on my weekend job and bought a bag, a LARGE bag, of malted candy coated robins' eggs.  Then I listened to it tell me to open the bag and smell the eggs.  It told me that one egg wouldn't hurt me.  One tiny egg would be okay.  One little piece of candy couldn't lead me to-- 

OH STUFF IT YOU WUSS AND EAT!

In less than five minutes I had completely consumed that entire bag of robins' egg candies.  In less than five minutes I had inhaled almost a thousand calories of pure carbohydrate poison to a diabetic food addict like me.  In less than five minutes, I had stolen from my sons what would have brought them joy.

What a jerk.

What a big, fat, stupid, arrogant, screwed-up JERK!

Addiction, I can usually turn the tables on you and see you as the positive that finally pushed me into getting healthy.  I can usually ignore you.  I can usually put you in your place, but tonight I hate you.

Tonight, I hate myself for giving in.

Again.

Tomorrow's a new day.  Tomorrow I'll be able to put it all in perspective and know that I'm forgiven by those that matter most (my family and my Lord).  Tomorrow I'll be rational.

But tonight, there's no forgiveness in me.

Tonight, I hate.

Blinders: A Parable

Blind-er  n.  1. blinders A pair of leather flaps attached to a horse's bridle to curtail side vision. 2. Something that serves to obscure clear perception and discernment.


There once was a little boy named Theodore.

Theodore was a peculiar lad who loved to count and wanted to be the very best counter in his village.  Theodore counted the clouds in the sky, the words in his book, and even the cucumbers in the garden.  That wasn't enough, though.  He needed more.  He needed to count higher.  Looking around his village one day, he noticed the bricks in the sidewalks.  There were bricks in the sidewalks along his street and bricks in the sidewalks along the village square and bricks in the sidewalks everywhere he looked. 

And so he started counting bricks.

His mother asked him to do his school work, but all Theodore wanted to do was count bricks.

His father asked him to clean the barn, but all Theodore wanted to do was count bricks.

His younger brother asked him to play hide and go seek, but all Theodore wanted to do was count bricks.

His grandmother simply asked him to sit with her, but all Theodore wanted to do was count bricks.

Wherever Theodore went, he methodically counted the bricks before him hoping to count each in the village to the very last one.  Day after day he counted without even the slightest pause, without the slightest care for anything else, head down, murmuring each number to himself as he strolled.

Always thinking of bricks.

Always counting bricks.

And day after day, try as he may to keep it all in his head, something would distract Theodore from his self-appointed task and he would lose count.  Maybe it would be a child's bouncing ball coming to rest before him, or maybe a playmate from school waving and calling out his name.  Sometimes, it would be his fellow villagers warning him to watch where he was going before he got hurt.  It really didn't matter the source as each day Theodore knew the result would always be the same: he would lose his count and need to start over.

"This is no good," Theodore thought.  "At this pace, I'll never finish counting my bricks."

So Theodore wondered and pondered about a way to keep himself from being distracted in order to finally complete his goal.  Suddenly, with a burst of inspiration, he remembered an item from the family barn that would surely help him.
Blinders.

Theodore retrieved the horse blinders from the side of the stall that held their trusted mare.  Though his head was, of course, much smaller than the horse's, Theodore affixed the blinders to his own small head as best he could and straightened the leather flaps out to each side.  It was a little awkward at first, but soon enough he found himself back on the roads counting the bricks, this time his mind focused fully on the road before him and not on the world just beyond the blinders.  He raced around the village counting with renewed confidence.  He ignored his family's pleas for help or attention.  He ignored the bouncing balls.  He ignored his waving friends.  He ignored the warnings of the villagers who noticed he was more obsessed than ever.  By now he was approaching the village kiln where the bricks were made.  The end was in sight.  Nothing could distract him now that he was so close finishing the counting of the bricks.

Nothing could distract him.

Nothing.

And that was when he stepped out to cross the road leading to the kiln and was suddenly struck by a wagon carrying bricks being pulled by a horse with blinders on.  As the wagon sped past, Theodore lay broken and bruised and trampled and still in the gutter.

He no longer counted bricks.

Don't become so focused on what you want that you ignore everything else around you.

Take off your blinders.

Breach

I just watched one of my snakes eat his dinner. Of the two corn snakes I have, I think this one, Hershey, is a little dim.

Okay, call a tree a tree: he's stupid.

You see, snakes are born with an instinct to eat their prey, in Hershey's case a dead mouse, head first. The idea is that by swallowing the noggin and then the body and finally the feet, everything lays down in a perfect position against the mouse's body with the legs outstretched behind it making for a very easy swallow. My other corn, Ellie, knows this and never has any trouble snarfing down her rodent.

Hershey, on the other hand..

Here's the play by play:

The second I come close to his habitat, Hershey knows something is up and gets a little skittish. His tongue begins to flick out at a maddening pace tasting the air for me and what I hold in my hand, and he follows my every move. When I open up the top, he pulls back like a pinball lever, and the second I drop the mouse in his bowl he LEAPS forward and SNAPS his jaws around the furry little morsel.

Except he does it backwards.

Breech.

Instead of lunging for the white whiskered head, he goes for the butt!

So what, right?

Wrong.

By trying to go butt first, Hershey sets himself up for abject failure as he begins an attempt at pulling the mouse into his gaping maw. That snake opens wide and stretches his jaws and pulls the mouse in by shifting his mouth around the critter like he's done hundreds of times before, except this time, by going butt first, the mouse's legs catch at the side of Hershey's head and refuse to bend backwards against their nature. The mouse is stuck and can't be swallowed any farther into Hershey's gullet.

Stuck.

Oh that snake tries and tries to pull the mouse in. He backs his head up, waits a second as if sizing up his dead enemy's prowess, and strikes the butt all over again with the exact same set of problems. He'll do this several more times with the mouse getting stuck in the exact same position each time.

Does he give up?

Nope.

Fifteen minutes more of patient observing (his stupidity is mesmerizing) later, I finally walk away knowing that this will most likely go on for some time before he finally realizes he's been attacking the wrong end. At that point, exhausted and frustrated and HUNGRY, he'll slither (no more lunging for this tire baby) around to the proper end and suck that varmint down in no time.

What a waste of time and energy all because his stubbornness wouldn't let him try a different approach.

You know where I'm going with this, don't you...

How often are we like that little snake?

Much like Hershey's instinct and his meal, I believe we have the ability to look at a task or situation and see the right way to do it, but end up attacking it from the wrong direction because of our stubbornness or deceitfulness or selfishness or ignorance or any number of other things that get in the way of our success. We know the right way to do it, but we let our arrogance assure us that it knows a better way. We continue to attack the butt when we know the head will get us there with less time and effort and cost and heartache.

Folks, it's time to get our heads out of our butts and do the things we've been made to do and do them the right way! You know what to do, so do it!

Politics? It doesn't matter what party you belong to so long as you get out and vote!

Money? Stop blowing your paychecks on worthless crap! If you save and save and are still broke, at least you know you've worked hard to prove you've done all you can!

Relationships? Love is a choice SO CHOOSE IT!

Health? You can't have your cake and eat it too without then working that cake off in the gym and eating well after it. Take care of yourself!

Man, I am right there with you. I struggle and sometimes fail miserably, but I'll learn from my mistakes and avoid that butt-end next time. I'll strive not to make any excuses. I'll do my best to do it right the first time, and when I don't I'll pick myself up and go at it from a different angle.

No breech for me; I'm going in head first!

Over here, Hershey; let me show you how it's done