A Tale of Two Romances

THE DIFFERENCES couldn’t have been more pronounced. The night before, I had watched Baz Luhrmann’s adaptation of Romeo + Juliet (you know, the one with Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes). It started off kinda weird, what with its fusion of modern day culture and original Shakespearean dialogue, but I grew to enjoy this dichotomy as it progressed. Sometimes you forget how beautiful the language is until you hear it recited to you; before I knew it I was quietly rehearsing those very lines as though I were the star-crossed lover. I went to bed thinking how crazy it is to love someone with such intensity that it would cause you to scheme a plot to fake death–and when that fails, to go as far as to induce death–all in the name of love. Mind you, this is one of the most celebrated (albeit tragic) love stories of all time.

The morning after, I came across another piece about love. It was a short video entitled The Story of Ian & Larissa. For nine minutes, I watched and listened as a lovely young lady told her story about tragedy and triumph. Her boyfriend at the time had suffered a traumatic injury that left him incapacitated. But she committed to him, and they eventually got married. “I think what helped us in making this commitment to each other, at least for me, is knowing that Ian wouldn’t have left me if the roles were reversed,” said Larissa. “And that we love each other and we know God will be faithful to our marriage.” It was one of the most beautiful testimonies I’ve ever heard.

Romeo + Juliet. Ian & Larissa. Both of them were bold declarations of love. Yet each one said something entirely different about what it looks like and what it truly means. One speaks of a romance ignited by coquettish gesturing and physical attraction, the other of a selfless commitment to give, serve and choose to love for “better or worse.” We often dream of our own Juliets–or ladies, your Romeos–but what I think we really want deep down inside is an Ian & Larissa story. I’m sure they have their share of hardships and struggles–those common to all relationships as well as those unique to their own–and there might even be days of doubt. But theirs is a romance built on certain truths that will help them weather the storms when they come, in and out of seasons, whether they are feeling the butterflies or not.

I am a neophyte when it comes to this kind of love. I live in a society that tells me it’s about finding someone that fulfills my greatest desires and needs. It tells me that beauty only lies skin deep, that I need to take as much as I can get and only give to her as much as she is willing to give to me. An exchange of goods, bartering type of system, if you will. This is a love no deeper than mere economics.

My subtle belief in this approach towards relationships requires correction. It’s something that invites God’s rebuke in my life, quiet but firm. So God gives me stories like these to awaken a greater part of me. It is a challenge to rise above the dregs of our soul-numbing consumerist mentality. It is a call to await the strokes of grace that will paint this next phase of my life, whenever that will be.

In the mean time, I am to make the most of my singleness. To love, serve, give, sacrifice and put others above myself. Funny how those terms are applied in marriage as well. If I want to be a good husband, guess I better start now.

Big Sur: Thanks for the Memories

“The saddest thing about life is you don’t remember half of it. You don’t even remember half of half of it. Not even a tiny percentage, if you want to know the truth. I have this friend Bob who writes down everything he remembers. If he remembers dropping an ice cream cone on his lap when he was seven, he’ll write it down. The last time I talked to Bob, he had written more than five hundred pages of memories. He’s the only guy I know who remembers his life. He said he captures memories, because if he forgets them, it’s as though they didn’t happen; it’s as though he hadn’t lived the parts he doesn’t remember.” - Donald Miller, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years

Lately I’ve been fortunate enough to be living life in the active sense of the word. Not just alive, but living. I’ve been traveling to new places, seeing different sights, meeting new friends, and learning from various wonderful men and women. Not a day goes by in which I am not aware of this wondrous privilege, and I am thankful for the Maker who has generously allowed for this rich period of my life. Lord willing, I intend to make more of these experiences in my days ahead.

Yet in the midst of it all I realize there must be a necessary time to pause and reflect. How tragic and disheartening it would be to simply take an experience as sensory and not allow it to marinate deeper within us. To record our memories, then, is to acknowledge their power not only to speak in the moment but to nurse and minister to our souls in ways that we can appreciate only with the passing of time.

Big Sur will live as one of those memories. It speaks to me now, and I entrust it will speak to me again (perhaps in new ways) as I return to take from this jar in the future. Some trips are made because of the people, others because of the place. Yet the few that become sacred are the trips forged by both. I have not experienced another trip in recent memory that made me appreciate the beauty found in nature and friendship as much as I did walking through those majestic hills and sharing laughs around the campfire.

One of my biggest fears is that one day I’ll forget it all. In the event that I am ever stricken with amnesia or dementia or what have you, I pray that I will be led to this page and recall a part of me that experienced something I would dare call divine.

There is something about moving through a mountain enveloped in fog that will not allow you to settle. What I mean is, fog creates this sort of tension that has potential to lead to either a subtle disappointment or wonderful crescendo. You are walking through a seeming mystery, the sight of rocks and ocean veiled by an atmospheric curtain, and there is no promise it will be lifted. Yet the day assumes the sun (as does the weather forecast), and so you walk on through the Wordsworth-like scene and take in the sublime awe of dirt, grass and trees in the fog with the ever slightest sliver of hope that the mighty sun will awaken.

At some point along our trail we come across this plot of forest, and though slightly off the beaten path, we enter. With all the imagination our minds could muster we dream our own Narnia, pretend we are our very own adventurers and queens. Meg transforms into a french hostess of the woods and we, her delighted guests. We assume an impromptu game of hide n’ seek and Murray darts through the thin redwoods with vulpine aplomb. In this moment, I–I am transported back to my innocent days as a young and wide-eyed explorer–and my mind is filled with wonder.

Through thin and tortuous trails, we make our way through the leafy maze. Rays of sunlight begin to shoot through the uncovered forest; tension builds. We are eager to make our way out of the forest, to see what might greet us on the other side. So I stepped over the ivy, ducked my head under the low-hanging branches, and kept trekking (though I stopped to chuckle at Shelley when her shoe caught in a branch’s knot). Though the track was steep, we eventually find our way out.

What greeted me at trail’s end was a masterpiece presentable only by God Almighty. Our group of seven was struck breathless in the sight of radiant glory–there were no words. Quietly, easily, we laid our bags on the ground and took our time in silence to share this uniquely communal-yet-personal experience with our Maker. The moment had transcended into the sacred.

Around the campfire later that night, we sat around on full stomachs looking to entertain one another with old tales of horror. What we got instead was a “popcorn-style”, group ad-libbed story initiated by Brittany that was unraveled and expanded on for the next half hour. It all began as a “Once upon a time in land far away, a land like Ireland…” but included Stevo-sponsored “Meanwhiles…” and led to crazy twists and turns involving dogs with injured legs, magical leprechauns, a love-sick spinster, and a tough New York priest named Brooklyn Dave (along with his friend Crocodile Marty in Australia).

We all laughed heartily at the accents (and at the people who attempted them) and the intricate yet nonsensical machinations of the story, while appreciating the inner-workings of the people who delivered them. I sat there marveling at someone like Feibes who possesses such a God-given ability to entertain others with his humor and charm. I was equally amused by Murray whose attention to details (not to mention, his failed attempts to keep a nonsensical story straight) exposed his practical, engineer-like hardwiring. It is a great joy when you are able to see a glimpse of God through His people.

The story abruptly ended. As each person filtered out to clean up and tie up loose ends, I stood there alone before the fire, full of life and cheer. The adventure was ending, the trip rounding near to its close. Yet it was not lost unto me the subtle narrative that was being told by the Grand Storyteller. “I am glad you get to enjoy Me and enjoy My people. This is the better part of life, and I give this privilege of life to you.”

In a world of cruise-controls and autopilots, it is easy to default into our work days and family lives without much thought. But listen with your heart, learn to look for the subtle graces you’ve been granted, and never lose that divine wonder. May we stake our life at seeking and sharing the greater story.

Weighing In on Tebowmania

THREE MINUTES LEFT on the clock. Bears 10, Broncos 0. It’s been a rough three-and-a-half quarters for Denver, but Tebow has just completed his last five passes or something like that. Too little, too late? Fifty-two seconds later, the Broncos find the end-zone on a Tebow pass. No, this can’t be happening again…can it? The Broncos attempt a valiant on-side kick, but the Bears recovered. With no timeouts left, the Broncos are powerless to stop the Bears from simply running out the clock. Sigh, miracle averted…

Wait, did Barber just run out-of-bounds?!

Clock stopped. Another short run and the Bears punt it on fourth down. Broncos receive the ball with a minute left. Cue the bat signal–Tebow’s coming out with his cape. A few quick plays, a few long completions. First, he hits Decker, then it’s Thomas–like all of a sudden these gloves are dipped in super glue. Fourth down with about eight seconds remaining. Enter Matt Prater, the Broncos kicker, to attempt a 59-yarder to tie the game. (Um, that’s one yard short of sixty. That’s really, really long.) And the kick is…good (by about five yards)! You’ve got to be kidding me…are we really heading into overtime?

In extra time, the Bears win the coin-toss and elect to retrieve the ball. The Bears respond resiliently with several clutch plays including an amazing catch by Barber. Bears charge down the field and are in field-goal range. All they need is another down and the kicker has a very makeable three points. (Alas, I guess it’s too good to be true…) Hanie takes one last snap, hands off to Barber. He looks like he’s about to break away–wait, fumble! Scramble on the field, ball recovered by Broncos. UNBELIEVABLE. Now, Denver offense gets a chance to march down the field. And…

I don’t need to tell you the rest of the story. You know how it ends. Even Hollywood couldn’t come up with a script like this. Isn’t this stuff made of legends, things you might find in fairy tales or discover in movies? No, it’s real. I know it because I don’t own Madden 12 and I can’t mistake my TV images for a video game. I know it because I am staying up late on a work night to write an article about it. And I know it because, quite frankly, all of America is talking about it.

Indeed, I am just one of the latest and many to be swept away by Tebowmania.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey! What is going on here?”

For those of you who haven’t been following this, you might be sounding a bit like Mr. Belding. Even if you haven’t been participating in Tebowmania directly (watching his games), you have probably been involved indirectly (engaged in conversations, news articles, or blogs). Chances are, if you are living in America and have any sort of access to the Internet and media, you have heard something having to do with a guy whose name rhymes with Lim Lebow.

So, what’s the big deal? Here’s the skinny: he’s a second-year QB out of Florida–a program that he helped lead to two national championships–with supposedly bad mechanics and lack of skill who is leading his team to a 7-1 resurgence after a dismal 1-4 start. And he’s doing it in dramatic fashion, with three wins in overtime and another three victories by a touchdown or less.

Oh, and by the way, he sure loves his Jesus. You might have heard it here or seen it there. All of which has sparked several debates on sports radio and TV stations across the country about sports, society, religion, and well, the intermingling of all three.

Whoa, blow the whistle–beeeeeeep! Timeout. All that sounds pretty heavy. I think we’ll need to break down the X’s and O’s and tackle each topic one by one.

Tebow the PLAYER

For starters, let’s talk about what we know about Tebow as a football player. He is a consummate winner. He’s done it all throughout his life–before all the national fanfare, before his Heisman award and two college championships, before his current string of wins in Denver. He did it when he was younger and he is doing it now. And he’s always been doing it in spite of criticism, when players and coaches would consistently deride him for playing out of position or not having the required skill sets to excel at the next level. It can be argued that Tebow’s ability to win is extra impressive because he is doing so in the constant face of adversity.

Tebow is a naturally fiery competitor. You don’t have to tell him to work hard, to put his body on the line for every play, to make decisions that would best lead his team to a W. He holds himself accountable for every completion, every miss, every play. He is a leader, not just by words but by actions. When his Florida Gators team faced a shocking loss to Ole Miss in 2008, he said: “You have never seen any player in the entire country play as hard as I will play the rest of the season.” Tebow would go on propel his team to another national championship later that year.

The talking heads all say that he hasn’t developed the tools to do the job right. By their accounts he shouldn’t be as successful as he has been. Tebow would be the first to tell you that he still has a lot to learn. I am by no means a football expert, but I do know enough basic math to differentiate between the winning and losing teams on a scoreboard. However you want to slice it, you can always count on Tebow to give nothing less than his one-hundred and figure out some sort of plan to eek out victories–even if they aren’t the prettiest.

Tebow the TEAMMATE

One of the things that could easily be lost in this whole “Mile High Messiah” talk is how much credit his entire team deserves. It would be easy to dismiss their contributions and efforts, if not for Tebow himself, who is always the first to deflect praise heaped on him and redirect it toward his fellow coaches and teammates. He’d say things like “My teammates and the coaching staff make me look better than I actually am.” It’s one thing to say it, but I think he truly believes that.

Let’s face it: when you are playing in a team sport, you cannot win a game single-handed. This is especially true in football, where every position is interconnected and affects the performance of the other. If receivers can’t catch, QBs don’t get the completion. If the O-line doesn’t block, the QB won’t have time to throw and the RBs won’t have holes to break through. Yet there exist many players who apparently didn’t get the memo. The NFL is filled with many prima donna stars who brag and boast of their contributions when they win and blame others when they lose.

You would never hear that from Tebow. By his leadership through words and action, he inspires his team to play harder and better–the Broncos love playing with Tebow. His athletic ability, along with his intangibles (personality and leadership), has changed the culture in the locker room. The Broncos might not field the most talent (see Packers, Patriots), but they believe they can and will win every game. And the entire team, from the head coach down to the waterboy, has bought into it. It is simply infectious.

Tebow the MAN and “Witness”

This is where the conversation really gets interesting. Religion has long been a divisive topic in America. Having a high-profile public figure who is very outward and expressive about his faith only propels the issue to the forefront. However, Tebow’s openness about his Christian faith and concurrent success have opened up the floodgates for dialogue between believers and non-believers alike.

For far too long, religion has been used as a tool by wayward politicians and crooked men to push their agendas. But with Tebow I never feel like he is trying to sell me anything or that he is anything other than what he’s expressing. He doesn’t come off as the super-perfect and “holier-than-thou” type. His humility and candor with which he addresses the public makes him rather likeable. He has been nothing short of gracious, even with his naysayers. If nothing else, I’d be willing to listen to his message simply because of his approach, even if I didn’t agree with it.

Look, I don’t know Tebow personally. I’ve never met him or spent a day with him. I do know that he does a lot of charity work, including overseeing his own foundation and building hospitals out in the Philippines. By many accounts, the man you see in the press conferences is the same man off the field and away from the spotlight. I don’t know what he is like behind closed doors, but I really hope this is true. (Read part of his amazing life story here.)

But you can’t tell me that Tebow doesn’t love God. And you cannot not respect him for his faith, even if you disagree with it. He is just someone who is sickly in love with Jesus. To watch someone love something that much…it’s inspiring. It’s like watching him reminds me how to love something or somebody the right way. Have I ever loved God in that way?

We always knock people for being hypocrites, for preaching moralism when their lips couldn’t be further from their lives. Why are we knocking the one guy who seems to be living what he preaches?

The Impact of Tebow on American Christianity

With all this being said, there are still many misconceptions that could arise. Here’s one that comes to the forefront of my mind.

Planking? That's so pre-Tebow 2011

In my 11 or so years of practicing the faith, I have only discovered how deep is the rabbit hole that leads to my own brokenness. The more I understand the Bible and fellowship with Jesus, the more I realize how I don’t think, talk, feel or act like Jesus. One would think that I’d have more answers by now, that my life would be more prosperous or successful or charming. If anything, it’s been more trials and difficulties. The more I read things like “he must deny himself, take up his cross and follow me” and “whoever wants to save his life will lose it” the more I come to see that the Bible has a lot of hard sayings. Jesus didn’t mince words. He cuts to the core and exposes my pride and inner rebellion against God. It is easy to believe that this “Tebow-inspired” brand of Christianity means that once you convert you will become a winner (or that you are only qualified to be a Christian if you are a winner). After all, Tebow sure looks like he’s invincible, doesn’t he? The opposite could not be more true.

The fact of the matter is, Christianity is for losers. Some people say it’s a crutch, and it’s true. But the difference between the atheist and the believer is that the believer understands the reality and his need for a crutch, whereas the atheist denies it. Jesus is for people who are willing to admit that they don’t have it all together. As Don Miller says, “A beggar’s kingdom is better than a proud man’s delusion.”

Consider this my warning (and sermon). Jesus came to heal and love the lame, the prostitutes, the tax-collectors and sinners. And he ultimately died to pay the consequence of our mistakes, rising again on the third day to prove that he has power over death and sin. But he is not a genie. And he is NOT who the media has made him out to be: white, middle-class, Republican Jesus. Jesus is who he claims to be, even if his followers aren’t.

If you decide to follow him, life might just get a bit tougher. But everyone who ever became a Christian eventually had to ask themselves, is Jesus worth it?

The Test of Tim(e)

“It is unbelievably believable.” These words delivered from Heisman trophy winner Robert Griffin III could be just as fitting for Tim Tebow at this moment. Are we witnessing a modern-day David vs. Goliath story? He’s not supposed to be doing this, he’s not supposed to be winning, and yet it somehow miraculously happens week after week.

But there will come a time when the Tim Tebow magic runs out. When he fails, when he stops winning games. Certainly, I only wish him the best, but in some ways I am curious as to when that day arrives. Why?

A true test of character is not in how someone deals with victory, but in how he handles defeat. Leo Tolstoy once wrote, “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” I often like to extrapolate the principle underlying this quote. Everybody celebrates in a similar fashion when they are victorious, but how do they cope with the sting of loss? Do they handle it with dignity and grace? Or do they reveal themselves to be a fool? Each person reacts differently.

From what I’ve seen so far of Tim Tebow, I have a feeling that the score at the end of the game won’t change him. After all, the most amazing thing about this story is not how he keeps winning, but rather how he’s stayed so cool about it through it all.

Here’s to you, Tim Tebow. GB^2

Navigating the Story

I’ve always known that life is messy. It’s a concept that’s addressed through countless books and film and reinforced through personal experience. It’s a known fact. Yet, what I’m starting to wonder is how much of this inkblot is due to my own making. Let me explain.

As a writer and student of literature, I have always been taught to look for subtext. “Not everything is as it seems.” It is always more than meets the eye, deeper meanings hidden behind people and places and stories. Connotations. It’s the subtle nuances behind words and the contexts in which they are placed that allow us to arrive at the same destination and come to different conclusions. When I apply this sort of thinking beyond books and into the realm of life, I tend to look at my life as a story. The idea itself isn’t much of a stretch–after all, our lives are punctuated by the very conflicts, climaxes and resolutions from which our art is derived. Nor is it a wrong to think in this manner–in fact, more of us need to be aware of our place in the bigger picture.

Rather, what I am mainly addressing here is the problem that arises when one is not only aware his life is a story but begins to force elements into the story that do not belong. In other words, you begin to imagine the progression of your life and determine proudly to construct a conclusion by which it is the only way your story can end. For instance, if I believe I am supposed to find love like it is found in fairy tales, then I will sit at the coffee shop and wait for the “love at first sight” moment. In this case, I will not allow love to happen, perhaps more practically and less “romantically”, through online dating, set-ups, or the like–though it could very well be that is where you were meant to find it.

The chief issue is this–you want to be in control of your own story. You demand the pen. You want to write it. You want to shape your own plot, be the captain of your own ship. Thoreau novelized it with his beat of my own drummer ideology. Granted, who does not desire this sort of freedom? I do. In fact, I live most of my days as though this is true.

The problem is we are not capable of the task. You and I are no more capable of writing our own stories than a puppet is in creating his own speech. There are many things that fall out of my jurisdiction. I cannot control the stock market, my health, or even the people with whom I’m living. There are so many factors that are connected to life, why things do and do not happen. (How much of my life is reactionary as opposed to initialized?) It is nice to think that I have some semblance of freedom, of self-determinism, but in the end, as Shakespeare so tenderly puts it, “All the world’s a stage / And all the men and women merely players.”

If so, then maybe the goal in life isn’t so much about trying to break rank as it is about discovering what our roles are in this grand play. Am I Horatio trying to play the part of Hamlet? Or have I been cast merely in the background? Our confusion and failures lie in the possibility that we have denied who we were meant to be, what we were meant to do, with the talents and passions uniquely gifted to us, and rather tried to indulge in fantasies shaped by comfort and safety. The issue is not that we are too ambitious but that we are not truly aware of our role and our purpose.

I once thought that being the captain was divine until I realized that I had no clue as to where I was going or how I’d get there. I was shipwrecked, before being found by a greater Captain, one who knows the way to True North and brought me on board to join his grand adventure.

Yes, I’m merely a sailor. It sounds less exciting than captain, more dutiful than daring. But I rather be a sailor on a ship towards paradise than command my own boat to wreckage. In the end, I trust that the beauty which I will have experienced in the journey and destination will prove my rightful surrender.

Like Horse & Carriage

I made a trip up to Central and Northern California this past weekend to observe two marriages. One actually becoming official “before God and these witnesses” at a small chapel in Fresno; the other fresh and exciting after a couple weeks spent honeymooning in Europe. Both reminded me of the beauty found in marriage.

Ricky and Jessie came together in a simple yet meaningful ceremony. Pastor Jon officiated the wedding and delivered a memorable sermon. Nothing too long or heavy, but it was full of honest and practical wisdom. I remember one quote in particular in which he said (paraphrased): “In marriage, one half plus one half does not equal one. In this equation, rarely does each person ever give their full share of the fifty. Sometimes you might feel you are giving more, sometimes less. But if you are putting the other person’s cares above your own and you are running toward the other person to meet their needs, then rest assured you two are bound to meet each other somewhere in the middle.” It reminded me of the whole concept of giving, not taking, in marriage. Knowing the kind of man that Ricky is, I have full confidence that he will cherish, protect and provide for her with every ounce of God-enabled strength.

After the reception, Jeremy and I headed on the road to Oakland. The next day, we met up with my dear friend Deborah. We were introduced to her husband Jerry. We spent the entire afternoon and early evening together, going from church service to brunch to J-town to the piers over at Fisherman’s Wharf. It was a lot of activity, running into fobs at J-town and dodging fat birds, but through it all I got to see how Jerry served and loved his wife. They had that sort of chemistry that spoke of deep trust and understanding. I recount how at one Japanese novelty store, Jerry asked the cashier if they had a Domo ear-set to complete her full-body Domo costume. They didn’t have it, but Jerry was obviously looking out for her best interests. (Sarcasm intended.) I became a big fan of Jerry and I am glad that she is well taken care of. (It also doesn’t hurt that his hair reminds me of a cross between Beatles Paul McCartney and Super Saiyan 3 Goku.)

As I reflect on these two stories, I begin to see how they tie together. I think about the Bible and all its talk about marriage being a symbol of Christ and His church. How Christ in all his glory came not to be served, but to serve and make lovely His bride. How even when we fail or falter, Jesus is pursuing us with a passionate and furious love. He is fully committed. And He will not rest until He has us, wholly and completely devoted to Him.

This is what makes marriage special. This is what makes it divine. The world looks in to see what we have. It discovers, as a matter of fact, that it is a love triangle. Indeed, Christians are the most scandalous lovers of all.

When Voices Turn Flesh

I saw them out of the corner of my eye. A homeless couple, sitting on a bench, begging. As the other three members in our party shuffled into the BJ’s, my friend Travis decided to stop and listen to them. Not wanting to leave a brother behind, I told the others to go ahead while I stuck close to Travis, you know, in case something happened.

I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’ve come across and met several homeless people on countless occasions, at times even going out of my way to provide them food or clothing. Many of them are not as you would expect. They are not all junkies. Or alcoholics. Or robbers. Most of those whom I have met are coherent, decent people who just happened upon hard times. Still, whether subconsciously or not you kind of get the sense that they are a different class of people. In our tainted and jaded worlds we look to them as people whose worth and dignity are lower than yours.

So we walk by and turn an eye or try to feel good about ourselves by sparing some pennies or lint or whatever we have in our pockets. We go about our business and forget or pretend like this isn’t reality.

The reality is that night, we ran into a couple that was weathering some hard times. It’s one thing to be at a financial rock bottom. I can imagine what’s worse is having to beg for meal after meal just to survive. You are at the mercy of other men. So it was no surprise when the man’s first words to us were: “Please, listen, we’re not drug addicts or alcoholics or nothin’ like that, we just tryin’ to survive. Could you hear us out a bit?” Mind you, this was a 6’4 250-pound black man in his early forties, looking like he just retired from a fifteen year career in the NFL. He could have taken both of us out. But something prompted me and Travis to stop in that moment. And something prompted us further to listen.

I think what’s especially humbling when you are homeless and having to beg on the streets is the fact that you are no longer a name. All dignity is lost. You are just a face people pass by, a voice people choose to drown out or suppress in public. If people pass you by, you don’t exist. If people flippantly spare some change, you’re just a cause. But God has imprinted his image on you. Aren’t you worth more than that? Don’t you have a story, too?

In that moment, I decided I would help them out. I had a couple 20s in my wallet. But more than that, I wanted to return to them a sense of dignity that might have been misplaced or muddied in this whole ordeal. So I asked him for his name. “The name’s Andre,” he said as we shook hands. His felt like a sledgehammer. “And this is my wife, Chantiya.” Chantiya looked a little weary and exhausted, and perhaps she wasn’t all there. But Andre–there was something different; he had a good vibe about him. He is what I would call a gentle giant.

“So, Andre, what’s your story?” I asked.

He was a normal man not too unlike myself. He was working a typical job in the warehouse/assembly field before he got laid off due to the economic downturn. While he was trying to find another job, unemployment was paying him up to $15,000 to keep him afloat. Then they cut off their support. Now, he’s trying to help feed his wife and daughter by begging on the streets.

Within 15 minutes, they were no longer just another wandering voice in the night. They became real, living, breathing flesh. Andre and Chantiya. People like me who were just trying to get by in this beautiful struggle called life. The only difference was that we were riding opposite points of the wave right now. And I knew God didn’t bless us just to be fat collectors. Jesus was about dispensing; I just had to help.

Before I knew it, Andre and Chantiya were in my car. They needed a ride back to the Rodeway Inn in which they were living day-to-day. Throughout the car ride, we were talking about God and spirituality and how Jesus has been seeing them through this, even though it’s been hard. When we pulled up, Travis and I were taken aback by how dumpy the place was. Half-naked junkies smoking outside the rooms, giving us the look. It had a bad vibe all around. “It was like a scene out of Training Day,” he would later say.

For some inexplicable reason, I didn’t feel any bit threatened or afraid. I asked them how I could help them this day, and I met their need. They were very thankful and humbled. Then I asked them if I could pray for them. We all got in a circle, held hands, and came openly before our Maker. It was a powerful time I cannot exactly describe.

Before we left–and Travis was eager–Andre went to his room and came down with a copy of his resume. I told him I’d do everything I could to help him find a job, get him and his family back on their feet. Then we shook hands again. I told him how I was encouraged by his upbeat spirit through all of this, and to keep on fighting. “You know I will,” he said. “Cause you know Jesus Christ kept on fighting for us. He never quit.” Andre didn’t know it, but he had just delivered a powerful sermon.

Then we left. I’ve been trying to contact him ever since, with some leads I got. No response. I can’t find him.

Wherever they are, on this night or the next, I pray the Spirit of God be upon them. To protect them and lead them out of the dark valley. Because they are no longer just voices blowing in the wind. They are Andre and Chantiya, a married couple struggling in the beautiful disaster called life.

It’s easy to turn down a voice or cause when you don’t know the story. But when you lend your ears, colors begin to appear and life happens. It’s not always about getting in your words. I had nothing to say to them that night. I mean, what platitude could I give them that could possibly comfort them? Look for the silver lining? It’ll all turn out alright? I don’t know that. I haven’t been in their shoes.

But so much happens when you listen. When you try to immerse yourself in their world and reach out to them instead of trying to pull them into yours. Sometimes that’s all this world needs. More understanding, more listening, more love. The church is sounding like a broken record to the world, but I still have hope. I won’t give up on her, not just yet.

I learned it all that night.

In the Zone

Have you ever lost yourself in a moment? A place or time or person in which that was your sole and driving focus? You didn’t think about how you smelled or looked or sounded, and you were just absorbed into that song or scene or play?

I have. It is a great feeling. Some people call it being in the zone.

I was talking to my good friend Josh about this (residuals from our previous conversation). He shared with me a quote from Vin Diesel (of all people), something which his character said in The Fast and the Furious. “I live my life a quarter mile at a time. Nothing else matters [...] For those 10 seconds or less—I’m free.” He feels unrestrained and lost in the moment when he’s on the road. That’s kind of how I feel sometimes when I’m playing basketball. Or writing some inspired poetry or prose. Or when I’m engrossed in a great film.

Then it made sense to me how that applies to the idea of worship.

When you are truly worshiping, in that divine moment, you lose any hint of self and shed yourself from any worldly distraction–you become free. You wrap your mind and heart around something greater. In the ocean-like depths and grandeur of a gigantic God, your entire being just becomes so consumed with the Spirit that nothing else matters. Not your job. Not your health. Not your bills. It’s only God then. It’s only God…and it’s sublime.

It’s funny (in a twisted sort of way) how the gifts we were given by God to enjoy and worship Him end up being measuring sticks for ourselves. Our talents and passions by which we can give of ourselves to God somehow get bent to reflect our worth and value onto others. They become twisted by our pride and greed for glory. And it is never enough.

But when you stand before a huge canyon or stand atop lofty mountain splendor, you don’t think about yourself. You literally feel really small, and you are lost in the vast surrounding of God’s creation. It is at this point that you have decreased, so that the telescope of your heart is able to magnify the grandness of God.

Ironically, it’s moments like these when I feel the “biggest”–the most joyful and satisfied.

So whether you eat or drink or climb a mountain–whatever it is–lose yourself in it. Once you have lost yourself, you gain freedom. Once you have freedom, you are drawing closer to the heart of worship.

On Fire When He Speaks

Don’t give up. Don’t stop believing. Don’t ever count something or somebody out, just because God’s logic doesn’t line up with yours.

I say this because I was guilty. I was in a lonely, desperate rut no more than a few months back and I was about ready to give up on God. Many people around me were moving up and about in life. Church ministry became a huge burden and I felt like a confused hypocrite. Worst of all, I was lonely. I had very few friends to turn to and share about all this stuff.

Then crazy things started happening. A random acquaintance had a vision about me–the type you read about in the Bible that the apostles experienced. It was like a wake-up call from God. Then our church youth retreat happened, and I witnessed one of my youth actually come to accept Jesus as her Lord and Savior. It was a reminder that God still changes lives, even when you have stopped believing.

At this point, I’m thinking, life is still hard but God–You know so much better than me. He must be onto something here so I started praying that God would break me and humble me and give me His heart. It’s a dangerous prayer, I know. But it’s one I knew He would answer. Before I knew it, God had broken and afflicted me with deep, personal trials. As if I were the refiner’s gold and He the blacksmith, all my bad habits and wayward thoughts and insecurities were brought to the surface of the crucible. He said He needed to skim away those impurities in order to renew my spirit and use me.

Somewhere in this refining process God started to pour out abundantly into my life. One thing was community. God divinely brought about a close-knit group of brothers and sisters with whom I am not only able to hang out but share deep stuff, inception-like. The other was ministry. God had reinvigorated my passion for the youth and this past weekend, I even witnessed some of them performing their first random selfless act of kindness: they spent their own money to feed a homeless lady on the streets!

All to say that these gifts and trials and lessons from God came as a reminder to me of one thing: LOVE. God loves us all more than we could ever imagine. I was in a lonely, desperate rut. I didn’t deserve any of this. I didn’t even ask for it, really.

But it doesn’t take long before you discover that in this spiritual union, God is the bridegroom and you are the bride. He pursues us with a passionate and furious love. He chases after us, He woos us with His grandness and beauty. He brings us out of our pits of darkness. And out of His unfathomable love, He enables us to love Him back.

It’s true what they say. God works in mysterious ways. I stopped trying to reason and figure it all out, it’s just a silly game I won’t ever win. All I know is that when I enter those pits in life, I must never give up, never stop believing, and never count Him out.

*****

Please do yourself a favor and watch a documentary called Furious Love. It will light your world on fire.

Dating is Like a Zoo

My best friend Peter rolled by my place last night. He strolled in with his fancy button-up and meticulously styled hair, leaving an exotic trail of cologne with every step he took. How well he was put together was often an indication of whether girls were involved earlier in the evening. That evening, he left no doubt.

He stopped by to measure the trunk space of my dad’s 4-Runner. He had recently set his sights on a new hardtop cover for his white S2k, and he was in need of a car big enough to carry the piece from one place to another. Not wanting to add precious miles to his lovely S2k, he was intent on borrowing my dad’s car. If all else failed, he was even willing to rent a minivan–just anything but add precious miles to his lovely S2k.

Peter lined his measuring tape closely from one side of the trunk to the other, down to the exact centimeter. That was him–always detailed, very exact. “It’s just who I am,” he would say. “That’s how God wired me.” We determined that the fit was possible, though it would be a tight squeeze. Peter said he would return home to research some more; for now, it had settled the matter.

As we sat at the edge, legs dangling from the trunk, we started to talk about life. Though it is hard for most men, it is not unusual for him to bear his soul. Peter was that sort of fish where you’d throw in your hook and he’d bring down your boat. Whether it meant life or death, he was never afraid to bite. The thing with Peter is, you never know how you feel about yourself when he is talking. Sometimes, it can be like reading a deep novel, discovering something amazing; other times I feel like I’m the only sane person in the room. Because of his early life struggles and experiences, he understands things about life that most people his age do not. In a sense, he is a man before his time. But that is who he is–extremely passionate, intelligent, unorthodox, and at times hard to comprehend. Either brilliant or insane.

As we sat there in the trunk, I couldn’t help but feel a bit awkward. Being shirtless didn’t help. We talked for a good half hour before heading back inside. We naturally progressed onto the topic of women and relationships. We were both poor shots in this department–he couldn’t catch ‘em and I couldn’t keep ‘em. Eventually, I relayed to him my fear of marrying wrong and one day waking up to discover that she has changed completely. Peter paused for a beat.

“You know, dating is like a zoo,” he said.

Like a zoo? I gave him my usual what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about glance before he continued.

“When you go to the zoo, you see a lot of animals, right? Polar bears, penguins, whatever. They act all nice, cute, cuddly…because they are tamed. But these animals aren’t from there. They were captured from the wild, right? They were raised in their natural habitats before they were brought in and trained to act a certain way. That’s like dating. You are taking two people from their natural elements and you’re telling them to act a certain way to attract the opposite sex. But once they are married, once they are comfortable, they revert to their habits, to who they really are. Sure, some of that is ugly, even scary. Penguins can be very mean out in the wild. Oh–but when they love, they love.“

I thought about it briefly; I thought I was onto something brilliant. “So…you’re talking about penguin sex?” Peter gave me the you-idiot face.

“No, listen. Have you ever seen March of the Penguins?” I nodded, faintly recalling Morgan Freeman’s smooth narration as black-coated animals froze their tails off. “You know how the Mom leaves while the Dad is caring for the egg? The penguins return after being months apart, and they try to find each other. In the mass of thousands, they call out to each other. The Mom and Dad can locate the voice of the other because it’s unique. They know each other specially, and he knows she’s the one.”

“But I thought I had found the one,” I said. “I loved Des.”

“Did you love her like Christ loved the church?”

Damn, if you put it that way … I guess we both knew the answer.

“That’s love. With all her faults. You see them, but your love is willing to cover them. Of course, there will be changes–we all change. But God will protect you two from the poachers,” he paused. “When you see her, when you connect with her, when you know her–you’ll know it.”

It was well into the early morning. Before he left, Peter thanked me for listening to his “crazy stories, his crazy life.” But none of it seemed crazy at all. Love, for all its whims and woes, finally started to make sense.

There are nights when I struggle to make sense of it all. On nights like these, God likes to deliver bricks. He’s saying, build on what you know.

For Better or For Worse

I’m learning about it means to be a good husband. Yes, I am single–in both the technical “marital status” and actual sense. But as a friend had once shared with me, as a Christian I am joined together in a spiritual union with Christ. How I grow and nurture my relationship with Christ provides insight into how I will or will not grow and nurture my relationship with my future wife.

When I realized the truth of this statement, I was saddened. For no sooner had I come to see another truth: I would make a terrible husband. Over a decade ago, as a hopeful but naive teenager, when I had first committed to following Christ, I was in essence making a vow that declared my complete devotion to him–for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health–for the rest of my life. Indeed, I was proving myself to be faithful, when it was an easy vow to keep, when it was for the better, and I was in richness and in health.

But then came the trials and temptations of life, and suddenly the very cords of my relationship were being stretched and broken. Through the lusts and greed and pride of life my heart had become hardened. As the days progressed my love subsided more and more. It happens, so slow and subtle. My feelings became dull, my love grew heartless. I kept serving the church, believing it was my duty. That will keep him smiling, I thought. But he was not pleased. After all, shall a wife be flattered when she receives roses bought in obligation?

I admit there were times when I was unfaithful. I had other lovers. Times when I found other things more attractive. Money, respect, relationships. These lovers danced before me so alluringly. They whispered secret pleasures, they spoke of great thrill. For some time I had listened. I would leave in the evenings to flirt with them, coming back home worldly-drunk, not unlike the man with the smell of cheap perfume and faint lipstick on his shirts. Yet I still had the audacity to face God and say, “But out of them all, I love you the most!”

That was what I was. An unfaithful, unloving spouse. Yet in all his right and power to divorce me, God has stood by my side. He forgives, he forgets, and he chooses to love. He waits for me to come around. This is the power of a vow. Not that it is merely kept, but that in every right for him to break it he chooses not to. That is what is meant by the terms “love” and “unconditional.”

So, here I am. I’m thinking I’ve got to get this right. If I’m not good with God, the most patient and perfect lover, then I will never be the husband and father I ought to be.