a skip and a jump from deceased

A while ago I wrote a post about how I'd become fat over the winter. Yeah . . . don't know how it happened or when, exactly, but I do know that I woke up one morning and I was fat. Well, because of that, I've been trying to watch what I've been eating for the past few weeks. I've been trying to exercise a little more and I've basically been trying to get a little more fit.

And then, the other day, the UPS man brought us a special package. It was something we'd ordered a few weeks ago--a present Tami had actually requested for Mother's Day. And finally a couple Wednesday's ago, it arrived.

What it was was this: our very own Wii Fit. Ok, maybe that needs a quick explanation. Now, I'm sure most of you out there know what a Wii is (and if you don't have one, just a quick (blatant) plug for RepcoLite: We're going to be giving away 5 of them this summer. The contest starts on June 16 and I'll have instructions on the website (www.repcolite.com) very soon). Anyway, as I was saying, I'm sure most of you know what a Wii is. And now, Nintendo, trying to capitalize on their already monstrous success, has released a new "exercise game" called Wii Fit.

It's a game that comes packaged with a big balance board that you put on the floor and stand on. The board registers your center of balance and incorporates those readings with different exercises and yoga poses you can do that are contained in the game. The basic idea behind it is that by making exercise fun, people like me will be more likely to do it.

Anyway, as I mentioned earlier, Tami has been wanting this thing ever since she first heard about it several months ago--she's into that weight-loss, exercise kick and she thought it'd be fun. So, being ever the attentive and thoughtful husband, I ordered it for her for Mother's Day. (Of course, though, being a guy, I was more than just a little nervous to buy an exercise present for Tami. Buying something that says, "Honey, I love you, but you're fat. Please exercise" is a little daunting. I've been in trouble before when the "Do you think I'm fat?" question's come up and as a result, I was kind of scared to buy Tami exercise equipment--even if it was in the form of a video game--for Mother's Day. But she wanted it and promised not to yell and cry and lock herself in the bathroom and say that she's just a fat blob (or to say that I said she was a fat blob--which I never have and never will) when it came in the mail. She convinced me she was telling the truth. So we ordered it).

And it arrived last week Wednesday, as I've said, and we were all giddy to open it up and try it out. As I ripped open the box and smelled that wonderful new electronics smell, I thought about how odd this was. Here I was, excited about exercise. I've never been excited about exercise before, (unless you count walking to the kitchen to get more food), but if you roll it into some kind of video game . . . well, you never know.

Anyway, we got it out of the box and read the instructions. We were supposed to, after the whole things was initialized--we were supposed to stand on it and set up a saved profile of ourselves. This profile would contain our starting weight--our starting body mass index--basically, how fat we are--as well as our goals for the next couple of weeks. When I told Tami all of that and told her to step onto the measuring board and start enjoying her Mother's Day present in front of all of us, she got a little nervous. She wanted to see how it all worked first, so she had me go before her.

That was fine by me--at first. See, I stepped onto the little balance board on the floor--the scale if you will, and suddenly a little computer voice on the television said "Ohhhhh." The voice sounded startled and slightly in pain or maybe just awestruck. Either way, the little "oh" didn't sound terribly flattering and I started to get a little nervous that maybe my three weeks of exercise and eating better hadn't trimmed me down to the lean form I imagined I was.

After that initial "oh," a few more tests followed. I had to tell the computer my height and my age and then I had to stand still while it told me it was measuring me. When it was done, there was a drum roll and then the television loudly proclaimed to everybody in the house that I was . . . OVERWEIGHT. And then, as if that wasn't bad enough, it showed a little computer person--something that on the Nintendo system is called a mii--a computer representation of me. It's a little guy I've made who looks kind of like me and who I've named Danny Boy. Anyway, as if it weren't bad enough to hear that I'm overweight, suddenly poor Danny Boy--my lean and trim self on the screen--suddenly Danny Boy pudged out. Just like me this winter. One second he was trim and fit and smiling and the next he was pudgy and doughy and lumpy and standing with his head down. A big colorful scale to his left showed that I was deep in the orange--the overweight section--and was only a few clicks from the dreaded red section that was simply and morbidly titled "obese." I believe there's just one category above that one and it's black and labeled "deceased." I'm a click away from obese and just a skip and a jump away from a pine box.

Well, when my character on tv got fat, the kids started laughing and hooting and hollering. When we saw that I was just a few clicks under obese, Tami started laughing. When I saw I was approaching the "deceased" category, I felt a little better. At least I wouldn't struggle and be fat for long. Death would take care of that.

Oh, the family though, they didn't care about my impending death--they were all having a great time making fun of fat Danny Boy and laughing when the little nag on the Wii Fit game started trying to tell me all about proper eating habits and healthy snack habits.

I stood there on the scale, letting the television berate me and letting my familiy laugh at me. I didn't yell at them to stop. I didn't act indignant and hop off the Wii Board and threaten never to go back on. Nope. I was an adult--a class act. And the reason I carried myself so well was because I was remembering something Tami had forgotton: she still had to go.

With that warm little thought in my head, I endured the humiliation and the pain and did my first little set of prescribed exercises before finally clocking out. By the time I was done, I'd spent a good 45 minutes doing different yoga poses, running in place, doing push-ups and rowing squats (which is a very awkward pose) and all kinds of other stuff. I was sweating, my legs were sore--almost numb--and I had pain everywhere. It was great. I don't know if this whole thing will really work, but it was fun and I felt like I'd done real exercise. We'll see how it pans out.

Anyway, when I was done, I jiggled my fat self off the little board and made room for Tami. Nervously, she stepped on and, to my delight, the same little agonized computer voice groaned "oh." It ran her through the same battery of tests and then came the big drum-roll. We waited. I was ready to cheer when I learned that Tami was overweight and Tami was getting ready to cry. (And I've got to confess, I didn't care. I hoped that little computer nag let her have it--they had ridden me so hard, I figured it'd be fair). Then the results came and it was a gigantic kick in my flabby, jiggly stomach: Tami was informed that she's in the normal range. Her little Mii jumped up and down and held her arms over her head before rushing off to stand on the screen next to my dumpy, pudgy little character. Danny Boy just stood there looking doughy (and sweaty) and Tami's Mii kept hopping around, looking like she'd just won the world series. This started everybody laughing again.

The real me just watched for a second and then I scuffled off to the bathroom and locked myself in with a box of ice cream sandwiches, a 2-liter of Diet Coke and a handful of granola bars. Of course, any sobs that leaked out of my throat were drowned out by the laughter from the living room. "A couple clicks away from deceased and they're still laughing." I munched on my snacks and chewed quickly (mainly because the computer nag had told me to chew slowly) before taking a big gulp of Diet Coke straight from the 2-liter. "Yeah, we'll see who's laughing when I'm dead." A smile started to creep up the corners of my face and I was just nodding my head when I realized that I was talking about my own death. I paused for a second before finishing off 2 more ice cream sandwiches and I started making notes on the back of the ice-cream sandwich box. Notes about my funeral. I'm choosing Pall Bearers. Tami's going to be one. So is Caleb--he laughed so hard at me he wet himself. And I'm going to request, in my will, that the Pall Bearers walk my sarcophagus (can you call the coffin of a really, really fat guy just a coffin? It doesn't seem . . . massive enough). Anyway, I'm going to request that my sarcophagus be hauled around the cemetery--like a lap. Maybe I'll request two laps of the cemetery.

I smiled as I munched down my last granola bar without even taking it out of the wrapper. I could hear them in the living room . . . exercising with their little Wii Fit . . . and I nodded to myself. "Keep exercising Tam. Keep exercising children. You're going to need to be pretty fit when I go . . . pretty fit, indeed."

ducks on the pond and other problems

I've been coaching a little league team comprised of 7 and 8 year olds and let me tell you, it's been an eye-opening experience for me.

Now, in the past, I've always thought of myself as a decent communicator--you know, someone who could make even the most confusing thing simple and understandable, but with this little league thing, I'm starting to wonder if maybe I might have held to an overblown idea of my own abilities. See, the other night we had a game and I'm pitching to my team. Before long, the first little kid gets a hit. (Which isn't unusual because most of the kids get hits and, in this particular league, most of them stay on the bases, moving one base at a time until they eventually score--which of course is not counted, which is another story.) So anyway, the first kid gets a hit and then so does the second kid. That means, in baseball talk, that we've got ducks on the pond. So I said that to batter number 3.

I said, "Hey Pete, come on bud, we've got ducks on the pond."

And he put his bat down and started looking around. "What pond?"

"I mean we've got runners on the bases . . . . I called them ducks because . . . ." (why do we call them ducks? And what's up with this pond thing?) "Ahhhhh, just get your bat ready, I'm going to pitch."

He looked at me and blinked. "What pond?"

His bat was still down and he was looking around, standing on his little cleated tip-toes, looking for the pond, so I walked over to him and told him it was just an expression--a cliche--and that all he needed to think about was hitting the ball. He seemed to understand and soon he had is bat hoisted on his shoulder.

I walked back to the "mound" and got ready to pitch. I was in my wind-up when he put the bat down and pointed at the trees just beyond the fence.

"Is the pond out there?"

Oh, mercy. "Yep! You got it bud. The pond's out there. Now, get ready."

"And there's ducks?"

"Loads of 'em."

That seemed to satisfy him and he hoisted his bat back up and got ready to hit. I tossed him the ball and he swung, hitting a slow dribbler back to the kid fielding the pitcher's position.

The little pitcher scooped it up and tossed it to first. The first baseman caught it and poor Pete was out. Finally. However, while it took forever to get to this point, I still wasn't done coaching good old Pete. See, while that whole at bat took place, I noticed something. I noticed that when Pete hit the ball, he started running down the line to first and then he pulled up and stopped halfway when he realized he was going to be out.

As he was walking back to the bench, I took that moment to impart a little of my baseball knowledge to him--you know, to coach him in the ways he should go. (I should have known better after the Ducks-on-the-Pond fiasco . . . but I'm a slow learner).

So I said, "Hey Pete! Good hit, buddy. But you gotta keep running, ok?"

Pete's head snapped up as he was nearing the bench and he looked at me with a weird look in his eyes. "I've gotta keep running?"

"Yeah. Keep running--even when you think you're out."

"Even when I'm out?"

I kept thinking what's that weird look in his eyes for? But I dismissed it and simply said, "Yep, keep running."

Well, Pete's a no-nonsense kind of kid. He turned on his heels and shot off down the base line straight towards first. He hit the bag going like sixty and made the turn to second. People started screaming at him--parents, grandparents, kids, coaches--and the other team didn't know what to do. I was yelling at him, telling him to stop running. As his little legs were kicking up infield gravel on his way to second, I shouted that he needed to run AFTER he hit the ball, but BEFORE he was out--and then I stopped and corrected myself and told him to run even when he thought he was out, but not to keep running after it was finally official that he was out. But that when it was official, I told him to officially stop running and return to the dugout. It was, to say the least, confusing. And surprisingly, it did nothing to slow Pete on his trek around the bases.

In fact, by the time I finished that convoluted explanation, Pete was almost to second and was getting ready to pass the runner who was legitimately there. Well, that kid, seeing Pete approaching at full speed, decided he'd better run too. I'm sure he figured he'd missed something and he shot off like a deer. Now, both of them were barrelling side by side down the line straight toward the poor little kid standing at third base who was waving at his parents in the stands. Suddenly he looked over and his eyes get huge as he sees two kids bearing down on him and he took off toward home plate.

All three scored at once, but, as I said earlier, we don't keep score.

When the game finally ended, we all wandered off toward our cars. I was kicking myself the whole way--frustrated about my inability to communicate what was in my mind to the kids on the field. And then I heard Pete talking to his grandpa, telling him about his homerun. His grandpa was eating it all up and patting Pete on the back and congratulating him and I was wondering if the old guy had fallen asleep and missed the whole fiasco or if he was just being nice to Pete. Before I could figure it out, I heard Pete shift gears in his conversation.

"Grandpa! There's a pond over there," he said, pointing at that line of trees just beyond the fence.

"There is? Well, let's go! I bet there are ducks!"

"Coach says there are tons of 'em . . . ."

Pete's voice faded away as he and his grandpa trudged through the long weeds toward the pond I doubted even existed. I just got in my car and drove home.

I'll deal with Pete's complaints about the lack of a pond next week.

mother's day

Years ago, when I was about 8 or so, mom was driving my sisters and I home from the 16th Street Meijers. It had been one of those fun, summertime trips to the grocery store: my sister Laura and I fought and argued and bickered up and down every single aisle and Jeanne just sat in the cart with the food, wailing and sobbing because she had been forced to leave the light of her life--a stuffed Donald Duck--in the car. Basically, by the time we were done, had paid our bill and had some poor sap load our stuff in the car, I think God was even getting a little sick of us.

Well, mom tossed us into our seats and peeled out of the parking lot with every intention of getting home as quickly as possible. As the car lurched and raged through the little maze of stop signs and turns looking desperately for open road and a straight shot home, Laura and I smoothly transitioned into Phase 2 of our fight. This was the "make derogatory, deeply personal remarks about the other person and follow them up with slapping" stage. I was very good at this part of the fighting process and I was just getting into my groove when mom boiled over. She turned around quickly, the vinyl seats of her little Gremlin squeaking with the sudden movement, and she looked us all in the eye for a second and said, "I don't want to hear another word . . . not even a breath . . . out of any of you the rest of the way home or there's going to be BIG trouble."

Well, normally threats didn't work on us, but this time she seemed serious--and honestly, a little crazy. Her right eye was twitching and her left shoulder kept jerking up toward her ear involuntarily. It was kind of scary and we thought for a second that maybe we had broken her. But eventually the twitching slowly stopped and we decided not to push things any farther. Despite our intentions of finishing the fight with a grand finale on the ride home, we settled quietly into the back seats and clenched our mouths tightly closed--even though we continued throwing angry glances back and forth at each other.

During the remainder of that ride, the only one that made any noise at all was Jeanne--and she was making happy sounds. See, once she got in the car, she was reunited with her stuffed Donald Duck and she was all babbly happiness. As I've mentioned before, that toy was the light of her world. It was a toy upon which, in Jeanne's estimation, the sun rose and set. Without that drool-stained duck tucked under her arm, Jeanne couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't laugh. Now, with that toy back in her possession, she wasn't quiet, but at least she was happy.

In fact, she was a little too happy. She was in that babbling stage where kids say all kinds of stuff you can't quite understand and you get tired just listening and trying to figure it out. You know that stage, right? That stage when they wear parents down to little nubs of the people they had once been simply by dribbling a non-stop stream of unintelligible questions out of their mouths. Anyway, Jeanne was in that stage and she sat in the back seat and beat mom into a coma with unending nonsense. In fact as we pulled away from the stoplight on James and 31--right by Dutch Village, heading North, Jeanne was really going and mom's eyes were glazed over. Jeanne was gabbing a garbled mouthful of things in which mom could only understand snippets. However, as her little Gremlin maxed out at a shaky 55 mph, two lines of clear speech snaked their way through the jumble and into mom's brain. Two simple lines cleared the glazed film off mom's eyes and sounded warning bells in her head. Two simple fragments of a single sentence: "Donald's a good flyer" and "he really likes the wind."

The import of what Jeanne was saying sunk into mom's brain and her eyes darted from the road to the rearview mirror and her mouth fell open. Sure enough, windmilling down the center of US 31 behind our non-eco-friendly, oil-burning Gremlin, was Donald Duck.

Mom whipped around in her seat for a better view--probably hoping that what she had seen in the mirror was just a mirage--a hallucination produced by the stress of having children with her all the time. Anyway, she whipped around in the squeaky vinyl seat and continued pushing her Gremlin toward home, all the while watching Donald flip over and over on the concrete. It was about that time that Jeanne realized Donald was gone for good. Her eyes crackled and she threw her curly red head back against the seat and sounded a long, mournful, ear-piercing wail like a wounded rabbit.

Of course, when that started, everything escalated--isn't it funny how that added touch of shrieking can lace even the most simple scenario with a feeling of impending doom, of hellish torment, of razor-edged tension? Yes, children know this and they use it to their every advantage. As an aside, smart parents know this as well. I, for example, if I have to return a particular electronic thingy I've purchased--and if I believe it's going to be one of those episodes where the "customer service" people argue with me about the return--if I know that's possibly going to happen, I bring one of the kids--usually the crabbiest one at the time--along with me. Most often it's Tessa. Well, if I put my little package on the counter and the tattooed and pierced high school girl beyond the counter looks at my receipt and says "this has only a 14 day return policy", I instantly pull the candy bar Tessa's been holding since we got there, out of her hands and there you go--instant anger. She'll start to wail and I have to say "what? I can't hear you" to the girl behind the counter while I point at my ears and shake my head. Then she repeats herself and I just shake my head and point at my ears again and pretend to tell Tessa to keep quiet. Eventually, the girl gets sick of repeating herself and the ear-splitting wails eventually wear her down and she just punches through the return and gives me my money back. Tessa always leaves the store--after a successful return--with a candy bar or two.

Anyway, all that to say children can really crank things up a notch or two when they start the screaming. And that's what Jeanne was doing at that exact moment that Donald was cartwheeling along the dashed lines of Northbound 31.

Well, with the screaming, mom was having a hard time thinking--a difficult time working out a plan--so she did what comes natural to parents across the ages: she turned on the other kids--on us. Pointing a crooked little finger at Laura and I, she asked "Did you see her throw Donald out the window?" We both nodded.

"Well, then, why didn't you say something?"

Oh, let me tell you, that even as a 6 year old kid, this was a sweet moment that I thoroughly enjoyed. Well, I cleared my throat, paused for effect and said, "You know, you told us to keep our mouths shut the whole way home." I'm surprised I'm still alive. I guess she had too many other things going on to worry about pounding me into next week.

After a few seconds delay--a moment of biting her lip and trying to decide on a course of action while Jeanne continued shrieking in the back seat--mom set her jaw and swung the car violently into a Michigan turn. She hit the gas, moved through the light, heading South now and then hit another Michigan turn. Our tires squeeled and before too many seconds had passed, we were sitting at the light, heading North once again.

In front of us, sprawled on the highway, lay Donald. When the light turned green, mom hit the gas and I'd like to say that the car peeled away from the rest of traffic. Yeah, I'd like to say that, but mom was driving a Gremlin. Still, it was moving faster than we were accustomed to and I remember our overly-large little kid heads sinking deep into the backs of our seats. Then, before we knew what had happened, mom hit the brakes and yanked the car into the median. Next thing we knew, her door flew open and she was gone, booking it across the highway, dodging and running at a full sprint straight toward the oncoming traffic. It was like a suicide run--like an extreme game of chicken--and Laura and I had never seen anything like it. Horns were blaring, mom was dodging, Jeannie was crying and we were cheering. We knew right then that if mom was going to die today she was going to do it with style.

Way too soon, (as far as we were concerned), mom was back in the car, panting and sweating and shaking. She tossed Donald into the back seat--into Jeannie's open arms--and leaned back to roll Jeanne's window all the way up. She didn't say a word as she nosed the car back onto the highway--she was breathing too hard. She had faced near certain death to recover a stuffed toy that we could have bought again at Meijers for 10 bucks. Why? I have no idea. All I can think is that she did it because she's a mom. And that's what moms do. They bend over backward for their familes and they do whatever it takes to please them, protect them, or sometimes, just to shut them up.

Today's Mother's Day and I thought I'd take a minute to say thanks to all the moms out there and to a few who've impacted me in particular.

Thanks mom for all you've done to "raise us in the way we should go." Thanks for doing everything in your power to protect us and teach us and love us and thanks for doing the crazy stuff like running onto the highway, straight at a semi-truck, to grab that stupid little stuffed Donald for Jeanne. It made a great story--(though think how much better it would have been if you'd been clipped--just winged, mind you--by one of those trucks . . . . Oh, well, we can't rewrite the past . . . .)

Thanks to Tam's mom for doing all she's done to raise Tam and to be there for us.

And finally, thanks to my wife--the mother of our (gulp) 5 kids. Tam, you're the best mom I've ever seen. When God put your heart together, He had to be thinking "I've got one thing in mind for her--one thing that will be the pulse of her life." That one thing is motherhood.

In a day and age when so many people look at that job--at being a mom--as something you do and then move on from as quickly as you can . . . in a day when so many people are primarily concerned about keeping their careers . . . in a day and age when being a mom is cool, but where we're constantly telling women you can (and should) be much more than a mom . . . in a day and age like that, you're a breath of fresh air. You're amazing to me because you don't believe any of that garbage. You've figured things out and you know that there is nothing more important--no higher career or bigger calling--than the job you're doing right now: raising our kids to love God, to follow Jesus and to love life and each other. Years and years down the road, I don't think we'll look back and miss the money you could have made. I don't think we'll look back and wish you had spent more time furthering your education so you'd be more marketable in the business world. I think we'll look back and thank God that He put that special something in your heart when He made you--that special love that makes you the most remarkable mom and woman I've ever had the privilege to know.

Thank you from all of us--from Caleb, Madi, Andrew, Tessa, Hannah and me.

a western serial

INTRO TO OUR WESTERN SERIAL: BULLITS

We built the kids a western town in the basement for Christmas a couple years ago and one of the first things we tried to do was create a Western serial--you know, one of those old, short movies that were divided into a number of short little episodes that usually ended with a cliffhanger. This right here is the opening for our little story. I'll follow with updates as time goes by . . . .

Part 1: In Cold Blood

Here's Chapter 1 of our western serial. The background music is provided by Townes VanZandt.

Part 2: The Waiting

And here's Chapter 2--the final completed chapter--of our western serial. Perhaps someday we'll complete the story as we have it written. But man, it's a lot of work making those little kids do stuff on que.

polluting north carolina

"We're going to North Carolina."

Rick walked into my dorm room and hopped up on the bed as I sat by the computer actually working on homework. Rick never really worked on homework. He preferred to wander around the campus, spend money he didn't have and make plans that involved me having to go places I didn't want to go on the weekends. One thing you had to say about Rick back then: he had a full life.

"We're doing what?"

"We're going to North Carolina. On a mission trip. This weekend."

Aaaah man . . . I mean, I love the lost and all, but I had a paper to write and about 1200 pages of dry, dusty theology to read. I didn't want to go to North Carolina on a mission trip. So I cleared my throat and announced to Rick that, no, I wouldn't be going. I'd be staying here and having a nice quiet weekend getting all my homework and reading caught up and possibly, taking a long nap on Sunday after (or during) the Lions' game (which was actually airing on a viewable channel that week). Nope. I had too much going on to spend a weekend away. I was steadfast and resolute. I was really kind of proud of myself for being so unshakable.

Less than 24 hours later I was sitting in Rick's station wagon with my forehead pressed sadly against the passenger window. I watched the world rush by in a blue-green blur as we motored out of Kentucky and made our way to North Carolina.

Rick was giddy on the drive, talking and telling stories and just basically living it up. I was bitter and angry. Which is a perfect mood for a mission trip. See, Rick was happy because this little trip was a requirement for one of his classes and with me there, it would be more fun for him. Even with me in a bitter, foul mood, I was more fun to hang around than the other people in his class (at least according to Rick). By bullying me into going, he didn't have to share a room with people he didn't like. He was happy and he whistled and sang along with every song on the radio.

I sat in silence and prayed. I prayed that he would choke on his own spit before we got too far away from campus for me to be able to hitch-hike back after helping the paramedics load his corpse into the ambulance.

Well, unlikely as it seemed, I eventually came out of my dark mood and resigned myself to the mission trip and the role I was to play. (I was supposed to play guitar and supply music for the kids during the revival-type meetings happening for the adults.) I wasn't very good with kids back then, but I figured I could fake it for a couple nights.

So, all that to say, by the time we pulled into the driveway of the family that was going to host us for the weekend, I was having a moderately good time.

Now, I'm not going to spend the time here talking about the revival meetings or how it went for me playing guitar for the kids. I'm not going to talk about that because it's not interesting. It went just exactly as you might imagine it would.

What I do want to talk about is our last night at the house with our host family. Now, the host family--the Sturtzell's--were very friendly, very generous hosts. Martin Sturtzell and his wife Emily were older than us--in their early 40's--but their kids were quite young--twin 9 year old boys and an 11 year old daughter. As I said, they were kind and very accomodating, doing everything possible to make these two strangers feel comfortable in their home. Rick was given their sons' room and I was given their daughter's room. The kids set up a tent in the lower level and were camping out down there.

They were fun to talk to and that last night, they really opened up. See, that night, there happened to be a James Bond marathon on tv. Back then, I wasn't that familiar with James Bond. I watched one or two of the movies but that was enough for me and I turned in for the night. Rick and Martin however, turned out to be Bond fanatics. They sat up late into the night watching movie after movie. Eventually though, Martin got tired and finally went to bed, leaving Rick alone in the living room sometime around 1:00 am.

The next morning, Rick stormed my room and woke me up. His eyes were huge and he was all upset. He kept saying over and over "I can't face them again . . . I can't face them . . . I can't face HER--ever again . . . ." And then he'd break down into uncontrollable, incomprehensible mumblings as he buried his face in his hands.

"What are you talking about? What happened?" I was trying to figure out why he was so upset.

"Ohhhhhh! It was horrible. HORRIBLE!" Rick buried his face in his hands again and I was starting to get uncomfortable. I thought back on the night before, trying to imagine what could have happened. Now, I knew he had stayed up late and that, coupled with the way he was carrying on made me wonder if perhaps . . . if maybe . . . no, it couldn't be. Or could it? Could Rick have possibly wandered into some room he shouldn't have and . . . could he have seen something he shouldn't have. Something . . . well, something between a man and a wife? A beautiful thing . . . if you're the man or the wife . . . but a hideous thing if you're somebody else. You know what I'm getting at right? Could Rick have walked in on . . . that?

Well, before I could imagine too many terrible scenarios, Rick let me in on what happened.

"Ohhh," he moaned pathetically, "We were all watching the movie and then you went to bed. Martin stayed up for a while and then he went to bed. That left me all alone in the living room." He looked at me with big, pleading eyes. "All alone," he repeated, wringing his little hands and cringing.

Sweat was forming on his forehead and he shifted from foot to foot. Then he quickly took a step toward the door, whipped it open and peered into the hallway. Convinced nobody was out there listening (what had happened?!!), he closed the door and moved close so he could whisper the rest of the story.

"I was all alone in the living room watching the movie and . . . well, it happened."

"What happened?" This was like an Easter Egg hunt only less fun.

"Well, you know . . . . You know what we had for dinner last night--salad--and you know what lettuce does to my system."

Oh, Lord. Yes, I knew what lettuce did to his system.

"Well, it happened last night and my stomach was . . . and all I could think to do . . . well, I did it."

"You did . . . ." It was more a statement than a question. I was starting to understand this whole thing, but I was still a little confused. Rick was never really very shy about his bodily functions before--and while I didn't share his willingness to boldly make himself feel better whenever and wherever he was, I was still having a hard time understanding why he was so embarrassed after doing this thing all alone in the living room.

"Yes, I did it. Over and over and over. Horrible. Horrible. Horrible. It was the worst ever, Dan. The WORST."

Well that's saying something because I'd known Rick to have a number of what I thought were bad episodes. If this was admittedly the "worst ever" it was truly bad indeed.

"Over and over and over I did it as I lay on the couch watching 'Live and Let Die.' Finally, it was time for bed and I stood up to grab the remote. As I reached for it, it fell off the end table and landed on the floor. I stretched and yawned" (he demonstrated everything) "and did it again. Then I bent over and did it again two more times."

"While you were bent over?"

"Yes."

"Rick, that's wrong--even for you . . . you know that right?"

"That's not the worst of it." His eyes were big and his face was red. "I grabbed the remote, switched off the tv and did it one or two more times and then I reached for the light." He stopped and buried his face in his hands once more.

"Yes?" I prodded him. "What's the worst of it?"

"Ohhhhhh," he was in physical pain. "As I reached for the light, a voice came out of the kitchen."

"A voice?"

"Emily's."

"Oh."

"She said, 'Why don't you leave that on. I'm going to be working here for a few more minutes yet.'"

"Oh, no."

"Yes! She'd been there the whole time! The whole time--just 10 feet away while I . . . while I . . . while I . . . " He shrieked in a little girl voice and bounced up and down on his tiptoes. As he bounced he did his thing again--the lettuce was still working.

screwed

I arrived home from work the other day to find a project waiting for me. Now, to be honest, I'm not a huge fan of projects. Oh, it's not because I'm lazy or that I just want to sit around when I get home. No, it's actually because, when it comes to projects, I'm incompetent. Completely and utterly incompetent.

Oh, I can get them finished and usually produce decent results--but that's only after I've wasted an entire evening and have completely alienated myself from my family with lots of random yelling.

Anyway, I got home from work the other night and there, sitting on the counter, waiting for me--actually, mocking me from within its little plastic package--was a washing machine belt. You see, for a while now, our washing machine belt was getting ready to go. Oh, we knew it wasn't long for this world and today was finally the day it's time in our home came to an end.

Well, anyway, as I said, I'm not exactly Mr. Fix-it. Not even a little bit. But I was willing to give it a try. After all, it's just a belt. How hard could it be to put on?

So before I changed out of my work clothes, I marched downstairs with Andrew and Tessa--I figured I'd do a little bonding as I worked on the washer. Oh, we were all giggles and laughs as I removed the screws holding the front panel in place.

"Who's going to help daddy? Who's going to hold the screws?"

Tessa instantly raised her hand and hopped on her toes and said "me, me, me, me, me" and then she turned toward Andrew who was also reaching for them and she snarled and nearly bit his hand. Then she turned back to me and smiled and went back to saying "me, me, me, me" (though her eyes slanted "evilly" toward Andrew now and then).

Well, I gave her the screws and told her to hold them tight and I let Andrew hold my screwdriver so he didn't cry. Then I laughed and winked at him just like Ward Cleaver would do and I said "Don't poke out your eyes, little man." When he promised not to poke out his eyes I turned back to the washing machine and that stupid belt.

I rolled onto my stomach and peered into the darkness where the belt was hidden away. I couldn't see anything, but I reached around in there, proving blindly with my clever little hands. And that's when I made a horrible discovery. You see, the belt couldn't just be pulled out and swapped. Oh, nooooo. The geniuses who built the washer constructed it in such a way that first all these tubes full of stinky water (where does all this stinky water come from?) have to be disconnected and placed in such a way that they are guaranteed not to drip until you reach into the machine to grab something else. Then, they flip over and gush like fountains all over your arms and pump that stench-laden water up your sleeves at such an angle that it cascades down your arm until it reaches your armpit. From there, it heads south until it starts collecting in the banding of your underpants. It's not a fun experience.

But, as bad as it is, it's just the first torturous step of switching out the belt.

Now, after the tubes are removed and the water contained within is allowed to saturate your shirt and your underpants, the next step is to loosen up the bolts that were never meant to be loosened with normal wrenches. See, they are crammed in small, tight little spots so you can't grab them with any standard wrench. And, if you're lucky enough to get a wrench on the bolt, the minute you exert any kind of pressure, the wrench slides off the bolt and your knuckles smash against a sharp, steel edge that serves no real purpose except to smash your knuckles.

Well, I did that--I twisted the wrench, watched it slide off the bolt, watched my knuckles slam into the knuckle-crusher metals things--and then I threw my wrench across the room. For a long second, I stared at the washing machine. I hated it with the passion of a thousand burning suns. I still hate it. Stupid machine . . . .

Then, I took a deep breath and realized that Andrew was still standing there. He was watching me with big eyes as he munched on snacks, soaking in my every action and learning how to be an adult.

Good job, Dan.

Well, with the little guy watching everything I was doing, I tried once again to don my carefree, life-can't-get-me-down-no-matter-how-long-I-work-on-this-stupid -machine attitude. I was all smiles when I asked Andrew to go find my wrench.

He took one more bite of whatever he was eating, then he put his screwdriver down and plodded off into the darkest recesses of our basement. After a few minutes of scrabbling around in the dark he found the wrench. But on his way back he must have stubbed his toe. I heard a loud yell and saw my wrench come winging out of the darkness. It skidded to a stop at my feet. I stared at it and made a mental note: Andrew learns quickly (and he's got a good arm).

Eventually, he waddled back into the light, rubbing his toe, and he settled back to watch me finish my work. With a quick look at him, I picked up the wrench and turned back to the bolts that I needed to loosen. Then I sent Andrew upstairs so I could work with a little more freedom. And by "freedom" I mean "the opportunity to do whatever the heck I needed to do (or say) to get those stupid bolts off."

When I was sure he had disappeared into the living room and was zoning out in front of the television, I turned my attention back to my work. With the wrench back in my bloodied hand, I attacked those bolts. I started with the wrench, but I quickly broke out all of the tools in my arsenal: my wrench, a dremel, a drill, a rubber mallet, a spark-plug remover thing (not the technical name), and a nail punch. Surprisingly, nothing worked. The bolts remained cemented in place and I was forced to get creative.

Thus began an ugly experience that lasted for about an hour and involved an unusual mix of cross-eyed wrath and prayer, moments of tears coupled with frantic, maniacal laughter. In the end, I had two sets of bloody knuckles, I was no longer wearing pants, I had broken 3 drill bits, had received a couple shocks from a worn extension cord that I kept trying to plug in with wet hands, and had knocked over 4 baskets of clean laundry that were now scattered all over the slippery, stinky-water-covered floor. But most importantly, the bolts were off.

With success only a few minutes away, I yanked the motor out and flipped it over and immediately realized that my work wasn't quite done yet. In order to get at the belt and pull it off, I still had to remove a pump assembly and a couple other things that I don't even feel comfortable making names up for.

Well, it took a while and I had to really dig through all my tool drawers to find the right bits to remove the pump thingy, but in the end, I accomplished it. As I was unscrewing all the screws that held the pump thingy in place, I kept thinking to myself: "remember to take a good, long look at the belt and how it's positioned in there because the minute you pull this pump doo-dad off, the belts going to flop on the counter and you'll have to figure out how the new one's supposed to wrap around all those little pulleys and what-nots."

Yes, I was thinking all of those things when I removed the last screw and lifted the pump thingy off. The belt fell onto the counter just as I figured it would and I realized I had never looked at how it was positioned.

See, that sums me up entirely when it comes to projects. I'm full of good ideas and lots of bright thoughts. Problem is, I can never actually turn those ideas and thoughts into actions.

Well, it took me about six or eight tries to get that stupid thing back together correctly, but finally . . . finally I had it right. All I had to do was put that motor back in and I was done. This was easier said than done. The bolts were tough coming out and they were little buggers going back in, but eventually, that, too, was finished.

I turned on the washer and . . . it worked! Sure, the project had stolen 3 hours of my life, had ripped my knuckles open nearly to the bone, and caused me to lose one wrench in the darkest corner of the basement, left me standing in the basement in my underpants and cost me a few drill bits, but all that said, it was done--except for putting on the front panel and securing it with two simple screws, I was done.

So I grabbed the panel, mashed it in place and grabbed for the screws. Gone. I walked around and around, looking at the floor, going over the workbench in the work room, moving piles of laundry out of the way and digging through all my tools. Nothing. I lifted up the washer and ran my hand under it as far as I could reach. The stinky water had collected there with other things that were even more unsavory, but there were no screws. I found my pants floating in a puddle of grey water. I picked them up and rifled through the pockets--nothing. Just a soggy wallet, a couple pennies and a tootsie roll.

I munched on the tootsie roll as I thought back on the whole night trying to figure out what happened to those screws. And then it hit me: Tessa. Oh, mercy. 3 hours ago, I had given Tessa the screws.

Well, I bounded up the stairs, two at a time until I stood in the kitchen. In my socks and my underpants. Tessa was kneeling in the refrigerator, digging for snacks that she was told she couldn't have. I called her name and she jumped out and slammed the door and acted innocent even though there was half a strawberry hanging out of her mouth.

"Tessa . . . do you have daddy's screws?"

She nodded. (Oh, good . . . she still had them.) Then she looked at her hands and shook her head.

(Oh, crap).

"Tess . . . think, girl . . . think. Do you remember where they are? It's very important . . . ."

She nodded.

"Well, can you find them?"

Again, a nod.

"Good girl! Go! Go girl, go! Go find daddy's screws!" (It was kind of like an episode of Lassie--'Go find Timmy, girl, he's fallen in the well! Go, Lassie, go!")

Anyway, Tessa took off at a run and I followed eagerly. For a while.

She walked, nearly ran, in a straight line through our home and toward the back door.

"Tessa? Are the screws outside?"

She nodded.

Great--I was going to need pants to continue on the quest. In seconds, I was back in the kitchen in sweatpants, ready to follow. Tessa was back in the refrigerator and she had another strawberry in her mouth.

"Go find the screws, Tess! You can do it! Go find 'em, girl!"

She took off with a serious nod. Out the door we went and straight toward a certain spot on the yard. My hopes started to rise--she was so focused, she seemed to know exactly where she was going. We'd get Timmy out of the well, yet.

Then she darted to the left and continued in a straight line in that direction. My hopes started to sink.

Then, she stopped, suddenly, and stooped down. She picked something up off the ground! The screws!? No. Small stones.

She tossed the stones around in her hand and sat down on the grass, giggling and talking in garbled language that only she understands. Then she saw me and seriousness fell over her face like a shroud. Her eyes became refocused and she got up and started trucking off in another direction.

She was back on the trail! My hopes started to rise but then . . .

But then, her steps became less deliberate and she starting skipping and twirling in circles and dancing to music only she could hear. She picked up a leaf and sang to it like a princess in a movie and then she danced and frollicked all the way into the house, leaving me in the yard, scratching my head.

At first I was angry. But that emotion was replaced by a growing discomfort. It was dark and getting colder and my underpants were still wet. And I still needed to go back to the basement and mop up the mess I'd left down there. And I still needed to dig up some replacement screws so I could get that panel back on.

So, I pushed my frustration aside and marched into the house. The front door slammed behind me and I looked down at my sweatpants. No sense getting these dirty and wet . . . .

I finished up in socks and underpants.

probes and hors d'oeuvres

I've mentioned it before, but I attended seminary for a single year after I graduated from Grand Valley. Living in Holland, you might think I would have headed straight for Western Theological Seminary, but no . . . I pointed the nose of my little blue cavalier toward Kentucky and didn't quit driving until I pulled into one of the parking lots at Asbury Theological Seminary just outside of Lexington.

Now, I was down there for just a single year, but a great many things happened in that year that will stick with me forever. Like the devotional one of my fellow students gave before our Missions and Evangelism class.

Ok, to set this up, you need to understand that I sometimes had . . . different . . . ideas of what was funny than about 99% of the rest of the seminary. This made for many interesting and heated discussions in which they all took turns trying to lead me to Jesus. Which was kind of funny because I already knew Jesus. But when I laughed about it, and told them that, they would just say, "No, Dan . . . his name's pronounced like 'hey zeus'. Jesus Rodriguez. He's in his third year and he's from Argentina. He's very nice, but that's not who we're talking about. You need to get to know Jesus."

And then I would try to tell them again that I already knew Jesus and that I also knew Jesus Rodriguez and that I wasn't confusing the two of them, but they just shook their heads and opened their Bibles and started to pray and read. Sometimes someone would try to sneak up behind me and annoint me with oil.

Now, I don't want to paint the wrong picture of myself. I wasn't obscene or coarse or vulgar. I went to church just like all of them, prayed just like all of them and loved God just like all of them. However, my failing was that I found humor in things that they didn't think Christians should laugh at.

For instance, I was in a philosophy class and the professor was making some big sweeping point about faith (though, I'll confess, I can never remember his exact point--once you hear his illustration, I think you'll understand why). Anyway, while I can't remember his point, I'll never forget his lecture on this particular day when he said, "There could be, let's say, mountains on Uranus." (Yes, he said it just like you've always heard it said and I, being the consummate adult, snorted and started to giggle in the back row. A few angry glances were thrown in my direction, and I shrugged and tried to pull myself together and focus).

Unfortunately, the Professor was only getting started. "Alright, let's say there are mountains all over Uranus. Everywhere. Jutting up in all directions. Sharp, pointy mountains jutting up all over the surface of Uranus. Now, we could look at these mountains on Uranus" (why, why does he keep saying "Uranus"? Does he see how I'm giggling? Is he trying to push me over the edge? Why couldn't he have just picked mars?) "Now we could look at these mountains on Uranus through a telescope." He looked at all of us, chalk in one hand and a large pointer in the other. "A microscope focused solidly on Uranus. Or . . . " he started to walk around the room and I was nervous. He was building to something and I was just barely holding myself together.

"Or," he continued. "We could send probes."

Oh no. Don't say it.

"We could send probes to Uranus."

Well, I'm sorry, but come on . . . "probes" in the same sentence as "Uranus"? Needless to say, I exploded in a childish display. And my goodness, if 100 different sets of eyes didn't turn around to look at me in the back of the class. I'm not joking. Nearly the entire class stared at me in shock. Some shook their heads and a couple started praying.

Anyway, that was the beginning of the campus-wide belief that I needed to meet Jesus (again, not Jesus Rodriguez on the second floor, but Jesus . . . the real one.)

It was frustrating and confusing. At Grand Valley, I had always been the conservative guy--the steadfast Christian who everybody thought was ridiculous. Then I head off to seminary and suddenly, without changing, I'm the resident pagan--the unbeliever. At least in the eyes of the prudes.

Well, after the "probes to Uranus" fiasco, it took me a while to convince my friends and other people there that I wasn't a mission project, but eventually, they quit trying to save me and went back to planning short term mission trips to Chicago and other places of despair.

Things were going quite well and I was actually starting to enjoy myself. Seminary wasn't so bad when people finally accepted that you were a Christian and didn't need to be converted. Anyway, I was starting to live it up when my friend Rick and I walked into our Missions and Evangelism class one day and found our normal seats in the back taken.

We looked around and in that whole auditorium, the only open seats were in the center, four rows back from the stage. (Looking back, this is always proof to me that God has a sense of humor. See, He knew what was coming today and He wanted to make sure Rick and I were in the front.)

Well, we settled into those uncomfortable seats and the Professor walked in and called the class to order. Then, as was his usual manner, he asked if any of the class members wanted to lead the class in a short devotional. (This was always offered and anybody who took him up on this offer received an extra 5 points toward their final grade. I always did all my work well and figured I didn't need that extra 5 points.)

As we were all looking around, I saw one guy raise his hand and say he wanted to do the devotional. He walked up to the front and stood behind the podium. He looked very pastorish. He was tall and didn't need a box to stand on (like I would if I was to try to do devotionals) and his voice didn't break when he talked (another problem I struggle with).

Now, I'm going to record here his exact devotional. I don't even believe it needs to be commented on. As I remember it, it started like this:

"I want everybody to close their eyes. Close them. All of you . . . close them and I want you to sit there and picture something. Picture a feast. The most marvelous feast you've ever seen. You walk up to a table--a table that stretches as far as your eyes can see. The tables covered with a white table cloth. Music is playing in the background. A slight breeze blows in from the East and you hear birds and the sound of the ocean. It's a beautiful place.

"Now, look at the table--keep your eyes closed--look at the table in your mind. It's covered with food. All sorts of food. All of your favorite foods. There are shrimp and cocktail sauce. There are plates and plates of cheese and meats and vegetables and everything you love. There are bowls of wieners. [what? Now, it's just me, but I've always preferred to use the words "hot dogs" or little sausages or even little smokey links. Wieners has never been one of my favorite words for any type of food product. I tried to refocus, but it wasn't to be.]

"Yes," the student continued from the front of the room. "Yes, there are wieners everywhere." [Oh, Lord please help me. I'm your child and I don't want to laugh, but if he says wieners again in class, I'm going to start giggling and I'm in the front row and the room is full of people who will not think this is in good taste at all. So, please Lord, hear my prayer and let him not sayeth wieners even one more time. Amen]

"Weiners, weiners everywhere." (He said it in a sing songy voice that made it even harder not to laugh). "Your hands"--(no, please don't say it, don't say it . . . talk about the cheese. There's cheese on the table, right? For the love of Pete, talk about the cheese!)--"Your hands are full of little wieners. In fact, you're holding so many wieners in your hands that you don't know what to do with them." (At this point, I was in extreme distress. My eyes were squenched shut so tight that tears were streaming down my face. My lips were curled into my mouth and I was biting down on them as hard as I could to keep from laughing, but I was snorting like an pig through my nose. Rick, sitting next to me, his knees pulled up to his chest with his arms wrapped around them, rocking back and forth and shaking and making long, horrible screeching sounds all the while saying--to me or to himself or to God (I don't know which)--saying "wieners! Wiener's! He's saying wieners in class!" I didn't think this could get any more awkward. But it did).

"You've got so many wieners in your hands that finally, as a last resort, you start piling them into your mouth."

I am not joking about this. This happened. A full-grown seminary student stood up in front of 150 fellow students and gave this long, drawn-out talk about little wieners without cracking a smile. 148 other people in the room all nodded their heads up and down and back and forth as if he were conveying deep, Biblical truths. I think I heard someone say "amen." I just sat there and squirmed. I was about 1 second away from spitting and snorting and hacking up all kinds of bodily fluids in the middle of a very serious devotional about little wieners and I was in the front row, only 10 feet away from the speaker. It was horrible.

But God must have been having fun, because the kid up front kept talking. "So you're crunching up those little wieners in your mouth and you're dropping little wieners out of your hands and finally, when you're done, you're completely satisfied and picking"--(yes, my friends, he really said this)--"you're completely satisfied and you're belly's full and you're picking little wiener morsels out of your teeth."

I think spit flew all the way from my mouth up to the podium.

I tried to stand up and I tried to get out, but I as I tripped and staggered over people on my way to the aisle and sweet, blessed freedom, I kept snorting and chuckling. My mouth hung open like I'd had a stroke and drool dribbled out like I was simple. I almost choked on my tongue. I had a headache. I was crying. My ears were red, my face was red, and I kept making that deep, inhaling "haaaaw, haaaaw, haaaaaw" sound that people make when they've tried to keep from laughing way too long.

My fellow students watched me stagger out of that room and I'm not kidding, but all of them looked at me with sadness in their eyes. They were disgusted that I was laughing. They were shocked that I found a devotional funny. They were upset that I distracted Wiener Boy so much that he was unable to finish his Wiener Talk.

But then, this was a Missions and Evangelism class and, as a result, in seconds, they're were back to making plans to lead me to the Lord.

I just took a long walk around that beautiful campus. I looked at the bright blue sky and the cotton-white clouds. I drank in the stark contrasts of the white steeples against the cobalt sky. I thought about Jesus. I could see him sitting on the steps outside of his dorm, playing a hand-held Yahtzee game. And I thought about God and his sense of humor--putting me in the front row for the Wiener Devotional.

I walked a little further, pausing as I crossed a wooden bridge over a little creek. I nudged a stone with my foot and watched it tumble into the water. Ripples spread out, reaching toward the shore and I giggled. Probes to Uranus and Wiener morsels in your teeth . . . .

I laughed to myself all the way back to my dorm. I said "hey" to Jesus on my way in. He just nodded and smiled and went back to his Yahtzee game.