No One Has Ever Questioned My Ethnicity

     Ever since Jenna and I first met, she has been insisting that a sunny day not be wasted by sitting inside. And if we absolutely must, then, "Please open the blinds and curtains. It feels like a cave in here!"
     Jenna grew up on the beach. And having been to her hometown and seen her in her natural element, I can say with confidence she has spent at least a third of her life literally on the beach, in the sand, in the sun. Her dark skin is a testament to that. When we first met I asked her what ethnicity she was. "My dad's half black," she answered untruthfully. I nodded in response, "I knew it."
     I grew up in the desert of Phoenix, AZ. We hid from the sun for survival. A "cave" was a retreat center from which we could enjoy everyday life. And my skin color is a testament to that. No one has ever questioned my ethnicity. So by the time we were married, I was mostly acquainted with this set of ideals that were so contrary to mine. I mean, we actually have some very decent sunny days here in Northern California. Then by a year and a half, I was fully converted, indoctrinated and even evangelistic about seizing the sunlight. The only downside to this belief was the shame that came along whenever I chose the cave to watch a movie instead of taking a walk by the river or the anxiety in my chest whenever I had to stay inside because of work or school. Those are the days I'd like to renounce my faith. Because I actually really enjoy movies and sometimes there is nothing you can do about the locational requirements of work or school. And some days I miss the cave. I mean, I was raised in a cave. My first kiss was in a cave. The first time I saw Fight Club was in a cave. You know ... the milestones.
     Then there are days like today. It's pouring rain, there is no more blue in the sky and I have no choice but to hide. On these days I remember the good ol' times caves afforded me. I've got a steaming coffee in one hand, a good book in the other and a shelf full of my favorite movies just in case. I'm rediscovering my roots.
     God did make the sunlight, what with its Vitamin D and all, but He also made caves. He could've made every mountainside flat and only given us the ability to build glass houses, but He didn't. He carved out little retreats centers with Welcome Home mats ushering you in.
    

Jump Into the Whirlpool

Danny spoke on Momentum today. Leaving an inheritance and creating a momentum for the future generations to step into. Like a whirlpool. Even the people who join later on get to benefit from the work that the first people did.

            When Mike and I went to a youth internship in Colorado, they took us to a hotel’s pool one night to swim. There was about 30 of us in one pool and it was fairly crowded and flirty. I had an idea while talking to Mike and decided to shout it out, “Let’s start a whirlpool!” So we did. All of us. It was fantastic and I felt like a champ for having started it, though I’m sure no one really cared who’s idea it was or even remembered for that matter. And that’s alright. It’s probably even better that way.

            My dad has given, been giving and is continually giving to me an inheritance . What’s he’s already given me is a life where the supernatural is normal. Encounters with angels. Divine appointments where people think you are the angel sent to them. Waters parting so save his life. Being transported from one location to another just because he asked God what it would be like. People being healed left and right from incurable pain and disease. Miraculous provision. Money given at the exact moment of need with the exact amount needed. God showing up just because He can and He loves us.

My dad has shown me a life where God speaks all the time and I can actually hear Him. He would tell me his conversations with God all the time. And the best part was when he said with such confidence and conviction, “And then God told me…”

He’s taught me that it’s ok and even masculine to be able to say, “You are right. I’m sorry.” Once when we were about to leave the house my dad noticed my brother’s bike leaning against the wall (something he had specifically told him not to do because it messes up the paint on the wall). “Nick, I thought I told you not to lean your bike against the wall.” Nick replied, “I didn’t. Look it’s on not even touching the wall. It’s leaning on the kick stand,” which was true. Now in my experience at many of my friend’s houses or at school, adults didn’t like to be wrong. It was an insecurity. If they weren’t right and the kids were, then what wouls they possibly have over them? So even if they realized point blank that they were incorrect and that they reacted to a situation wrong, they would come up with an excuse as to why the kid still deserved scorning. But contrary to my experience, my dad’s countenance instantly changed with realization and he said, “Oh you are right. I’m sorry.” And that was that. Nick was empowered to stand up for himself because he was rewarded in doing so and I was empowered to be wrong and not be insecure about it. To bravely admit it because that’s just who I am. Because that's just who my dad is. Honorable.

He’s taught me that you can hope even in the midst of debilitating pain. In telling me of a time where he prayed for a guy with Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, he recalled sharing the empathy he had for this man, “He was in pain and I was glad to pray for him because I know pain.” My dad has known pain. These last seven or eight years since his rheumatoid arthritis started eating away at him, he has known pain. It’s like an unwelcome guest that decides to stay and you can’t do anything about it. You just learn to live, work and love around it. We told it to leave and sometimes it would. But then it’d come back bringing friends with it. Bastard. It’s gone from unwelcome guest to a Goliath, taunting a man set apart by the living God. And Goliath will be slain again.

Currently he is giving me the understanding of chivalry and that it is only dead as long as you do nothing to carry it on. Every time he able, he opens the door for my mom. And if he happens to forget or is unable to for whatever reason, he apologizes. It makes my mom feel like a queen. Now she’ll stand by the car door waiting for my dad to open it with a smile of knowing that says, “I am valued and taken care of.”

He’s given me a few mannerisms and phrases that make me chuckle every time I realize I’m doing them. I’ll put my fist to my mouth and let my index finger rest against my cheek as if it’s supporting it. He would always do this during movies. I remember sitting next to him as a kid watching Aliens together; me studying this interesting hand gesture that looked so grown up and serious. Now I use it when I’m watching a movie or sitting and listening to someone talk. I think it makes me look like smart and inquisitive.

I’ve inherited his phrase, “And then it dawned on me…” The frequency with which he uses this phrase says so much about him. He’s a man of continual revelation. Always discovering something new about the Lord, about himself, about life. It wasn’t until the very first time I used this phrase myself that “it dawned on me” what it was implying. The dawn has come. The sun is up. There is now light to see what I previously could not. It’s just so much more rich than saying, “I realized.”

I haven’t quite adopted this next quirk of my dad’s but I’ve always been amused by it. He has an uncanny ability to always end a phone conversation with the same three lines, “Ok. Alrighty. Buh bye.” Without fail! The only person who has ever been able to thwart this closer is my wife who has an extreme dislike for fluff. “If you’re done talking about what you needed to talk about then end it.” And she will immediately. But seriously, how does he do this? It seems it would require participation of the other party to make at least two closing requests to which he could then respond: First request—“Ok”—second request—“Alrighty”, and finally the mutual “Buh bye’s”. Maybe it’s not that unusual but I enjoy noticing it.

One of my favorite qualities of my dad’s that I have inherited is his generosity. He has always made it a point to give away his time, his energy or his money. Many times, all three at once. He’s been so good at this that even my little brother at the age of ten would find money and immediately start pondering about who he could give it to. He once found forty dollars and immediately decided to give it away. The story actually begins with him wanting to give money to a specific offering at church. He checked his pockets but didn’t have any so he left it up to God. A few minutes later checked his pockets again with an unusual hopefulness and found a twenty dollar bill in it. He started celebrating what he knew was a miracle and put the twenty in the offering. He then checked his other pocket for no other reason than, “What if?” and pulled out another twenty dollar bill! This he decided would go to an orphanage in Africa. My dad is the one who instilled in Nick the ability to hope for the supernatural, to believe for miracles and to have a desire to give away what he could’ve easily used on himself. That’s just who my dad is. It’s become just who Nick is. And it’s become just who I am.

Wanderlust, finally

            For the first time in my life I have experienced Wanderlust. This, you must understand, is an incredible triumph for me. In the first, and past, two years of marriage, Jenna and I have been at (loving and respectful) odds with each other over the different opinions we share in how to spend our next few childless years as a couple. She, in world travel and making memories; myself, in our nice quiet home…making a child. At times these conversations were rough and at other times they were therapeutic and connection-building. But through many many silent conversations with the Lord, reading novels where the good guy either is or becomes adventurous, and long talks with faith-filled, vagabond friends like Jon and Linda, I’ve come to a place where I can say to Jenna with sincere enthusiasm, “Let’s go somewhere!” Now to balance this out, I must add that Jenna also recently said to me, “Maybe—keyword maybe—we can start trying for a baby next year.” I nodded in understanding, trying to appear nonchalant, while thinking, "One point, Team Aaron!" But I digress.

            It first happened a week after we got back from visiting Jenna's parents in North Carolina. I was going about my day, doing whatever I do when I’m going about something, and I suddenly thought, “I wish I was at an airport right now.” Now to most people, that thought is closer to lunacy than victory. But to me it was all that and a revelation: I really enjoy traveling. I’m not sure where all of my anxiety used to stem from concerning travel but I simply wasn’t connecting with it anymore.

            The next time it happened I was driving down the I-5 on my way to work when I had the sudden urge to keep driving past my exit. I felt that there were places this road could take me that I've never been before; and it got me excited. Ryan Sprenger once prophetically told me over a beer that he could see me raising Jenna’s anxiety one day with all the risk-taking, adventurous ideas I'd be coming up with. I was skeptical at first because it’s normally the other way around, but now I can see it. And even if I’m not necessarily scaring her with wild initiatives, I can at least make her say, “I never thought I’d hear you say that. Thank you, Jesus! Let’s do it!”

            So in lieu of all that, my next step is to buy a giant map and start going on adventures so grand and full of life-giving memories, Jenna will throw up her hands and say, “That’s it! We’re making some babies,” just to settle me down.

I was thinkin' of over-thinkin'

I've recently found great freedom in being able to say, "I'm thinking about this too much. I'm going to stop."
It's harder than you'd think.
The very reason you begin to over-think this thought is because you feel as if this over-thinkable thought is over-think-worthy. It feels weighty.
Maybe it is.
I just never found peace in it. So I'm going to stop.

"There" is a place that we call Rest.

Something I think would benefit us all is losing the idea of “there” and our subsequent need to arrive at it. “There” is an illusion to keep us moving. It’s the proverbial carrot inches, and yet infinitly, away from our grasp. We give “there” a lot of different names. Graduation, promotion, marriage, kids, career, three months wages in savings, etc.  These are all masks for what we are really looking for. At the core of it all is the supposition that upon arriving “there”, we can finally be at rest. Rest is our El Dorado. Rest is our promised land. And rest has a few names of its own. Acceptance, satisfaction, peace, joy, perfection, etc. In losing the idea of needing to arrive “there”, we can finally become aware that rest is available now. My “there” used to be “ministering to people all day, everyday, everywhere”. I eventually shortened it to “ministry as my second nature”. It was the mask for my real desire: rest. Rest for me was in God’s smile.

One day I was at a friend’s house when he got into a fight with his mom. After the yelling, we decided to leave, him in a huff and me feeling extremely uncomfortable for having witnessed it all. But before he closed the door, his mom said with a mix of frustration and anger, “I love you.” I believed she meant it. And I believed God meant it when the NIV told me so. But I couldn’t shake the furled eyebrows and flat-lined lips that I believed followed His words. If it wasn’t disappointment He was feeling, it was indifference. I was sure of it. If only I could get to my “there” which looked like unending ministry, prayer, and Bible reading; because below that façade I was looking to arrive at my place of rest. His smile. His approval, acceptance and pleasure over me.

The key to separating myself from that incredibly depressing (not to mention unfruitful) state of mind and being was to first realize that my “there” was a disguise for what I really wanted. Rest. Rest was being in the center of God’s delight. Second I had to become aware that rest is available now. It’s really the difference between the Old and New Covenant. I had to separate myself from the Old Covenant (doing but never achieving; performing but never enough) and realize I live in the New Covenant (God has fulfilled, accomplished, achieved it all for me; now I can truly live in rest).

Nowadays my “there” has become “being a master counselor”. Every thought on wanting to be “there”, trying to get “there” and consequently the ways that I’m not quite “there” yet, are a waste of time. Unfruitful. What I need is to find where my rest is available now. Because it always is. Having processed it with people I love and trust, I now understand that my “becoming a master counselor” is really a mask for my needing confidence in my identity and calling. But my identity and calling is established. It was purchased, confirmed and cemented on the cross. It’s available now.

Where is there unfruitfulness in your life? What is it that you are making your “there”? And therefore, what is truly your place of rest? Remember, because we live in the New Covenant, rest is available now. With that in mind, what thoughts can you change in order to fully live in the rest that is available?

Good Times & Pretty Women We Made Our Wives

      I had a dream my best friend was rollerblading in Home Depot. But it wasn't too weird because his dad worked at Lowe's. So I joined him; only with roller skates. I was really good at it. Then we joined in the skate party in the parking lot.
      I woke up missing my best friend.
      We met in diapers. Though I don't really remember that part. My first memory is after we graduated from babyhood; showing each other our superhero underwear in the nursery at church.  
      I remember the time we snuck out of my room in the middle of the night and wound up being chased by angry gun owners and a police helicopter (though most of our fear was dedicated to how my dad was going to react to us sneaking out). I still remember the many conversations about girls, God and life we had sitting on his roof. The times we pursued the Lord with all we had. The days we would watch Lost, the Office and Seinfeld for hours at a time. The time when he rushed me to the hospital when my whole body starting shutting down or when I picked him up from the ER after sticking his fingers in a hedge trimmer.

      I remember the one night sitting in Subway on Lake Boulevard, I told him, "I think Jenna is the girl I want to marry."
      "So this is it, huh?" he asked looking up from his sandwich.
      "This is it, man."
      And I remember the phone call from Phoenix when he said of Wendy, "I want to marry this girl so bad."
      Now we are officially grown ups with wives that we are crazy about and jobs that pay the bills. We live a thousand miles away from each other and we have lives that require the majority of our time. But in the middle of it all, we get to have skate parties at Home Depot. Good times.
     Miss ya, Mike.     
     

    

Playlist Reminiscing

In 8^th grade, I found out “being in a band” was cool. This was evidenced by Blink-182 and three guys in my youth group who were known as Final Plea. Now, Blink was out of reach when it came to modeling myself and my maybe-someday band after. One, because they were adults and two, because they cussed and talked about sex and I knew you couldn’t do that as Christian band. Oh ya, I had to be in a Christian band because as a Christian, anything public you did had to be labeled as such or you were ashamed of Jesus. Disregard the minor detail that at the time I cussed and talked about sex incessantly. But Final Plea fame was attainable and exactly what I wanted. They occasionally sang about relatively moral subjects (Christian-band approved), they were just a few years older and all the girls my age were screaming the lyrics at every show we went to. Unfortunately for Final Plea, their fan base stayed the same age no matter how long they were around. I later found out this was typical of the pop punk genre.

So my best friend Mike, myself and one other guy started our own band. When you’re in 8^th grade, it’s super easy. All you have to do is get three friends together, pick a band name and then decide who has to learn which instrument. All three of us wanted to learn guitar because drums are complicated and no one ever knows the name of the bassist. We called ourselves Crimped03 which was loosely based off an instant-messanger screen name, which was loosely based off the middle-school dance favorite “crimp walking” (see video) and the fact that there were three of us.

One weekend, Mike came over to spend the night at my house. After watching the TGIF line up of Boy Meets World and Sabrina, we stayed up late trying to write a song that would launch Crimped03 into the spotlight.

The Nitty-Gritty of Bandom fact #1: bands need songs need lyrics.

“Ok, so what do we write a song about?”

“I don’t know. Maybe about something in the Bible?”

“Good idea.” (Christian-band approved)

            We dropped the Bible I owned but never read so that it would open randomly and blindly put our finger to the page.

 “ ‘And David mustered his men’. Well that sucks. Lets try again.”

Finally we came upon what looked like a usable Scripture. James’ “taming the tongue”.

            “Oh I got it! How about, ‘God gave it a use, don’t let it abuse.’”

           

“Dude that’s friggin gold!”

By the time we were done, we had our first rap song.

The Nitty-Gritty of Bandom fact #2: lyrics need melodies or its called rap.

Fact #3: Go punk or go home (circa ’99-‘04).

Well, the tongue song never made it on our album. Half because we still had no melody, half because we both woke up the next morning realizing it was crap and 99% because we never came close to making an album. Our third guitarist stopped going to our church and the band name left with him. We toyed with Crimped02 but it didn’t have the same ring to it. It was a VH1 Behind the Music special in the making.

All in all, we moved on from that scene.

So fast forward about nine years and here I am listening to Blink-182 and Final Plea on an ancient-of-days playlist, pondering the musings of an 8^th grade punk rock star. On stage with two of his best friends, playing a whole song with only three power-chords and an auditorium filled with screaming 8^th grade girls.

I’m glad we don’t always get what we want. An auditorium filled with screaming 8^th grade girls sounds terrifying.