High Water

I like to Adventure Ride with my buddies.

We ride these big dual sport bikes with knobby tires and all of our gear strapped on them. It’s an adventure that we enjoy for the stories, the challenge, and the time around the fire. After picking up someone’s bike all day, there’s usually nothing sacred. In this evening time, we’re often unloading our hearts and minds…we talk about our lives, talk as friends, and try out our latest jokes on each other.

On this last trip, it had rained extensively and we knew we would have to be careful with what we got into. In Kentucky, the ridges and hills can be punishing when it’s DRY, let alone with record flooding rains that had washed out roads and deposited layers on mud on some trails. You have to be careful because sometimes you get into things that you’re not going to get out of.

On this particular trip after couple good days of riding, a storm was rolling in on the last night we were there. We knew it was coming, we knew it was going to be very wet but we were all in to see this trip through to the end, so we camped in the storm the last night we were there at Turkeyfoot Campground.

Saturday night the rain set in and it was pretty crazy…lightening, wind, and rain hit us most of the night. By morning my tent was wet, I was curled in a ball on my sleeping pad to stay out of the streams of water running through the tent. The friendly gurgling stream we had camped just above was now a raging river.

It was one of those mornings where you wake in the rain, get dressed in the rain, eat a quick wet breakfast, and pack all of your wet gear on a wet bike. It’s not fun when it’s happening and I don’t ‘enjoy’ those moments, they suck and you’re not happy but it comes with the territory.

We were packed and geared up and started the ride out of the campground. Coming out, the dry stream bed we crossed to get into this campground was now a fast moving stream about 30’ wide with an unknown depth. We turned the other direction to the road that led up the hill which was another way out of this without having to cross the river that blocked our way.

I was shaking the grogginess out of my head…I had taken a sleeping aid that night but it had not worked. I was pretty dehydrated from a long day or riding yesterday and between that and the rain and thunder…I hadn’t gotten but a few hours of sleep.

We wound up the road, picked our way across a few washout spots when word came over the intercoms. “The roads don’t connect. This is a dead end”

Ummm…what?

Where we thought two roads came together to allow us a way out, was not that at all. There was a gap between the two roads…the ridge we were on did not come together with the ridge and other road.

We turned around.

Coming back down, we came to a what used to be a stream that was now a river. We were trapped in the campground with no other way out…except across that river.

We were weighing out our options that included camping until the water went down which could be a few hours or a few days….

Or…

Could we ride the motorcycles through?
Could we walk them?
Could we tow them?

We didn’t have answers and debated our options.

A Jeep came up. He had been in the campground with us and was also trapped. We had a quick discussion with them and they decided to go through the water. They edged their way in and then just went for it. They made it and in going across we could see how deep the water was..just above knee deep. One of the guys wandered into the water. Carefully and cautiously he made it across but fought hard to keep his balance.

The Jeep couple offered to help…and soon the decision was made to use a chain to the Jeep to pull a bike across…with a rider on it. The rest of the guys would steady the bike and keep it upright.

In my mind this was a bit of insanity. If you lost your footing, you’d surely be swept quickly downstream and into the actual larger, more raging river that our smaller river connected to.

Terry was the first to go. The Jeep’s chain was attached to a ratchet strap, attached to the forks of the bike. We all grabbed the bike to steady it as well as ourselves. The jeep edged up and the chain went taught and pulled us and the bike into deeper water. It was heart stopping as I wondered if the bike would get washed over or if someone would stumble or trip. I wrestled with fear as each step I took, the water tried to wash away my footing. But slowly, half step by half step, we got into the deepest section, and then we were on the uphill side…we all breathed a sigh of relief.

We had to do this 6 more times. Had we gotten lucky on the first one?

The walk back across the river was nerve wracking as we all steadied ourselves and slowly made our way back.

Next closest bike was going to go. That was me.

As I got on top of the bike and the chain was hooked up, you might think that I had seen Terry go and so it should make it easy for me. But it wasn’t. Fear was tearing away at me from the inside…and I worked to keep my act together.

As the slack in the line brought the rope taught and my bike moved forward with men all around me holding it up into the stream, into the deep water that fought to push me downstream, fought to push the bike over, my heart raced and adrenalin pumped through my body. I felt the bike moving forward from the chain but also left because of the current was pushing the bike.

We moved as a group and at one point the water was pulling my front tire, steering me left. I might have had a panic moment…Peter grabbed the bar and pushed it back towards the other side, straight ahead.

We emerged on the other side and I breathed a sigh of relief. We unhooked the bike, and I fired it right up. I was alive and my bike had not taken in water into the intake.

We would all get to the other side alive and bikes firing up.
We would all laugh and celebrate and thank our new best friends with a Jeep.
We would all be thankful and appreciate life a little more.

In a weird way, I am thankful for those moments that I think I’m going to die but don’t. They scare the hell out of me and wake me a little.

I’m not going to go looking for them, because that might not be the right approach. But what i am saying this that there are some things that take us out of our comfort zone, out of our daily grind. Like a record caught in a groove, those experiences bump the needle, kicking it out of repetition, down a couple millimeters to a new position.

Some times it’s a life altering experience that causes us to rethink things.

I’ll be honest, if it was up to me…we probably would have gone back to the campsite and hung out for a few hours to see what the level of water would have done before making any risky moves. Our opportunity with the Jeep would have been gone and our options a bit more limited.

…but

I was in the company of men who took chances and my lot was cast with them…and I would not be left behind. They say that your closest 5 friends define who you are…who you will be. In moments like this one, it has never been more clear to me.

In the moments up to the decision, there were discussions about the pros and cons of going through the high water. My instincts are often to weigh out risk versus reward. There were others that wanted the risk, almost wanted the story to tell, to lean out over the edge and see what would happen. I don’t always like the part of myself that doesn’t want to take the risk, but I was glad that I was around others who were in it with me.

In moments like this, the company you keep can define forward movement or being left behind, moving as a unit or isolation and being left behind. It can define life or death.

Now, to be clear, I’m not sure what we did was smart. It wasn’t. (really, it wasn’t) The video of us crossing the river could well have ended up on YouTube under ‘motorcycle morons try to cross raging river’….but it didn’t. We chose to cross, we chose to take the risk, we chose to work together and it was a great story we’re going to tell over and over at future campouts with embellishments and laughter.

But in this story “WE” is massively important. Even though our obstacle was a voluntary choice, we all know that life is filled with raging rivers where crossing is not optional…but just like our river, failure could be lethal.

You could be facing a raging river like divorce, violence, cancer, death in your family or death in your soul. Rivers like those do not give you an option and you MUST cross to the other side.

In this life, we all know it’s not IF, but WHEN those storms will come.

When that storm comes..and when the river rises, make sure that you have surrounded yourself with others who will walk you through it, not because they’re idiots, but because working together in the face of adversity, you find that the bonds of brotherhood will not fail you.

Two different April 4th

April 4th, 2020

It is only weeks into the ‘stay at home’ here in Ohio. I remember the last day at the office…that Friday when the order came down from the state. I was at the office staying later because I had a closing at 4pm.

The state mandate to shut down all offices. I sat at a computer by the window at the back exit our of our office building. I sit there all the time because I can see people coming and going, I can see the sky and the highway and life going on out there. That Friday I watched as people filed out usually one at a time taking boxes of office supplies and notes and their plants and personal things, saying goodbyes to others, and driving off.

It was surreal…like being at a dorm in college as everyone left for the school year and going home. I stood at my office like the last kid in the dorm, wondering WHEN I would see the old gang again…IF I would ever see the old gang again.

I left and thought to myself about what I needed. I had stored up food for several days. Trying to eat healthy and fresh food, I had NO pantry whatsoever…so I went out and bought a ton of food… and had a pantry. So what else did I need? Party supplies. I hate to admit, but I was thinking to myself, if I’m going to be stuck at home, working from home…alone…I was going to need some drinks. That night I had a few drinks to numb out all that was going through my mind, which was on complete overload…and being at home all alone…I had no one to process it with.

So the next day, I woke up. Hungover (…or coming down with the virus?), I sobered up quickly that this would not be an acceptable way to deal with the end of the world.

Being single, being paranoid about getting a life ending virus, I sequestered myself…not hanging out with friends, not wanting to be around people, I found that I was not acting like others who were still going to bars, getting together with friends….I was really avoiding all contact with others…and after a week of that, I realized a few things.

The first thing I realized was that I could take a chance and die physically…or I could 100% know that my heart was going to die. The seclusion, paranoia, and lack of human input was quickly taking a toll. I finally accepted the invitation of a good friend and his wife to go to their house and hung out in the backyard around a fire pit, upwind from them. It was life giving even in the paranoia.

The second thing I realized was that anything that took me EVEN THE SMALLEST degree off course had to go. I’m not a heavy drinker, but I was having a couple drinks every other night watching tv. It was throwing my sleep patterns off, I was waking in the middle of the night, and there were several mornings that my stomach was sour…and in a haze. I dumped out a box of wine and a couple of bottles in the liquor cabinet.

The third thing that had to go was the obsessive news monitoring. I had been watching this story in late December/Early January when this story started breaking on the news. I watched and watched and knew very early that this was something that we might have to reckon with. The constant updates and press conferences (how does Trump and DeWine get ANYTHING AT DONE?), the different countries and how Italy and Iran death tolls were rolling out. I was obsessing about curves and looking for the inflection points…the hope that things were slowing. I started to write a story early this week and the US death toll was 3000….now as I write this on April 4th, just 6 days later, the death toll stands about 7,000. Yesterday alone, the death mark hit 1,000 people in a single day.

And it’s only beginning.

I have to distance my heart from this a little. I cannot take the numbers in.

The fourth thing was that I needed to rest my body and rest my mind AND rest my soul with spending time with God throughout the day. Sometimes that was laying on the couch and putting my heart out there for Him to hear it. Sometimes it was to ask Him into the tears that flowed. Sometimes, and most often, it was to ask Him to give me some rest and to fall asleep, in the middle of the day, for 15 minutes…free from reality.

The fifth thing I did, was to have an imaginary cat that’s actually a possum. Maybe it’s the need to have an imaginary funny furry friend that I think through what he would do, this onry salty version of myself, and what he gets into or craziness he creates…so that every single day…I have to think through funny, imaginative stories. I have to think of laughter and mischief and malice that makes me laugh…maybe help the world laugh.

Dated April 4th 2020

THE PRESENT:

Strange coincidence, I pulled out this story today and read through it for the first time probably since being written….and stopped dead on the date that was written in the first part of this…April 4th 2020.

Exactly 1 year later to the exact date. No lie.
Weird coincidence? Yes.
God Coincidence? Uh, YEAH.

I have written very little since then. It would be over another month before I would meet Staci Jo, the girl I’ve been dating ever since…and the short 365 days seems like 10 years now for so many of us.

We were so divided before the election…and I remember how strongly I wanted it to be over…thinking we could heal and United would be part of our name again.

Strange how 1 year makes.

1 year ago, we had just started in the foothills of the enormous mountain ahead of us, now we are on the downhill slide of this epidemic.
1 year ago we had just reached 7,000 dead, now we’re at over 554,700 deaths.
We were divided over Joe and Donald…now we’re divided over…well…everything.

When I (we) started this…we did not know how we were going to cope, to deal with the deconstruction of our lives. Work, kids, community, church, school, our Friday nights, our favorite teams, our parents and grandparents…everything was deconstructed and we did the best we could. We didn’t know how things would be normal…until now when so much of ‘normal’ is thrown out the window….that it’s the new normal.

Now comes the hard part.

Normal is trying to come back…like a bad drug habit or an old girlfriend who wouldn’t lose our number.

It was interesting to me that I often spoke to people about the struggles in the heights of covid and I began to see a ‘through thread’…a little white spiritual thread that so many people had been dealing with.

It occurred to me that covid was bringing a lot of things to the surface. Addictions to alcohol, addictions to avoidance with ourselves and our spouses. It was bringing to the surface the things we thought about ourselves, the things we thought about our lives and our better halves. Those things we couldn’t hide anymore, the things we couldn’t anesthetize or conceal from people close to us. We slowed down so much that we were forced to look in the mirror and see who were REALLY were…who we had become or not become. We couldn’t ‘Friday night drinks’ our way out of dealing with it and we couldn’t burry it in our work or our kids performance.

And the long overdue hangover caused me to take a good hard look at who I was, how I was living my life, and what I was carrying…my ego, my baggage, my hopes and dreams for the future…my failures and struggles.

Normal.

As I put together a strategy for survival one year ago today…so a strategy of mine needs to be addressed again. How do I survive as ‘normal life’ tries to push in? As my calendar begins to fill and office hours and deadlines and rush hours become part of the world again…where do I choose a new path as the road opens up to lead me back to where I was before? Do I even want to be there?

When I left my home town of Lebanon Ohio and went to Ohio State…a change had happened in my life and I could no longer go back to Lebanon and cruise Columbus avenue, no longer go hang out in Kings. I had changed and the life that had been like a favorite Friday haunt was no longer fitting me…it was like trying to wear a high school letter jacket once you moved on from high school.

So too, covid has changed ‘normal’ so that some of us can’t wait to go back to the exact way it used to be…and that might be a good thing.

From time to time in our lives, we put old garments in a box and ship them off.

Maybe it’s time to evaluate our lives in the same way.

Who brings us life and who drags us down?
What are we giving our time to? What is a good use of that time?
What is stealing from our days, our joy, our life?
What is life giving? What brings us joy? What FILLS you?

About a year ago I poured out an alcohol stash…today maybe it’s Netflix.
About a year ago I cut all people out of my life…today I add back who I build into and who builds into me.
About a year ago I let ‘fear’ take a front seat….today i rebuke that liar.

Let our world be better after all this.

Choose carefully how to reconstruct your new ‘normal’.

Message In A Bottle

It was Ohio State Michigan weekend in the fall of last year, 2019. Me and a couple of friends, Andre and Dwane, decided to meet up and watch the big game at O’Bryan’s Bar in O’Bryanville. We got there early, found seats at the bar, and were ordering food and a couple drinks…it was before the game and the shenanigans started up and we’re talking about life and work and catching up for a while. 

We each have a shark tank in front of us and we’ve had one or two drinks but we’re not complete idiots (yet) because the game’s not really started but enough that we’re letting our guard down.

At some point we’re talking about life and it turns out that both guys were shortly turning 40. In discussing ‘age’ one doesn’t realize that I’m a few years ahead of him. He asked me what I took as a sincere question…and it’s rattled around in my head since then.

He asks me what the best advice I could give someone that was just turning 40…what advice would I give myself if I could go back 10 years?

Now, he’s in the same place I was back then (and still am) single, figuring things out, and looking for the right things in life.

I’m not sure what I told him that day…but boy do I wish I could go back and give myself some advice. Would I listen? Would I comprehend what was being said and the weight of those words? I don’t know what would change, I don’t know if I could take my own advice back then…but I could’ve used some guidance back a few years…back at 40, back at 30, back at any age.

At a certain point in your life, you’ve had your life shattered a few times, you’ve been part of big heartbreaks, and you’ve probably almost died a few times. You’ve had jobs and careers that you’ve failed at, friends that died too soon, and you’ve got wisdom from doing a lot of dumb things. You’ve realized that you’ve made good on some investments…and some that you absolutely missed like Apple, Amazon, Google, Netflix….and at some point, you realize life’s about experiences instead of things. 

So, where would I give advice, and what would that be? 

I’ve had several ‘normal’ months and 1-1/2 COVID ‘shelter in place’ months to think about it…I have put down my thoughts not only for him…but for me…

Everything to me starts with learning to be at peace with who you are and where you are in life.

Recognize that there are some things that you are absolutely great at. Be humble at those things because someday you could, and probably will, lose those things. 

Recognize that there are some things that you are horrible at, accept it. It doesn’t take away from you to have shortcomings but being at peace with them gives you an inner strength and humility to get help in those areas and gives you a humanity that people will see and appreciate. 

There are some habits that you are going to have to stop before they become addictions. Simple recreational things that you use to let off steam or have fun with will become more and more damaging to your health and your sanity as time goes along. 

When it comes to friends, surround yourself with excellence and those who love you enough to tell you the truth (in love)…even if it hurts you. Seek out and enlist those who sharpen each other, support and encourage each other, fight and die for each other. 

On the subject of friends, there are some lifetime friends who have been with you through the highest and lowest moments of life. You may someday need to go in new directions where your paths are not the same. Growth requires change…but people don’t like change. If it comes time to outgrow someone, do it with grace…never burn the bridge that you may need to cross back over someday.

At some point in your life, you will need to evaluate what you are mentally carrying around in life. I carried heartbreaks and betrayal for years, grief for dead friends, and guilt and shame for things done long ago. We are weighed down because we are not at peace with them and they will continue to influence our lives until we get help. Get that help early and often to get those weights off your soul. 

Women are your greatest asset…or your greatest liability. Don’t get this one wrong. 
Choose someone who is kind and generous
Choose someone who gives 100%
Choose someone who grows, and loves, and is at peace with who she is.
Choose someone who forgives 
Choose someone you want to grow old with

Realize that being a boy and being a man are very different things. Manhood is about realizing that you’re often putting way more into things than you are getting things out. Being a man means putting in time and effort and work into others that may never fully grasp your work, your input, your effort. But that’s being a man and that’s what the world, your wife, your children, and everyone who is a part of your life needs. Put another way, the world needs men that will plant trees that they know they will never live long enough to sit in the shade of. 

Speaking of manhood…it took me a long time to step into responsibilities. Growing up, we did a lot of work and when I got old enough, I shirked as much responsibility as I could so that I didn’t have to put in any extra work or have any extra responsibilities. In doing that I robbed myself of the blessing that takes place when you step into ‘responsibility’ and leadership. There are blessings and perks and benefits that come with those roles that you can never get without putting in the time and effort.

Along with being a man, take ownership of your life and your shit. Life is hard, it doesn’t matter who you are…it’s downright brutal at times. You will sometimes have very good reasons to play the blame game, to play the victim. Know that doing this is never going to serve you, never going to be an excuse, and will always keep you at an underachieving lower level. Playing the victim robs you of the power to rise up and the power to change.

You can acknowledge barriers, trials, and faults, but you should always be where you are IN SPITE of obstacles and barriers…never because of them.

My last and greatest advice is about God. 
He designed and formed you while you were in the womb. 
He numbered your days. 
He sets your feet on a path with purpose before you were born. 
To seek to know Him is the greatest thing that you can do and the single most impactful thing you can do in, and for, your life. Period.

These are the words I wish that I could express that day…these are the words that I wish I could do a better job of living out today and tomorrow, let alone yesterday. These are the things that weigh on my heart…my life.

Over the next couple of hours, the three of us would have a couple more drinks and laughs and celebrated a win for the team that most of us were rooting for.

It wasn’t all about seriousness that day as we celebrated something more important, which was friendship.

At halftime, we went out onto the 2nd floor patio. And looked across the street. On the roof of the neighboring building, there were a LOT of plastic sharks that people had thrown across the street below, onto the rooftop of that building. 

We were going to throw our sharks across the street onto that roof, but decided, that since we were 3 athletes, that we should make it more challenging. So, we decided to throw the sharks with our much weaker left arms. 

Watching your friends TRY to throw a plaster shark across the street has got to be one of the funniest things I’ve seen in a long time. We looked ridiculous…and we laughed until tears came out of my eyes.

Which reminds me. 
Learn to find humor in everything because laughter really is the best medicine.

Pause

It’s Easter, 2020. The world as we know it is on pause. Most of the US population is “sheltered in place”, most of us working from home or out of work. Most of our lives, our livelihoods, our family connections are on pause…on hold.

To many people, our lives are filled with discomfort. We either can’t get a moment by ourselves…or in my case…I can’t get a moment WITH someone. Being single, living alone, by myself has become a very hard place to be.

There are awful, terrible things happening in the world right now. People are dying by the thousands. Today, as I start writing this, 2,000 people in the US die a day…the total stands at 20,000. By the time this is all over, it depresses me to think of what the tally will be.

We all are inundated with the news and tolls of death, of infection, of loss, of tragedy every waking moment by the news on tv, cable, and internet. I do not wish to belabor, nor will I trivialize that loss. What we are all going through is real, it’s uncomfortable, it’s hard to grasp…it’s hard.

In the time….in this pause…in this pain… there is a gift for some of us.
Let me say that again…there is a gift.

A pause…a moment without time.

I feel like I was watching this fast paced movie called “American life”, caught up in this crazy, non-stop, nauseating, soul stealing, exhausting, sleep depriving, credit card maxing, junk closet filling movie that was our lives….and it was like someone hit ‘pause’ during the gun fight-car chase in the middle of a Fast and Furious movie…. and the silence was deafening to me. It was so empty I couldn’t breathe…I couldn’t take the silence…I had (have) trouble with the loneliness, the silence, the stillness. It suffocates me at times.

Here’s the thing about this sudden ‘pause’. You are forced to stop, to look at your world without distractions, without consumerism, without the running, the errands, the boys nights out, the play dates, the ‘let’s grab a beer’, the travel, the night out plans…

And I am in a world that is so still, so quiet…that the silence overwhelms me.
…and I hate it.

I hate this silence. I cannot sit in it because it’s so empty….and yet, this is a gift.


I am face to face with the world I have created and formed for myself.

I am face to face with the world that I have built around me, we all are face to face with the world we have built around ourselves.

We are face to face with our children and the way that they are behaving, they way that they are learning, the way they are treating their teachers.

We are face to face with our communities. Are they encouraging and loving us? Are they building us up? Are they ghosting us in our time of need? Are they soul stealing or giving? Are they giving us life or silence?

We are face to face with our screen time addictions, our alcohol, and internet addictions. Are we leaning into numbing and distancing or… are we feeling the reality that bites at us like a razor cutting into flesh? Are we allowing ourselves to feel this?

Speaking of pain…we’re all feeling it. We’re all being confronted with our pain of many different masks…but the truth is most of us are face to face with the world we live in…the one we live in without the distractions, without the consumerism, without the striving, or materialism, and this world is actually life giving….or it is suffocatingly empty.

But this is Easter. and we celebrate Christ risen from the dead.

There was a time between the death of Jesus and His triumph over death, when He rose again.

If….

If…there is a place of death in you…a place where you, in this time of COVID-19 where you are grieving a part of your life that has died, that is dead, a place in your heart or in your life that you are having trouble holding onto hope that there is more, that there are good days ahead…that you will live again, that you will laugh again….then there is hope…then there is faith.

A lot of our lives have been stripped bare…a lot of our lives slipped through our hands like the wind…a lot of our lives are like sand castles on the shores of an incoming tide…and we are struggling with what we see, what we are feeling, what are experiencing…some of us, like me, are mourning the death of parts of our lives that actually were always dead…we just didn’t know it.

Then I ask you to pray with me on something very simple.

“Bring me new life Lord…just as you rose from the dead… bring life to the deadness in my life.”


Very, very soon, the pause will be over. The world will try to tell you that it’s all over and they will ask you to get back on the treadmill and to make up for lost time, for lost revenue, for lost opportunities. Those ‘powers’ will tell you to go out and buy like never before with new deals, new financing, new low payments, zero down payments and 90 days same as cash…for new junk we don’t need. Those ‘powers’ will push your kids to make up lost days at school, lost grades and tests.

The world wants to kick off a party again and try to get champagne in your hand and have you try to forget this all happened and to go back to what you were doing before.

Very soon, this will be over. Did you learn anything? Did you use this time wisely?

Did you learn what fills your soul? Did you learn what was empty, what was stealing ‘life’ from your life?

Some day, a long time from now…your children, your nieces and nephews, the next generation will ask you…what did you do? What were you thinking? What did you do “sitting at home”?

I will honestly say that I reevaluated my life and found it wanting of change and direction.
I will honestly say that I found myself wanting more out of life.
I will honestly say that I asked God for help in changing, rebuilding, my ‘world’.
I will honestly say that I made up a story about a goofy guy that kidnapped a possum and called it his “cat” because I desperately needed to think of funny things that this guy and his “cat” would do to pass the time… and try to bring laughter to others.

A little ways down the road, someone will ask me what I saw during this time…the answer is, for me, that I saw my life…and having taken away all the distractions…saw that my life a little more clear…and in that, I saw that it needed change.

Day 4

Day 4 of the Siege:

Social distancing seems to be taking place in the animal kingdom also. I have been watching my neighbor’s stray cats…and they have their own hierarchy. I watched one little guy get completely shunned by the community…and I knew…I knew he was going to be my special little guy.

At first he was a little standoffish and not wanting to be friends…but with some coaxing and food, I managed to get him into the house.

I know we’re going to be best friends.

I took a picture of him to show you his bright smile.

Ear To The Rail

This is story that may or may not have happened in the summer of 2018 on a motorcycle trip with a few good friends. This story is fictional to any readers (or wives) who wish to use it against any of these supposed friends of mine. Places, names, and my memory has been altered to protect those who may (or may not) have done these things.

In the summer of 2018, there was a group of us riding motorcycles in Kentucky. We were adventure riding…it’s riding dual sports with all your camping gear packed in saddle bags. It’s great fun on and off-road. If you’re familiar with the Wildcat Memorial in the Livingston area, there’s a good size stream (or small river) called Rockcastle River. It’s usually about 50 feet across and depending on recent rain, Rockcastle can be about a foot deep, or it can be over 4 feet deep where a 4 wheel drive road crosses over it. Yes, you read that right, part of the road goes through the river.

This river can be a problem when crossing on motorcycles. If the water is under 2 feet deep, you’re probably ok…but if the water is over that…you risk water getting into your engine and killing it. More than one person in our extended network has had problems. One trip I had taken with a couple of these guys had ended when Kyle swore his bike could make it across only to drop into a deeper hole about 3/4 of the way across and his engine air intake took in water when his seat disappeared below the water line. For the next 3 hours we fruitlessly tried to revive the drowned bike, only to have to get the trailer and tow it home. Brian had also dunked his bike on this very crossing on a different trip.

We like to ride off-road on these trips as much as possible…Wildcat area has some fun gravel roads and places to ‘play’ but it’s kind of a dead end if you get to the Rockcastle and have to turn back. Backtracking will cost you about 30 minute to get to the same place across the river.

On this particular trip, we came down the hill from the Wildcat Memorial, crossed over the train tracks and came to the edge of the stream. We shut the bikes off, walked the banks and studied the depths…we cracked and had a beer as we sat under the shade for a minute. We had some decisions to make as lunch was becoming more and more on our minds.

Where we decided to go was 10 minutes across that creek…but a good 30 minutes to backtrack the road we had just come down. No one thought it was a good idea to cross the creek, but no one wanted to backtrack either. We sat there for a minute.

Two of the guys walked back up the road 70 feet to a railroad track behind us while a few of us were taking one last hard look at the stream.

Those two came back and offered up a third option.

We could cross on the railroad bridge.

We could do… what…???
Ok, that was crazy enough to justify taking a look. We put our gear and helmets on…we rode up to the railroad tracks and looked across it.

The railroad track that ran perpendicular to the road we were on, then became a bridge that crossed over the stream, and then became part of the land again as the bridge ended and continued across the paved road on the other side that ran along the banks on the other side. The train bridge was about 120 yards from our point to the other side where you would ride off onto an embankment parking area on the other side. About 30 yards beyond that, the track wound around the corner of a hill to where you could not see. From where we stood on the track, there was a steep slope down to the water of the Rockcastle, a good distance across, and then rose again on the other side….I’d guess the bridge stood off the water 20 feet…and I would guess the water under the bridge to be very shallow to maybe 4-5 feet deep in the deeper parts.

The top surface of the bridge itself was about 14’ wide (I’m guessing) divided into thirds with all loose gravel base and large metal parallel rails that rose out of the gravel a good 6 inches.. The outer third was gravel with a meager single hand rail for maintenance crew, followed by the middle third between the raised rails that was loose gravel, and then the other side with another single meager handrail.

If you rode down the center of the bridge you had to contend with the rails. They stuck out of the gravel maybe 6 inches and would be great to guide someone down the center of the tracks…but if the need to get out of the tracks arose, they might prove to be difficult to get over them and out of the way if needed. The outer edges had enough space to ride on, and I suspect that you could stand on the very outer edges of the gravel and the train would not hit you, but you would have to be way out on the edge of the bridge and the lack of guardrails and the height, not to mention a train running by you would be unnerving. It could be done, but it was going to be a little scary too.

We all stood there, studying the track, talking it through, and reading the obligatory “you will die crossing the bridge” warnings followed by the “if you don’t die all the way, we’ll put whatever is left of you in jail” sign.

As we stood there, a red pickup truck drove off the road on the other side and stopped next to the tracks like he was waiting for someone or something. We watched the driver, he watched us. Was he police? Was he some kind of railroad FBI? He started eating his lunch and we went back to thinking through our Nitro Circus stunt.

Two riders, I think I’ll call them Kyle and Danny (clearly hypothetical names of course), pointed their bikes towards the bridge and said, “just say the word and we’ll go’. But I didn’t like the idea….I didn’t like it at all.

Since we could not see around the bend, it was impossible to know how close a train was. I took off my helmet and put my ear to the track like I had seen done in many western movies…there was no sound. I was thinking that was good…but then again I had never done that before so I was wondering if this were an actual thing or was I betting my life on a Hollywood gimmick?

We looked at the track and thought through how long it might take for someone to cross over.

Maybe 90 seconds.

But if a train came around the corner of the hill…and you were halfway, you would probably have an butt puckering moment where you might have to gun it and play chicken with a train because the rails and tight radius would make it impossible to turn heavy bikes like ours around. There would be no turning back, once you were on, you were committed.

The leader of our group put it to a vote…and asked everyone “does anyone feel strongly about this crossing?” There was a few seconds where the rest of the group weighed out going across. Some were all for crossing, some were not so sure, but I literally stood alone as the one person who said I didn’t think we should cross…I said I would catch up to them down the road.

As we stood there, starting down the tracks in one direction, we turned around and noticed there was a man walking up the tracks towards us from the opposite direction about 30 yards out. He was a much older man wearing tattered overalls and what looked like an old engineers hat. He appeared out of nowhere and was walking slowly towards us like a ghost. My Spidey senses tingled and I didn’t like the feeling I was getting.

I definitely was not going now…..I was spooked.

The leader of our group must’ve felt the same thing. No sooner that we noticed this man and he made the call for all of us. We were going around.

And just like that, we abandoned the bridge crossing and started up the road.

We quickly went up the hill, passed the Wildcat Memorial, and then down the hill, wound around the bend and turned a corner to the railroad crossing. It was probably a total of 4 or 5 miles from our river crossing, but where the paved road crossed the railroad tracks, we were stopped by blaring bells and red lights as a massive train roared by us.

I was in a slight shock as reality set in.

“IS THIS TRAIN ON THE SAME TRACKS, THE SAME TRACKS THAT CROSSES THAT BRIDGE???!!!! DID THIS TRAIN COME ACROSS THE BRIDGE WE JUST THOUGHT ABOUT CROSSING!!!” I asked dumbfounded and shocked. No one really wanted to acknowledge that it was the a train that had come down the same tracks we had stared at a few minutes prior. The timing was eerie and unbelievable and we didn’t talk much for a while over the headsets.

I think we all knew that was too close to laugh about…but maybe it was just me.

There is no way of knowing the exact timing of the train crossing, but there is no arguing that it would have been very VERY close. In my mind, we had just avoided what could have been a bad situation.

We will never know how that would have played out.

We could have crossed without incident and taken off down the road and never known about the train.
We could have had a complete disaster on our hands.
We could have gotten caught on the bridge but the train could’ve stopped in time to avoid everything except the “persecute you ’til kingdom come” part.
We will never know on this side of heaven.

But… I pay attention to that that voice in my head says.


I remembered this story and knew it was the next one I would tell…but why tell this story?

I wrote the first part of this in a couple days…reworked a couple places, but the bones were set quickly. The 2nd part of this I took to God…I needed Him to help me write the end. A week later, today, as I sit drinking coffee on a Monday morning, I feel I have a part of it.

Life is a journey. A grand adventure. There are always risks, there are always some levels of assessment when looking at something where you know you must step out, you must put some things on the betting table that may end up doubling, or they may be wiped out.

Sometimes you bet your heart.
Sometimes you bet money.
Sometimes you bet your health.
And sometimes you’re all in and it ALL is on the line.

ALL on the line… like when it’s the train bridge where you stand alone against a group of friends that want you to cross with them…all the while a train is bearing down on this decision on an all or nothing play.

IF you’re reading this and you’re standing, looking across a long bridge that appears quiet and serene…but in your heart, you know there is risk…

…then I ask you….

What do you really gain by taking this risk?
Are you going against your inner voice because all the others are telling you to ignore it?

Again…what do you gain with this risk?

I’m not saying there’s a time not to take risk.
I’m not saying to always play it safe.

What I am saying is that if the risk is high, make sure you put your ear to the rail in your spirit and ask God before you set across.

The Wood Box

Growing up, I remember so many summers we would go to northern Minnesota (pronounced “Minnie’ Soh-da”) and we would spend a couple weeks at my grandparents on my moms side…Bill and Marie.

The grandfather on my mom’s side was “grampa Bill” and my grandmother was “Gramma”. Bill got a name but grandma was always just gramma. Grandpa Bill drank Schmidts beer, all day starting after lunch and smoked a pipe constantly with Prince Albert (in a can) tobacco. Grandma tended the stove making home made rolls, cookies, and pies. There was always the smells of fresh bread, pipe tobacco, and burning wood…smells that are still my favorites even today.

They lived in northern Minnesota out in the deep woods country. People out there were often farmers, hunters, fishermen…strong people who loved the great white north. It was a wild land back then…seemed untamed and we often heard stories of wolves and bears killing cattle and sheep…so to us it was like our own ‘wild west’ where it was just natural for everyone to have and carry a gun…including us.

The land was filled with dangerous animals…like I said…it was filled with stories of bears, timber wolves, and the Dickensons. The bears and timber wolves you could trust….but those “Got dammed Dickensons…” well they were just some of the worst sons of bitches you could ever come across, but Grandpa needed a villain for his stories….but I’ll get to that in one of these stories. For now, the Dickersons were a well to do family in the area that were notorious (at least to grandpa) for swindling and cheating and moving boundary markers when you weren’t looking.

Grandpa Bill grew up logging and trapping in this land. He was a woodman to the core. His house was in a small ghost town called Puposky, on the edge of Lake Julia, near Buena Vista and Bemidji. It was a 2 bedroom, one story, maybe 650 sf house that was probably built just after World War 2. This small house had no running water, no bathroom, and it was heated by a wood burning stove. Water was hand pumped every day from a well just outside the house …the outhouse was 20 feet from the house in a wooden shed and a pit underneath it (no running water, right?) …and the house and cooking were done by use of a wooden stove that had to be regularity fed hand split wood. Water for the house was hand pumped from the well into buckets that were carried into the house. It was a HARD life that we would never understand in today’s world. In northern Minnesota winters were particularly brutal with lows reaching -20 for weeks on end….and all those things you had to do outside like bring in wood, pump water, GO TO THE BATHROOM (!!) …you did those…day in and day out, whether it was 75 or -20. It was a different world, it was a different time. They lived the same way for as long as they were alive.

My grandfather died in 1986, 90 years of age, and my grandmother continued to live there another 10 years, by herself, until we brought her home when she was found wandering lost one day and diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

In that area, in those parts of the Northern Territory, people look out for each other, people needed each other…and people were genuine…they didn’t have time not to be.
Unless you were a Dickenson….

I say all this to say something else.

My grandparents were poor by any standard you look at in the United States…but they were so rich in the color of their lives, abundantly blessed with hospitality and love, and it’s where I learned some of life’s biggest lessons. When I look back at growing up, it’s in those woods I learned to hunt, fish, to have freedom and adventures…and laugh with a man who was a key figure in my life. God how I loved them and I loved that farm, lake Julia that was a 5 minute walk, and the lands of wild northern Minnesota.

This little house had a garage like structure next to it, a “pump house” that housed I don’t remember what….but it had an old refrigerator that didn’t work that held old books, it had old bottles and beer signs, naked women calendars, vote for Ike buttons….it had a door on it that said “no minors”. For most of my young life, I thought ‘no minor’ meant that if you worked in the ore mines in the area, you weren’t welcome. I thought that was pretty rude and would be a teenager before I understood the message.

The pump house had all kinds of odds and ends, broken clocks, kids toys, AN OLD BAZOOKA SHELL (another “NO SHIT??!!!” story for another time) some ‘girlie’ magazines and calendars, and often a few cats…but the biggest thing about the pump house was the large bell that hung above it. Hundreds and hundreds of times Grandpa would encourage us to shoot this bell with a Crossman pump up air BB gun. Every time you hit it with a “PING” he laughed deeply and genuine…and then he’d encourage you to shoot something else. Usually a bird or something alive. My heart usually didn’t let me shoot something alive, but Grandpa made his life as a trapper, a lumberjack, so shooting things was just part of life up there.

My grandfather loved to give us a Crossman pump BB gun to shoot everything and anything from beer cans set up, to home made wind chimes he made, or anything that happened to be scurrying or flying around as we were out shooting. He always laughed and was impressed with our marksman skills. He also loved and encouraged us to fish, getting a neighbor at the lake to loan us a row boat. My brother and I were crazy wild boys with all kinds of energy and endless curiosity that was perfect for such a place as this to turn us loose in. It was an outdoor paradise.

As much as we loved to explore, shoot, and fish…there was always some work and some special ‘project’ my father took on every time we went up there. He would use the 2 weeks to fix or repair something that needed fixed. Once it was a roof on the house, once it was to pull the siding off the house and insulate it, once it was digging a new outhouse for the bathroom. Whatever it was, it was dad’s summer project, and thus OUR project.

There were two worlds up there when we visited. One was dad’s world of ‘projects’ and work…one was grandpa’s where kids had adventures, played and explored of fishing at the lake or wandering with BB guns or 22 rifles or exploring the pump house or barn.

I’ve never thought of this before, but there was always a colliding of worlds when we went to grandpa and grandma’s. Our world back home belonged to dad and work and responsibility and more work. Grandpa’s world had adventure and exploration and freedom. We often had to walk the line of both worlds when we went there. We got to explore and shoot and wander and row on the lake…but we also had those adventures interrupted by dad’s world…his projects.

Today I still try to live in those two worlds that I cannot seem to get to be at peace…I am either all the way in one, or all the way in the other….in my world they do not, and can never coexist.

The dichotomy of my father’s and my grandfather’s worlds was never so incredibly vivid as the story of the wood box.

You mention ‘wood box’ story and mom will start laughing at the thought of it. It is probably her favorite story and my father laughs at himself when the story is told, but there’s still a little bit of saltiness that comes along with it too for him.

so…the story of the woodbox.

Grandma cooked off an old cast iron wood burning stove. You fed split wood down into it, it heated the house and cooked the food. It was the only heat, it was the only way to cook and wood for it would often need to be brought into the house and stacked in this old woodbox that sat next to the stove.

My dad must’ve decided at some point that the wood box was pretty tattered and worn out and seeing how dad had great carpentry skills, he decided to make her a new one. It would be a quick and easy afternoon project for him…or so he thought.

So on this day my father decided he was going to build grandma a wood box. Dad started off on his usual measurements, found a couple sheets of plywood and began cutting away to construct this box. My older brother Brad and I were always his clueless helpers. We held the dumb end of the measuring tape when he measured, we held the wood when he cut, held the flashlight when it got dark, but we never got to use the saw or hammer the wood or pound nails…and we never had any clue what he was doing, but like rowers on a pirates ship, we were chained to the oar and we were there to ‘help’ or (sometimes and…) go down with the ship.

Now my dad has an uncanny ability to do anything carpentry, can take anything and everything apart without any working knowledge of said item or engine. It was dumbfounding to my grandfather who did NOT have such skills. My grandfather was a woodsman, hunter, logger, and farmer. How he survived without those skills in such a brutal environment, I don’t know. But dad would show up and see all the projects that needed to be done and would set to work on at least one big one every summer. But this day, above all days, dad would be sorry for the little task he had set his mind on. It would have the best of him.

So, out in the yard, my dad started with measurements and a drawing and two clueless sons. Soon the pieces were cut, and the box took shape…sort of.

At some point, something was off and the box wouldn’t fit together…and my dad’s temper began to flair.

A word of finesse here, dad’s temper could be bad and at times… and sometimes it could nuclear. Now, when dad got mad, and you were working with dad, you were worried that his temper might go nuclear and make you the object of his anger…so when dad started to get mad, Brad and I got quiet and worried.

But we were at grandpa’s.
And grandpa thought dad’s temper was funny.

So when things started to go astray and my dad started to get mad that the wood box wasn’t going together, grandpa pulled up a chair from the yard to watch.
And give comment.
And to laugh.

Two worlds in tension.

There my Grandpa sat in his lawn chair, beer in one hand, pipe in the other, to watch this unfold a little more…and to poke at my dad. Those of us who knew dad, knew those words were like poking a bear. But grandpa wasn’t scared of dad when he got angry…he’s the only person I have ever known that was not scared of my dad when he got angry. Thus, the more UN-amused my father got, the more amused my grandfather got.

So, we’re working in the yard and this ‘simple’ project dad had started and the box is not quite coming together, and dad is frustrated…and grandpa is amused. My brother Brad and I were bug eyed as we thought grandpa was pretty funny but scared that dad was going to turn on us. But these two great worlds were at odds with each other this day, and Brad and I had front row seats to the showdown.

After a bit of back and forth, Dad’s adjusted a couple times, gotten the box together, and dad’s ready to claim victory over the whole affair. Dad, carrying his work of art, walks across the yard to the house in what would be his GREAT TRIUMPH that would silence the laughter of my grandfather. He climbs the two steps of the side of the house, balances the box on one knee while he flings open the screen door…
…and jambs the wood box squarely into the frame of the door, not quite getting it inside the door.
Dad readjusts his grip on the box and turns it a couple times and tries again and again.

There’s a moment when heaven and earth stopped and, for a moment everything was dead silent…waiting for my dad…

to realize…

The wood box will not fit through the door of the house.

My father erupts in profanity fitting of a pirate in the high seas
…to which….
My beloved grandpa Bill erupts in laughter, doubled over gasping for breath, tears forming in his eyes. Grandpa’s laughter brings mom to laughter and tears as she couldn’t help herself.

Picture this. Grandpa and mom have tears in their eyes and are having a hard time breathing. Brad and I are bug eyed nervously giggling…fearing what dad may do…and my dad is unleashing a tirade of profanity on the situation…furious at the box, furious at the laughter…and my little brother Jamie walks into the yard, trying to make sense of it all..and says…in a 4 year old Charlie Brown voice,

“Is daddy angry?”

Grandpa and Mom erupt with howling laughter, both her and Grandpa were laughing so hard at this point they couldn’t breathe, their faces turning purple, tears streaming from their eyes. My mom trying to be apologetic to my dad, trying to give him support and sympathy, but couldn’t breathe.

My brother and I were worried of the consequences, but the site of mom and grandpa doubled over with tears in his eyes, gasping for breath brings us to laugh too. Jamie is too confused to do anything and is too afraid to either laugh or cry. He will someday probably need therapy that will point back to this moment.

I don’t remember exactly what dad did, but know he gave up and went to cool off and finished the wood box later…and it would fit through the door this time. He will laugh at everything later after beers in the cool of the evening and all would be right with the world again.

My two worlds collided that day over the wood box. I was scared and I was laughing…I thought it was funny AND I thought I might get killed. Grandpa knew we wouldn’t die that day because Grandpa wasn’t scared of dad when he was mad, I have wondered why. He is literally the only person that I have ever known that wasn’t scared of dad. Why? I guess I will have to ask him when we meet again.

Those two wolds are still at war in me…
One world hell bent on successes, one wanting to explore and be free.
One world where the world squeezes the life out of the heart, one where the heart squeezes life out of the world
One world wanting and driving towards success and perfection, one world wanting to leave all behind to chase the setting September sun.

Maybe all men have this…I don’t know. But I always gravitate to those who were a little like grandpa. They, from time to time, like to fall off the grid and disappear for a few days to rid themselves of boundaries and showers and ‘safe behavior’ and explore new lands, to walk off the flat earth…to the place where the sign says “dead end” or “beyond here, there be monsters”. We smile when we see these signs…because you know that this is where the map ends and the adventure begins. If you’re smiling right now, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

In my grandfathers world, there was no work that really had to be done when we were there. He wanted us to go and explore and be wild. He celebrated our wildness and adventures, he fanned the flames of explorations, and he encouraged us to test our strength. In our worlds back home, there was none of this. Grandpa knew this…so when we came to his world, we were indoctrinated into it, set free in it, given old world skills and old world freedoms. We were given BB guns and 410s and rowboats. There was no land that we could not wander, no place on the lake we could not row to…our only boundary was ‘lunch’ and ‘dark’ that brought us back…
…eventually.

He was the wilderness of manhood, celebrating my 10 year old need to run and explore and swing an ax and fish ALL DAY. He put guns and firecrackers and axes in my hand and trusted me not to kill myself or blow the world up…he loved us enough to set me free from the world that forces a young man to conform. He was the kind of grandfather that every ‘safe’ mom would fear, yet only the most blessed of us were mentored by him and the northern wilderness. To this day his gifts of time and freedom are still alive in me, still bearing fruit. I still seek adventure, still seek those times untethered to the world of deadlines, dollars, and duties…the things that kill my heart.

I am not belittling my father or his contributions to my character, the lessons that one must instill for a boy to become a man…they are most necessary in the manhood transformation…you must become a man that contributes to the world. That was no easy feat for me and a bunch of rowdy brothers like mine. But my grandpa Bill has a special place, in my life, for embedding and embracing the things that the heart of a man needs to survive.

Said another way, there are things a man must do to survive.
Do not confuse those with what a man must do for his heart to thrive.

My dad was tasked with instilling me with what I needed to survive.
My grandfather was blessed with the easier yet crucial role of tending to the heart of a young boy…which was to set it free from time to time…because the ‘wilds’ are still where I go to find
‘life’ that cannot be acquired any other way.

The wood box is physically and symbolically important…the wood box holds the wood that feeds the fire in the house, and symbolically holds the wood that fires the heart. Grandpa and dad are the struggle within me to tend to my heart. The wood box “incident” showed the polar opposites that existed in my world at the time both then and now. The tension in what must get done to accomplish things and what must get to do to set your soul free, to keep your heart alive.

The ‘wilds’ are still where I go to set my heart free…to loose my 10 year old to explore and test my strength and look for treasures. It’s often where I go to find myself again.

I write this with all respect to my father and in respect, love, and tribute for Grandpa Bill and Grandma Marie, who lived near the town of Puposky and Lake Julia in northern Minnesota, forever my Neverland.

Growing up, I remember so many summers we would go to northern Minnesota (pronounced “Minnie’ Soh-da”) and we would spend a couple weeks at my grandparents on my moms side…Bill and Marie.

The grandfather on my mom’s side was “grampa Bill” and my grandmother was “Gramma”. Bill got a name but grandma was always just gramma. Grandpa Bill drank Schmidts beer, all day starting after lunch and smoked a pipe constantly with Prince Albert (in a can) tobacco. Grandma tended the stove making home made rolls, cookies, and pies. There was always the smells of fresh bread, pipe tobacco, and burning wood…smells that are still my favorites even today.

They lived in northern Minnesota out in the deep woods country. People out there were often farmers, hunters, fishermen…strong people who loved the great white north. It was a wild land back then…seemed untamed and we often heard stories of wolves and bears killing cattle and sheep…so to us it was like our own ‘wild west’ where it was just natural for everyone to have and carry a gun…including us.

The land was filled with dangerous animals…like I said…it was filled with stories of bears, timber wolves, and the Dickensons. The bears and timber wolves you could trust….but those “Got dammed Dickensons…” well they were just some of the worst sons of bitches you could ever come across, but Grandpa needed a villain for his stories….but I’ll get to that in one of these stories. For now, the Dickersons were a well to do family in the area that were notorious (at least to grandpa) for swindling and cheating and moving boundary markers when you weren’t looking.

Grandpa Bill grew up logging and trapping in this land. He was a woodman to the core. His house was in a small ghost town called Puposky, on the edge of Lake Julia, near Buena Vista and Bemidji. It was a 2 bedroom, one story, maybe 650 sf house that was probably built just after World War 2. This small house had no running water, no bathroom, and it was heated by a wood burning stove. Water was hand pumped every day from a well just outside the house …the outhouse was 20 feet from the house in a wooden shed and a pit underneath it (no running water, right?) …and the house and cooking were done by use of a wooden stove that had to be regularity fed hand split wood. Water for the house was hand pumped from the well into buckets that were carried into the house. It was a HARD life that we would never understand in today’s world. In northern Minnesota winters were particularly brutal with lows reaching -20 for weeks on end….and all those things you had to do outside like bring in wood, pump water, GO TO THE BATHROOM (!!) …you did those…day in and day out, whether it was 75 or -20. It was a different world, it was a different time. They lived the same way for as long as they were alive.

My grandfather died in 1986, 90 years of age, and my grandmother continued to live there another 10 years, by herself, until we brought her home when she was found wandering lost one day and diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

In that area, in those parts of the Northern Territory, people look out for each other, people needed each other…and people were genuine…they didn’t have time not to be.

Unless you were a Dickenson….

I say all this to say something else.

My grandparents were poor by any standard you look at in the United States…but they were so rich in the color of their lives, abundantly blessed with hospitality and love, and it’s where I learned some of life’s biggest lessons. When I look back at growing up, it’s in those woods I learned to hunt, fish, to have freedom and adventures…and laugh with a man who was a key figure in my life. God how I loved them and I loved that farm, lake Julia that was a 5 minute walk, and the lands of wild northern Minnesota.

This little house had a garage like structure next to it, a “pump house” that housed I don’t remember what….but it had an old refrigerator that didn’t work that held old books, it had old bottles and beer signs, naked women calendars, vote for Ike buttons….it had a door on it that said “no minors”. For most of my young life, I thought ‘no minor’ meant that if you worked in the ore mines in the area, you weren’t welcome. I thought that was pretty rude and would be a teenager before I understood the message.

The pump house had all kinds of odds and ends, broken clocks, kids toys, AN OLD BAZOOKA SHELL (another “NO SHIT??!!!” story for another time) some ‘girlie’ magazines and calendars, and often a few cats…but the biggest thing about the pump house was the large bell that hung above it. Hundreds and hundreds of times Grandpa would encourage us to shoot this bell with a Crossman pump up air BB gun. Every time you hit it with a “PING” he laughed deeply and genuine…and then he’d encourage you to shoot something else. Usually a bird or something alive. My heart usually didn’t let me shoot something alive, but Grandpa made his life as a trapper, a lumberjack, so shooting things was just part of life up there.

My grandfather loved to give us a Crossman pump BB gun to shoot everything and anything from beer cans set up, to home made wind chimes he made, or anything that happened to be scurrying or flying around as we were out shooting. He always laughed and was impressed with our marksman skills. He also loved and encouraged us to fish, getting a neighbor at the lake to loan us a row boat. My brother and I were crazy wild boys with all kinds of energy and endless curiosity that was perfect for such a place as this to turn us loose in. It was an outdoor paradise.

As much as we loved to explore, shoot, and fish…there was always some work and some special ‘project’ my father took on every time we went up there. He would use the 2 weeks to fix or repair something that needed fixed. Once it was a roof on the house, once it was to pull the siding off the house and insulate it, once it was digging a new outhouse for the bathroom. Whatever it was, it was dad’s summer project, and thus OUR project.

There were two worlds up there when we visited. One was dad’s world of ‘projects’ and work…one was grandpa’s where kids had adventures, played and explored of fishing at the lake or wandering with BB guns or 22 rifles or exploring the pump house or barn.

I’ve never thought of this before, but there was always a colliding of worlds when we went to grandpa and grandma’s. Our world back home belonged to dad and work and responsibility and more work. Grandpa’s world had adventure and exploration and freedom. We often had to walk the line of both worlds when we went there. We got to explore and shoot and wander and row on the lake…but we also had those adventures interrupted by dad’s world…his projects.

Today I still try to live in those two worlds that I cannot seem to get to be at peace…I am either all the way in one, or all the way in the other….in my world they do not, and can never coexist.

The dichotomy of my father’s and my grandfather’s worlds was never so incredibly vivid as the story of the wood box.

You mention ‘wood box’ story and mom will start laughing at the thought of it. It is probably her favorite story and my father laughs at himself when the story is told, but there’s still a little bit of saltiness that comes along with it too for him.

so…the story of the woodbox.

Grandma cooked off an old cast iron wood burning stove. You fed split wood down into it, it heated the house and cooked the food. It was the only heat, it was the only way to cook and wood for it would often need to be brought into the house and stacked in this old woodbox that sat next to the stove.

My dad must’ve decided at some point that the wood box was pretty tattered and worn out and seeing how dad had great carpentry skills, he decided to make her a new one. It would be a quick and easy afternoon project for him…or so he thought.

So on this day my father decided he was going to build grandma a wood box. Dad started off on his usual measurements, found a couple sheets of plywood and began cutting away to construct this box. My older brother Brad and I were always his clueless helpers. We held the dumb end of the measuring tape when he measured, we held the wood when he cut, held the flashlight when it got dark, but we never got to use the saw or hammer the wood or pound nails…and we never had any clue what he was doing, but like rowers on a pirates ship, we were chained to the oar and we were there to ‘help’ or (sometimes and…) go down with the ship.

Now my dad has an uncanny ability to do anything carpentry, can take anything and everything apart without any working knowledge of said item or engine. It was dumbfounding to my grandfather who did NOT have such skills. My grandfather was a woodsman, hunter, logger, and farmer. How he survived without those skills in such a brutal environment, I don’t know. But dad would show up and see all the projects that needed to be done and would set to work on at least one big one every summer. But this day, above all days, dad would be sorry for the little task he had set his mind on. It would have the best of him.

So, out in the yard, my dad started with measurements and a drawing and two clueless sons. Soon the pieces were cut, and the box took shape…sort of.

At some point, something was off and the box wouldn’t fit together…and my dad’s temper began to flair.

A word of finesse here, dad’s temper could be bad and at times… and sometimes it could nuclear. Now, when dad got mad, and you were working with dad, you were worried that his temper might go nuclear and make you the object of his anger…so when dad started to get mad, Brad and I got quiet and worried.

But we were at grandpa’s.

And grandpa thought dad’s temper was funny.

So when things started to go astray and my dad started to get mad that the wood box wasn’t going together, grandpa pulled up a chair from the yard to watch.

And give comment.

And to laugh.

Two worlds in tension.

There my Grandpa sat in his lawn chair, beer in one hand, pipe in the other, to watch this unfold a little more…and to poke at my dad. Those of us who knew dad, knew those words were like poking a bear. But grandpa wasn’t scared of dad when he got angry…he’s the only person I have ever known that was not scared of my dad when he got angry. Thus, the more UN-amused my father got, the more amused my grandfather got.

So, we’re working in the yard and this ‘simple’ project dad had started and the box is not quite coming together, and dad is frustrated…and grandpa is amused. My brother Brad and I were bug eyed as we thought grandpa was pretty funny but scared that dad was going to turn on us. But these two great worlds were at odds with each other this day, and Brad and I had front row seats to the showdown.

After a bit of back and forth, Dad’s adjusted a couple times, gotten the box together, and dad’s ready to claim victory over the whole affair. Dad, carrying his work of art, walks across the yard to the house in what would be his GREAT TRIUMPH that would silence the laughter of my grandfather. He climbs the two steps of the side of the house, balances the box on one knee while he flings open the screen door…

…and jambs the wood box squarely into the frame of the door, not quite getting it inside the door.

Dad readjusts his grip on the box and turns it a couple times and tries again and again.

There’s a moment when heaven and earth stopped and, for a moment everything was dead silent…waiting for my dad…

to realize…

The wood box will not fit through the door of the house.

My father erupts in profanity fitting of a pirate in the high seas

…to which….

My beloved grandpa Bill erupts in laughter, doubled over gasping for breath, tears forming in his eyes. Grandpa’s laughter brings mom to laughter and tears as she couldn’t help herself.

Picture this. Grandpa and mom have tears in their eyes and are having a hard time breathing. Brad and I are bug eyed nervously giggling…fearing what dad may do…and my dad is unleashing a tirade of profanity on the situation…furious at the box, furious at the laughter…and my little brother Jamie walks into the yard, trying to make sense of it all..and says…in a 4 year old Charlie Brown voice,

“Is daddy angry?”

Grandpa and Mom erupt with howling laughter, both her and Grandpa were laughing so hard at this point they couldn’t breathe, their faces turning purple, tears streaming from their eyes. My mom trying to be apologetic to my dad, trying to give him support and sympathy, but couldn’t breathe.

My brother and I were worried of the consequences, but the site of mom and grandpa doubled over with tears in his eyes, gasping for breath brings us to laugh too. Jamie is too confused to do anything and is too afraid to either laugh or cry. He will someday probably need therapy that will point back to this moment.

I don’t remember exactly what dad did, but know he gave up and went to cool off and finished the wood box later…and it would fit through the door this time. He will laugh at everything later after beers in the cool of the evening and all would be right with the world again.

My two worlds collided that day over the wood box. I was scared and I was laughing…I thought it was funny AND I thought I might get killed. Grandpa knew we wouldn’t die that day because Grandpa wasn’t scared of dad when he was mad, I have wondered why. He is literally the only person that I have ever known that wasn’t scared of dad. Why? I guess I will have to ask him when we meet again.

Those two wolds are still at war in me…

One world hell bent on successes, one wanting to explore and be free.

One world where the world squeezes the life out of the heart, one where the heart squeezes life out of the world

One world wanting and driving towards success and perfection, one world wanting to leave all behind to chase the setting September sun.

Maybe all men have this…I don’t know. But I always gravitate to those who were a little like grandpa. They, from time to time, like to fall off the grid and disappear for a few days to rid themselves of boundaries and showers and ‘safe behavior’ and explore new lands, to walk off the flat earth…to the place where the sign says “dead end” or “beyond here, there be monsters”. We smile when we see these signs…because you know that this is where the map ends and the adventure begins. If you’re smiling right now, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

In my grandfathers world, there was no work that really had to be done when we were there. He wanted us to go and explore and be wild. He celebrated our wildness and adventures, he fanned the flames of explorations, and he encouraged us to test our strength. In our worlds back home, there was none of this. Grandpa knew this…so when we came to his world, we were indoctrinated into it, set free in it, given old world skills and old world freedoms. We were given BB guns and 410s and rowboats. There was no land that we could not wander, no place on the lake we could not row to…our only boundary was ‘lunch’ and ‘dark’ that brought us back…

…eventually.

He was the wilderness of manhood, celebrating my 10 year old need to run and explore and swing an ax and fish ALL DAY. He put guns and firecrackers and axes in my hand and trusted me not to kill myself or blow the world up…he loved us enough to set me free from the world that forces a young man to conform. He was the kind of grandfather that every ‘safe’ mom would fear, yet only the most blessed of us were mentored by him and the northern wilderness. To this day his gifts of time and freedom are still alive in me, still bearing fruit. I still seek adventure, still seek those times untethered to the world of deadlines, dollars, and duties…the things that kill my heart.

I am not belittling my father or his contributions to my character, the lessons that one must instill for a boy to become a man…they are most necessary in the manhood transformation…you must become a man that contributes to the world. That was no easy feat for me and a bunch of rowdy brothers like mine. But my grandpa Bill has a special place, in my life, for embedding and embracing the things that the heart of a man needs to survive.

Said another way, there are things a man must do to survive.

Do not confuse those with what a man must do for his heart to thrive.

My dad was tasked with instilling me with what I needed to survive.

My grandfather was blessed with the easier yet crucial role of tending to the heart of a young boy…which was to set it free from time to time…because the ‘wilds’ are still where I go to find

‘life’ that cannot be acquired any other way.

The wood box is physically and symbolically important…the wood box holds the wood that feeds the fire in the house, and symbolically holds the wood that fires the heart. Grandpa and dad are the struggle within me to tend to my heart. The wood box “incident” showed the polar opposites that existed in my world at the time both then and now. The tension in what must get done to accomplish things and what must get to do to set your soul free, to keep your heart alive.

The ‘wilds’ are still where I go to set my heart free…to loose my 10 year old to explore and test my strength and look for treasures. It’s often where I go to find myself again.

I write this with all respect to my father and in respect, love, and tribute for Grandpa Bill and Grandma Marie, who lived near the town of Puposky and Lake Julia in northern Minnesota, forever my Neverland.

 

 

This Little Girl

This little girl.

This little girl calls me “unca No-née”.

To those that don’t speak the language of a three year old, let me help you. That’s clearly (to me) “uncle Tony” in a language that is special to her and I.

My niece often points to the football magnet schedule on my brother’s refrigerator that bears my image and tells him and his wife my name and asks when she will see me again because it’s never enough.

We don’t talk much yet, but she always has something to show me that she’s colored or made with Play Do, or a book she wants me to read. She wants to show me her toys and new clothes.

She can’t get words out to communicate all the excitement in her life and that she’s happy I’m with her and wants to tell me about things…but the words for her are not always there. The honest truth is that I can’t always get the right words either. My heart runs over with emotions some times… she’s just love and life all bundled up in a 3 1/2 year old smile. In some ways it’s good that words are not her strong suit yet…because fun and play are our common currency that we can spend freely on each other.

This may be as close as I get to being a dad, as close as I will ever understand it. It weighs on my heart. It weighs on my faith some times if I’m honest.

I don’t know when it happened or why, but for a large part of my life, I didn’t want to get married. Maybe it was the culture of growing up in the 80’s or just my selfish view of life like I wanted to be the lone wolf, as stupid as that sounds now. I wanted to spend my years embracing a life of adventure and journeys. I wanted to see the world and it’s treasures and I didn’t want anything or anyone holding me back.

And so I did.

Somewhere in the midst of living life just north of NYC in Rye, passing through Allentown Pennsylvania, and Terre Haute everything changed. I realized traveling this world alone was…well…lonely. You can stand at the top of a bowl in Breckenridge Colorado or marvel at the art at the Church of the Savior in St Petersburg Russia, or play with orphans in a river in El Lemon, Mexico…and remember it with beautiful detail…only to not be able to reminisce unless you have someone who was there with you. To others, it’s just a 30 second story that lacks any real meaning or context. The people that I experienced it with are wonderful and good friends, but they are often transient drifters in my life…sometimes there for a season, sometimes not. If I’m honest though, I often realize that I’m the drifter.

My life is much different now…but also very much the same.

Do I have regrets, sure. Do I dwell on them? No. I don’t believe that regrets are something to be carried forward. They are dreams of yesterday that become anchors in moving my voyage, my life, forward. I’m not saying having regrets is wrong, I’m saying carrying them is.

As a single person my whole life, there are things that I was dreaming of and praying for and waiting for, that did not happen. I do not have the ‘wife of my youth’, I will not have years to spend with her and travel before we have kids, if I have kids at all. I will not likely have a 50th anniversary with her, I will most likely not have a bundle of grand kids.

Through the wonder of Facebook, I have watched friends get in relationships, get wrings, get married, get pregnant, get boys and girls, get boats and cars and motorcycles.
They “get” a life with someone else.

I have seen first dates, first facebook relationship changes, first flowers, first ultrasound, first child, first tooth, first words, first steps, first day of school, first date, first prom pictures…and I celebrate with them all. And I live with the realization that I may not have those.

I have made my peace with my path and I will play my best hand as best I can…God can and will redeem whatever he wants at any point. Until then, I will finish well the hand that I have been dealt and I will not be sorry for the life in my living.

Often times when I am riding motorcycles off road, down trails or dirt roads, there are often vines that overhang the trail or the road. These vines often have thorns in them. If you’re not real careful and observant when you’re riding, these little vines that hang out will catch and tear at your flesh just enough to make you bleed… just enough to take your concentration off the path that you’re on.

Regrets are a lot like these thorns.

If you’re not paying attention they can tear at the flesh of your heart. It pulls you off the path that you’re traveling, and, if you ignore them too much, you can get tangled in them and lose your way.

In full disclosure I know that if I had the chance to do it all over again I’m not sure what fork in the road I would take to a different path, nor do I know where I would have taken it.

But one things I do know…I do know that I would make ALL NEW mistakes and I would probably regret the things that I didn’t do on that path that I am currently on.

My life to you may not look normal, but it’s still life. There are times when I would trade everything to have a wife and children. And, there are times when I wouldn’t trade anything for the moments of freedom and adventure in my life. God says He gives us life and life more abundantly…there are no conditions on that.

I’ve been blessed with many friends who mean well and say the right things…but I’ve also heard a few of the wrong things….and just to be clear:
…to say I’ve done life wrong is ignorance and judgmental of not only me, but the path HE has put me on.
…to say I’m being too picky cheapens your choices, saying that you settled
…to say I’m somehow living a life that’s ‘less than’ by being single is a bit short sighted
…to say I’m missing out is just your view… because I could say the same.
…to say that marriage is easy is naive…to say it is an answer to your problems is ridiculous. I’ve seen the pain some of my friends have lived with…and I feel ok with my choices.

My path requires a special perspective…if you have been in my shoes, if you have experienced the pain and pleasure, the Colorado mountain highs, the Death Valley lows, the places I can go, and been where I’ve been, maybe…just maybe, you can speak to my perspective.
Do I want to meet someone special in my life? Sure…until then, there is only the life that I have. Like Val Kilmer says that Kurt Russell in Tombstone where Doc is about to pass, he says “There’s no such thing as a normal life, Wyatt. Just life.”

Life is FULL of paths, I regret that I cannot travel more of them, explore them all. If we are honest, ALL of us have traveled our path as best we know how. Whether single or married, children or no, rich or poor, God gives us grace, gives us love and blessings, gives us purpose and meaning if you seek Him. But no matter who you are, what path you’re on, you will have troubles in this life.

We are but for a short time adventurers on this planet, on this side of eternity where heaven watches and we wonder, where mortal bodies trap our immortal soul. Infinite possibilities trouble our short lives no matter what road you take. And so there is no “normal road”, just the one that you are on…just the hand you are dealt.

But

This little girl, this niece of mine is a moment of sunshine, a moment of pure joy that my life misses most of the time. I’m a dad, an uncle, and teacher, a mentor…and for a while, the things that are most important in my life are wrapped up in smiles and laughter and things like Play-do and crayons and chalk. All the woulda, shoulda, and couldas in life get lost in chasing bubbles in the wind.

Double Yellow

 

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I was out riding Sunday afternoon, enjoying the warmest day we’ve had in a while. My KTM motorcycle was running well and I was enjoying the horsepower and performance that she puts out.

Just outside South Lebanon, the road leading out of town along the river was 25mph and I was following someone who was observing the speed limit. Which was annoying me.

The day was going so well and I was ready to get back to some curvy roads at a higher rate than the current horse and buggy speed. The car crested a hill and I could see 35mph ahead of them, and then ahead of that, a sign showing road curves ahead. I dropped a gear, crossed the double yellow lines, and gunned it well above the 25/35mph speed limit and let off as I rolled through a few curves.

As I reached the top of the hill, the music playing in my helmet started making a weird sound.

And then I noticed a some kind of sound and lights were behind me. Somewhere between the car and curves, I had blown by a sheriff.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Or some form of that came out of his mouth.

While he sat running plates, verifying my insurance, and writing my ticket…I asked God for a little mercy…a warning perhaps? Just this once God, please give me a warning and I promise, I won’t do it again today. I’ll try not to do it tomorrow too.

SO…

I got the ticket of passing on the double yellow. From the Warren County website, should be $180 from what I could gather.

Now, I could be mad, upset, think of a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t get that ticket. I could have come up with a lie about the car I was following or argue, maybe flip the officer off…but the truth was I was breaking the law and crossing the double yellow was really one of several tickets I could have gotten. I’m sure I was over the speed limit by at least 10, there was maybe a reckless operation, no turn signals, lack of proof of insurance…but I was just being stupid and got what I deserved. I mean, I didn’t even see him I was so focused on getting around this car and up to ‘fun’ speed again.

What do I choose to see here?

The lack of mercy from a sheriff that knew where everyone gets impatient for the speed limit to change outside of town? The lack of giving a warning to a guy that’s only trying to enjoy the first halfway warm day we’ve gotten in a while? A donut eating, ticket writing, jerk ruining my day…?

Or

God warning me to take it easy, slow down, giving me mercy of one ticket instead of the many that could have been written?

In situations like this, it’s easy to play the victim…I mean my day did get a wet blanket and all I really wanted to was just to ride in the country enjoying the open road. It’s easy to say ‘why me?’ Or ‘what a jerk’…because it’s easier to blame someone else.

But truth is, I deserved it.

Life is full of opportunities to blame someone else for our ‘bad luck’, our bad situation, right? We all have one of those friends who blames everything and everyone else for their position in life, don’t we? They’re bitter and nasty and old before their time…

They blame their problems on ________ (fill in the blank)

It’s what you didn’t get from God, the teachers, your parents, your boss, your job…
It’s an ‘entitlement’ you didn’t get…
It’s what society has kept from you…the government or democrats or republicans or certain age group or the ex-boyfriend/girlfriend/wife/husband/in-law/business partner/etc have kept from you

Because there’s got to be somebody else to blame for this…because if there’s not..then there would only be you to blame.

Take a look at those situations that are frustrating you, eating at you, stealing from you and ask yourself…what part of this ‘blame’ is just me being a victim? What part of this do I need to own? Am I cleaning my side of the street? Owning my part of the blame? Is there a behavior of mine that has contributed to the problem I’m in?

There will always be someone else to blame, someone else to point the finger at. Here’s the thing though. The blame game, the victim mentality, is for people who don’t want to move forward.
I was not a victim on Sunday, I was being an idiot on a motorcycle.

Pay the ticket and move on.

Lesson learned.

Get on with life.

House on Fire

A few years back I lived in Madeira. It was a Saturday morning and I was coming back from doing something unimportant and heading home.

I was coming up Hosbrook and saw smoke up ahead. I took notice as I got closer because the smoke was black smoke rolling up from what appeared to be one of the houses ahead of me. In my mind, you don’t usually see black smoke unless someone is burning something they shouldn’t…or something is on fire that shouldn’t be.

As I got closer, I started to pass a ranch house with a garage underneath. The garage was opened and on the left side of the house and as I drove past it, I saw black smoke and flames pouring out of it. There were no police cars, no fire trucks, no gathering neighbors…this was happening right now and I was one of the first bystanders to realize it.

I pulled up on the side of the street and jumped out running up to the house.

The fire was taking off, gaining momentum as flames and black smoke were pouring out of the garage and I remember hearing glass breaking.

As I reached the front yard there was a young boy standing in the middle of it. He was maybe 8 or so, wearing shorts and at t-shirt. He was in a lot of anguish and unbelief and horror as he was watching…slightly pacing…not sure what to do. It was where he lived.

I went up and asked him if he was ok…and was anybody else in the house?

He started to say no, but then screamed “Barney! Barney’s in the house!”
I looked at the house thinking “oh Jesus help me” and could see the garage was spewing flames and black smoke but neither the first floor nor the roof were on fire yet.

“Who’s Barney? Is Barney your brother?” I asked…
I mean if it’s a brother or goldfish or toy animal, there was a big difference and I was going to have to weigh whether I was going in or not.

“He’s my dog!”
Dang…I knew I was going in.

I remember the lady standing next to the boy saying something about “you can’t go in there!” (there’s always one of those) as I ran to the front door of the house…big metal door was right of center of the house. I had no idea whether it was locked or no, but I turned the handle thinking a big “oh shit” thought. I had a flashback to a movie with Robert DeNero where someone opens a door and fire shoots out to consumes the person. (That was only in the movies, right…right?)

I turned the handle and opened the door.

As I opened the door…and there was this literal wall of dark grey-ish smoke…smoke so thick you couldn’t see anything BUT the smoke. “I gotta find this dog” I thought as I stepped into the fog bank and immediately realized the danger of moving forward into the room, away from the door.

Stepping into the smoke was an immediate shock to me. It was a white out situation where all you can see is grey smoke. You can’t see what’s in front of you at all, you can’t even see your hand in front of your face let alone the furniture, shape of the room, or a dog. The thick smoke choked my lungs and I could hear the raging fire eating the building. I could hear popping glass from what I assumed were the first floor windows over the garage breaking from the intense heat. I distinctly remember having the thought “Oh…this is how people die.”

I stopped in my tracks.

I still had my hand on the door and pulled myself back, stepping out of the wall of smoke, stepping back onto the porch.

My mind raced for a second…where would the dog be? Could he hear me? Was he still alive in there? Was it a big dog or small? What exactly was this dog I looking for?

Going back into the wall of smoke was no good, but leaving the dog in there was also unacceptable. The smoke that was heavy and thick, I couldn’t chance getting lost or passing out…there had to be another way.

Believe it or not, I remembered a childhood video where they told you to stay close to the floor…so I bent down close to the patio floor and got on my knees, peering into the front door. I could see a little through the smoke just above the house floor. I decided I would crawl in if I had to.

Crouching down as close to the ground as I could get, I screamed into the fire,
“Barney! BARNEY!” The only sound was the roaring fire.
BARRRNEYYY!”

Then, like an ghost, this old gray haired beagle came wandering out of the smoke. He seemed ancient and the look on his face was one of confusion. He looked more like a “Yoda” than a Barney, but boy was I happy to see him. He looked at me at total confusion.

For a second, I was SO happy as he came out of the wall of smoke. I smiled and I said ‘good boy’. This look of total confusion was on his face as he looked at me…

…and then turned and walked back into the cloud of smoke and vanished.

I was caught completely off guard and dumbstruck as he wandered back into the smoke.

I just about fell over myself launching into the smoke to blindly grab, well, actually tackle him, and scooped him up. Pulling both of us out of the smoke.

He didn’t fuss or go wild or bite me, he seemed to know I was ok.

I brought the dog back to the boy, who, just for a minute was relieved.

A neighbor had her arms around him. She handed him a phone…he (and I) didn’t know what she wanted him to do with it. “Call your mom and dad.” She said. I felt sick for this boy…he made the call. (To this day I regret not taking that phone from him so that he didn’t have to tell his parents.)

At this point, I could hear the sirens wailing in the distance, they were on there way to where we were standing. Knowing that there would be nothing else I could do, I went to my car and drove home.

God uses us for moments like this….no doubt in my mind and I think most people would agree.
I came at the right time, right place, to save this family’s dog.

It struck me later, as it does now still…the dog.

The dog knew it’s world was on fire, it knew that everything was wrong. I’ll go as far as to say it knew it’s very life was in danger. When I called his name, he knew to come to the voice, came to someone calling his name. But when the dog came out of the wall of smoke, he saw something that he didn’t understand, someone he didn’t know, couldn’t conceive?
He wandered back into the wall of smoke, back to where comfort and safety had once been…back into the burning building.

Said another way, the dog would rather stay and die in the surroundings that he knew than have a stranger pull him to the new uncomfortable reality. That’s a goofy thing the dog did, right?

But…

We’re like this dog in so many ways. Our world can be on fire, burning down around us and we’re waiting for the firemen to show up while we sit in the Lazy Boy flipping channels in denial.

The job is coming to an end, the marriage is in shambles, our finances in flames, our addiction our of control…
….and we go turn on the tv
…crack another beer
…look the other way
…pretend it’s not happening.
We wander around a burning house wondering why it’s burning.

Often God sends someone to jolt us out of that denial…a brother, a sister, a police officer, a good friend…and we just turn and walk back into the fire, “nope, reality is not happening today” and we’re not going to hear it. ..it’s like we’ve done enough adulting for the day and that’s all there is that’s going to fit into our reality for one day. We ignore the flames and blinding smoke and noise that’s consuming and sucking the life out of us.

If…

If your world is on fire…then I believe God can be trying to send you someone to call you out of the confusion, out of the fire. I’ve never seen where the Good Father gives up on His child. It may be a familiar face or it may be somebody you’ve never met. But when the way out shows up, no matter what it looks like, get through that door.

Today is Thanksgiving 2018.

If you’re reading this, and it occurs to you that I’m writing this story for you…then take it as a sign that God wants better for you…and then answer God’s voice and reach out your hand for Him to take it.

If you’re reading this, and it occurs to you that I’m writing this story for someone you know. We have those people in our lives that we have reached out to so many times…their lives burning down in front of us…and we’ve watched them and reached out for years, and they continue to wander in smoke.

Ask God to help you reach out again…ask God to bring them to the door…then through the door. Those we know can be the hardest to reach. You can’t tackle them like a grey haired beagle…you have to extend your heart before you extend your hand.

You never know when someone is ready for a new start, a new life.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone,

Tony