Safety in the Form of Social Media - The Story of Your Average Keyboard Warrior

     Social media, for me, contains two different stories on each side of the paper.  On one side, it is a platform for me to express thoughts, ideas, ideologies, rants, and any other nonsense I feel worthy for the i-world.  On the other side of the page, it is a newspaper for friends and family to see how my family is growing.  Many of you know that Heather and I are not native to Colorado.  Heather is from Chicago, and I am from San Diego.

     As I have dissected my social media usage, I have found that a good percentage of my past posts contain messages that I really don’t care to speak to any more.  I am still a staunch believer in things I have spoken of, but have found that my passion for these things started to interfere with my ability to love and care for others.  It has come to a point where I am actually starting to annoy myself.  In the end, I found that I loved hearing the sound of my own “educated” voice which is, essentially, another form of self-righteousness.

     After years of watching governmentalist propaganda, extremist religiosity, and moral agenda fodder flood my Facebook news screen, I have finally decided to bow out of the argument.  I am as guilty of this as any.  Thank God for the “unsubscribe” button!  In my opinion, there is no honor, or human decency attached to the ability to lob [spiritual/moral/political grenades) in all directions with the hope that the shrapnel falls where it may.  These actions define cowardice in every sense of the word.  Mom and Dad always used to say “if you don’t have something nice to say don’t say it at all.”

     This is not true of everybody.  There are some who present political/religious/moral ideas in a respectful, articulate fashion.  They can do so without affecting their ability to love others.  I have found that this is something that I am personally unable to do.  Jason Lohse said something great a couple months ago.  “If your politics gets in the way of your ability to love others, I suggest trading your version of the gospel for the gospel according to Jesus Christ.” – Jason Lohse.

     This is merely an argument for ideas.  I would encourage anyone to reevaluate what you intend to accomplish in this forum.  This place is a door that is wide open into the depths of your mind.  It allows people to see things in you that they might never see otherwise.  The power contained in one sentence from your brain-to-fingertips is immeasurable.  It allows others to gauge whether or not you are approachable.  It allows people to gauge whether you are genuine, or a whitewashed tomb.  It showed me that I was a walking contradiction.

     Finally, this medium is not comparable to real, genuine, face-to-face friendships.  Comments on a Facebook wall should never replace a phone call.  Chatting online should never replace meeting someone at the mom and pop coffee shop to catch up.  Forge your friendships in steel.  Leave the comfort of your computer and find yourself walking 16th Street with friends.  Enjoy the beauty God created around you.  LOL in person and xoxoxoxo when you are leaving a friend’s house after a planned meal.  I think you get the point.

Disclaimer:  This is directed at myself as much as anybody else.

The Story of this Guitar

I was born in 1954 at a little shop around Nashville, TN. Crafted by the most talented guitar maker in instrument history. The name on my birth certificate reads “Gibson – Les Paul Custom.” Others came to know me as Black Beauty. The name stuck and I’ve never been able to shake it. I’m ok with that.

I have matured in the fifty-seven years I’ve been around. I have been surprised to see that most of the players find me more attractive now then when I was younger. There are definitely those who find every little fault they can to show that I am not as perfect as I should be. I try to ignore those guys. I am a Gibson. I am incapable of producing the perfect sound you desire.

The guy who bought me new out of the shop played me as is. He didn’t seem to care for me much. I sat in a corner and collected dust. Eventually, I was locked in a case. In the mid-Sixties, a guy named Billy Gibbons opened my case and plucked my strings. He placed some green bills in my previous owner’s hand and I was carried out the door. Billy tore out my insides. He gave me all new components. I’ll never forget the first time he played me. He plugged me into an amplifier and hit my strings. I’ll never forget Billy’s smile. He said, “man she sounds sick.” He has kept me around and still plays me faithfully. Some of his other guitars acquired costumes. He always kept me the same.

I picked up some bruises along the way. This laceration near my pickup switch happened when Joe Perry dropped me during a drunken stupor backstage sometime in 1976. The hole in my back is from Billy’s belt buckle. I’ve got a good size bump near my input jack from when a guy named Ted Nugent slammed my butt onto the top of someone’s long–neck Corona. Not only did he shatter the bottle, he lost his grip and I fell onto the corner of a concrete step. Most of my other bumps came from careless roadies who had no vested interest in my well being.

There are times when I never really understand Billy’s faithfulness to my place within his guitar rack. I’ve seen so many guitars come and go. Why does he keep me? I have so many scars and lacerations. I’m old. I don’t feel like those shiny new guitars. There were times when he had to bring me into a shop for intonation work because I wasn’t producing the sound that he was accustomed to. That happened a lot depending on the temperature outside. Nothing made sense until, one day, he brought me with him to a Guitar Center interview.

This is what he said:

Interviewer: Billy, you’ve been playing this Beauty for years. What is so special about this one?

Billy (without hesitation): Everything about her is beautiful. She might look a little ratty on the outside, but, to me, she is the most beautiful thing in the world. I’m never going to leave her as long as she’ll have me. Let me show you what she sounds like….

Romans 8:37-39

My Time is a Piece of Wax Fallin' on the Easter Bunny...

On April 8, 2012, I will have celebrated my thirty-third Easter.  Thirty-fourth if you count that last month I was hanging out in the womb.  I was alive then as well.

My mind suffers from serious wandering attacks when I make any attempt to complete assigned class work for the week.  Is it just me?  Today, I found myself thinking about all of the interpretations and transformations Easter has gone through since the moment I was able to crush my first colored hard boiled egg with my bare hand.  At first, Easter was all about the basket, the Peeps, and the colored eggs baking on the front lawn under a hot Fallbrook sun.  I cannot recall when Jesus was introduced into the Easter that had developed in my mind.   He must have been introduced as an action character because He looked a lot like Chuck Norris when I first started seeing Him in kids books and cartoons.  When Jesus runs with scissors, other people get hurt…

My second introduction to Jesus was through a Pioneer (Christian version of the Boy Scouts) leader who turned Him into Freddy Krueger.  The guy’s name was Bill.  We were all gathered around a campfire when Bill told us the story of THE RAPTURE.  Bill explained that if we did not receive Jesus into our life, we would be left behind and would either be killed for being a Christian, or we would die at the end of seven years.   All of us (kids) were mortified and immediately accepted Christ into our life or rededicated our lives.  Great way to introduce little kids to Jesus, right?  I believe this specific event is why I struggle with “doomsday Christians” to this day.  In my opinion, this is spiritual terrorism.

In high school, Jesus was my homie.  He reminded me a little more of a long-haired “Wooderson” during this period of my life.  He'd always answer my prayers with that dopey "alright, alright, alright..."  I was “filled” enough to raise my hand a few times during worship and I closed my eyes like everyone else.  I spoke Christianese (“Amen, Praise the Lord, Rad, Awesome, Halleluiah,” etc) and may have even spoken in tongues on an occasion or two.  I was hell-bent (no pun) on earning my way into Heaven by performing good deeds and showing sinners that they were wrong and Christians were right.  Essentially, Jesus was the judge and I was the District Attorney.

I bailed on Jesus in my early twenties.  I didn’t hit Him up again until my late twenties.  During this time, I cheated on my ex-wife and then left her to be with the other girl for just under one year.  I slept with girls freely and without regard to emotional or physical consequences.  I became addicted to pornography and numbed some troubled social and self-esteem issues with Absolute and Cuervo straight out of the bottle.  I struggled with severe anxiety and panic attacks.  Jesus became the father that I could not return to.  Why would He want me back?  I had become so rotten I literally made eyes water.

Present Day:  I know who Jesus is to me.  He doesn’t have a face.  He doesn’t have a smug, mega-church smile, nor does He have an amazing billowy tuft of brown, flowing hair.  He isn’t waiting for me at the door with a switch in His hand whenever I come home.  There isn’t any fire in His eyes and His lips aren’t drawn into a vengeful snarl when He finds out how much of an ass I’ve been throughout the day.  Instead, He draws me in for a tight embrace regardless of the filth that covers my body.  He knocks the dust off my jacket and kicks the mud off my boots.  He hooks me up with a fresh surf n’ turf with an Australian sized lobster tail and a thick Kobe steak.  He tells me that He’s paid for all the dirt and feces that I left at the door so “don’t worry about it anymore.”  He asks me how I’m doing.  He sincerely wants to know.  He tells me that He loves me.  I know that He’s telling me the truth because I feel it in every ounce of my soul.  Come to find out, He never bailed on me even when I turned my back on Him and left Him in the dust.  (Luke 15:11-32)

This is what Easter means to me.  God sent his Son to die a brutal death for the expiation of not only my sins, but yours as well.  His resurrection secured my redemption from past and future sin.  The blood that poured down His face and off His body provided me with grace that I sincerely cannot understand at times.  This, in my opinion, is the true meaning of love.

Dedicated to Mike Tolerico.  I still remember the day you stood up on stage and and laid out your life for everyone in attendance to see.  Good and bad.  True transperency.  Thank You. 

On the Subject of Love

There are times when I think that water is incapable of pooling in my eyes anymore.  I am proven wrong on occasion.  To be quite frank, I am relieved that I am still able to show some emotion.  I am not ashamed to say that it feels good to know that I can cry over something that is worth crying about.  The birth of my daughters comes to mind.  The love my wife has for me never ceases to amaze me.  And that part in Forest Gump when he visits Jenny’s grave.  Kills me every time. 

I was reading a book before the semester started regarding the topic of grace and God’s love for us.  I believe the example is out of Donald Miller’s Searching for God Knows What.  Or maybe it was a Driscoll blog.  The author was speaking of God’s love and those who deal with so much guilt that they feel like they have actually lost it.  I struggle with this from time to time as I have done some pretty rotten things.  The author compares His love for us as the same as our love for our children.  Unconditional, unbreakable, and strong.  Life examples always seem to pop up which put the books I read into perspective.  This is one of those instances.

Rielle was rushed to the Children’s Hospital for complications surrounding the RSV virus on Monday, February 13, 2012.  Her oxygen level was too low and she was having trouble breathing adequately on her own.  I was able to make it down to the Kaiser treatment center just in time to see the paramedics strap her car seat to the stretcher for transport to the ambulance.  She had little tubes coming out of her nose and she looked defeated.  She looked up into my eyes after I gave her a kiss on the forehead.  I’d like to think that she felt comfort when she looked into my eyes.  

Ivy and I visited Heather and Rielle at the hospital today.  Rielle’s oxygen level is maintained at an adequate reading with oxygen tubes that cling to her face with the help of band-aids.  The oxygen is humidified to help soothe her nasal passages.  She has IV’s stuck to the top of her little hands that supply her with fluids as she is having a hard time keeping milk down.  Her little ears are red as an ear infection begins to plague her right ear.  She seems uncomfortable, so I talk to her.  She stops her fussing and looks toward the sound of my voice.  She looks into my eyes and she calms.  It was at that moment that it felt as though my heart was going to explode with love.  It took everything I had to pull it together.

As I was looking at my broken daughter, I couldn’t help but liken my overwhelming love for her, to God’s love for me.  I imagine that God’s love for me is exactly what I felt right as Rielle’s gaze met mine.  The thought of this kind of intense love focused toward me is overwhelming and almost unbelievable.  It is undeserved but given freely.  That is the beautiful thing about God’s grace and forgiveness.  He can love a broken person like me as if I were the most precious thing in the whole world.  That feels good.  It feels really good….

A big Thank You to Jason Lohse who has suffered numerous text messages regarding the subject of grace and forgiveness.

Can You Run for Thirty Years?

As baby number two (yes she has been named) coerces a consistent repetition of contractions through Heather’s tired body, I can’t help but think about what the two of us are in for.  It’s not that I am underprepared or under excited.  I simply feel like I am entering the second leg of an iron man marathon.  Please don’t get me wrong when I put an emphasis on the phrase “iron man marathon.”  I use the analogy as a marathon enthusiast would use it.  With excitement!  Heather and I spent a lot of time training for children, if that is even possible.  We read the books and listened to the war stories of others.  Thankfully, we have lived through sixteen months and three weeks worth of our firstborn and it has been a privilege.  I have been told that we are lucky.

            I find our next challenge ironic.  Let me be candid.  I put a high level of importance toward the idea of making sure each of our children feels an equal amount of love.  Why do I find this ironic?  It seems to me that the firstborn always has the most amount of documented memories.  As each new little one comes along, it seems that there are less and less photos and knick-knacks within each respective photo album and time capsule.  At the same time, studies show that the first-born feels a sense of abandonment when baby number two slips into the world.  Herein lies the challenge.  I need to expend equal amounts of love to both children, while at the same time, finding time to balance out a loving relationship with Heather.  I think Heather and I wrap so much love around Ivy that at the end of the night, the love machine (take it how you will) within ourselves putters on fumes.  This typically leaves the two of us on the couch watching “Family Guy” reruns with slinted eyes and half-hearted foot rubs.

            We will have two girls when this thing is said and done.  Realistically, we could end up with three girls when we shoot for our third and final.  Everyone always tells me that this hand was dealt as a ramification for my past years as a single lad.  That scares the hell out of me.  The last thing I want is one of my daughters coming home with a guy like me.

            Alternative Press magazine did a great bit on several musicians who are parents as well.  Dustin Kensrue, of the band Thrice, reminded me, again, of the importance of love shared between a father and his daughter(s).  Especially between father and daughters.  Kensrue states, “ I put a high priority on making sure they feel loved.  I think especially for girls, the way their dad shows them love has a huge and lasting impact on the rest of their lives.”  So many studies show that the connection and love between a father and his daughters is critical toward stable emotional development.  So if I tell my daughters that they are beautiful, important, and special on a daily basis then I am putting forth the effort required to run this marathon with heart.  If I open the car door for my daughters, cook them dinner, and encourage self-satisfaction within any activity they choose to participate in then I am readying the baton for a smooth pass to a suitable suitor.   And most importantly, God must stand as the center point over all things we choose to do.  Without Him, this path has way too many compassless directions that I am too feeble minded to navigate alone.  I prove this to myself and everyone else on a daily basis.  Ask Heather.  Ask anyone.

            Ultimately, I think I put a lot of undue pressure on myself for the final product that the world will receive when my little ones reach the real world.  Will they be successes?  Will they be average?  Will they burden the taxpayer as a life-long welfare recipient?  Honestly, I think that I will be happy as a clam if they are happy.  I think anyone can succeed within every self-made environment whether it be success or temporary failure.  My job as a father is to be supportive and to love my girls unconditionally.  All the rest is up to God.

            A massive Thank You to my strong, loving wife who puts up with my ridiculousness on a daily basis.  I Love You more than you know.  The motivation [for greater things] that you stir up within me is immeasurable.  Thank You.

Coronado

Waves don’t demolish her shore

She is rich, far too wealthy for me to reside

Never been a fan of turtlenecks and slacks

But I fit right in on its sand

The outlying suburbs I carried in on my shoes taint the city shine

She has her back turned to the slums

If you could even call it that

Venture over the bridge

This is where real life lies in wait

The Teacher

A man stares out over a sea of desks

He is aged, as is his wisdom

Immaturity talks from numerous seats within the square

Mostly of issues it doesn’t understand

 - And the teacher smiles

Times they are a changing

Middle-aged folks are embarrassed to be among the teenagers

We pay for knowledge, not to be the earpiece for the MTV followers who just won’t shut up

 - And the teacher smiles

His arm extends, shaking with a paper

Its surface is decorated with red ink, not sticky stars

He tells the class that he is proud of the students work

Subliminally speaking to a select few

We leave, feebly mastering the subject

- And the teacher smiles

The Ballad of a Prosperous Failure

I never planned on maturing.  Does one ever plan on maturing?  I think maturity is similar to death, meaning one doesn’t think about it until the event actually occurs.  Ivy Mikayla and Heather Ivy are the axis on which my world turns.  I think about it differently these days.  I feel like I am the captain of an, “old, old wooden ship used in thee Civil War era (diversity).”  Congratulations to those of you who got that one.  I built the ship.  Heather came along and modified the ship.  She made it sturdier, a little more stylish.  I noticed that our ship was a little easier to steer and my sails seemed to catch more wind.   The waves that crash against us have not ceased.  They still flow at natures will.  Sometimes we sail through calm seas and other times we take on water from the crashing waves of a storm.

I handle it differently now.  When I was younger, I would abandon ship without hesitation and swim for safety.  Now that I think about it, how logical does that really sound?  These days, I stick with my ship.  I mend broken areas with new parts (communication) and I shine the bronze on her stern (tell her she is beautiful).  We dine in the cabin (we still date) and we’ll drop anchor and take a swim from time to time (adventure).  But I fail, and I hate it.

The most important tool a captain can have on his ship is a compass.  There are times when I feel like I forget that I even own a compass.  I remember back when it used to take me to each desired destination without fail.  There were even times it took me to places that I didn’t expect.   Places where I didn’t feel I needed to be.  I blamed the compass, not my own selfishness.  Somehow, the necessary guidance in my life was placed on a shelf in my living quarters where it collected dust.  I’d wipe of the dust from time to time, but I don’t use it for the purpose that it was intended.  And I am a failure because of it.  Even now, my heels dig into the cover as I sit here watching my hand create the words on this paper.

The world is the sea.  Why do I feel like I am in the water pulling on a rope that is attached to the ship?  Doesn’t this defeat the purpose of owning a ship?  I am the idiot trying to pull my ship in a directionless direction while refusing to use the essential tool to find a location embodied with purpose.  What’s funny is that I know I should climb back into the ship, pull out the compass, and set sail for the point of the needle.   Yet I fill with excuses and procrastination.  This, in and of itself, is deadly.

Funny how worldly “priorities” take the helm over Him.  They sneak in and invade my pores.  So silently, in fact, that I am unaware of an additional presence until I am standing in the soil of my own little pity party.  The diabolos finds pleasure in putting me here, and I feel like a fool when I let him do so.  And there is no need for this.  My flesh is so weak it sickens me.

I am loved, forgiven by my Creator.  I have a place, a purpose, and can feel secure in my ultimate resolution.  Lord, strengthen me and help me lead my family in the correct direction.  My priorities are reprioritized.   Help me to dodge complacency.  You are not monotonous, You are my adventure.  Lead me to be the father and husband that You desire me to be.