Mark Myers's Blog, page 36

Thou Shalt Not Curse at Missionaries

After coming home from a service trip to Swaziland a few years ago, I felt renewed, energetic and ready to go again. It wasn’t your average mission trip, we worked hard to prepare a home for abandoned infants, which is a big problem there. I loved every minute of it and started dreaming about another place to go.

You see, I like to build stuff. I’ve been doing it for years and have built almost all of the wood furniture in our house. I’ve finished rooms, our basement, and done some pretty big construction tasks over the years. I even got to build this table that now sits at the missionary house in Heart for Africa. I like to think it will be useful for a good purpose long after I am.

I’m not the guy who is going to go door-to-door or perform street theater – but I’ll pour concrete, remove debris, or swing a hammer. It is wonderful when God marries a talent with a need and grants the ability to go somewhere to serve. When Sudan and South Sudan were splitting apart, I got burdened for the people of South Sudan and wanted to go. That got me started trolling for an opportunity and I found a cool mission group who work with an orphanage there.

I contacted a very nice lady name Rose. Several emails and a few calls later, I learned of a trip with building men like me that was perfect and I began praying about it. I emailed one last question to Rose from my iPad – “Is South Sudan a yellow fever area? Swaziland isn’t and I don’t have that sh-t.”

Whatever I typed, the glorious auto-correct feature from Apple naturally assumed I needed to discuss feces and not an inoculation. I didn’t notice until I got her response and read what I had sent. My mind went into overdrive:

Did I really send that??? To a missionary?? Why yes, yes I did!

Is there a commandment about that? Something about a  special place in hell for people who cuss at missionaries?

I thought I should probably let it go, but didn’t want to be ostracized from the trip. So I sent an apology saying, “Obviously, I meant shot.”

I loved her response, “HaHa. I know, I got a snarky giggle out of it.”

Haha, indeed.

Unfortunately, the trip was cancelled due to instability in the country.  I’d still love to go there and other places to lend a hand. In the meantime, I’ll watch my words more closely and try to handle surprises that come my way with Rose’s grace and understanding.

Has God married a talent of yours with a need? I’d love to hear about it.

The Sadistic Overlord of Technology

Although outwardly it may appear that I am in full possession of my life’s reigns, I’ve come to realize that I control very few things besides my attitude. Most events occur around me while I jab at the air to try to influence their outcome. Like a giant game of cornhole, I throw the bean bag in the air, lean left, hold my tongue just right, and hope it goes in the hole. To give my analogy an Olympic flair, I’m swishing a broom violently in the hopes of pushing the stone to the left. I think we are all very reactionary in how we approach life because the demands of family, creditors, employers, government (and the list goes on) dictate most of our schedule.

I enjoyed my college philosophy classes, but remember nothing except my professor who had spindly legs supporting a massive belly. His poor knees creaked and cracked as he paced around the room. I’m sure he would say my theory is some type of classic Plato “–ism” where we are sitting back watching our lives on screens, only able to choose between limited outcomes.

Don’t overestimate my depth. I’m not philosophical at all. I only know that I have no choice in many things – even in my house. But at home, at least I am the Sadistic Overlord of Technology! Don’t you love the title? I gave it to myself. I should probably put it in bold. The Sadistic Overlord of Technology. If anything remotely technological doesn’t work the way one of my family hoped it would, I am to blame. I get blame, ergo, I get the title.

Take, for instance, our printer. It was one of the first wireless printers and worked perfectly for a long time. It still works fine…for some of us. Three of us have Windows 8 and it seems to like that OS. But it gave up trying for Windows 7. My wife and oldest daughter have Windows 7. I have updated the drivers and tried everything I know to do. But when they push print, it will print no more than one page before it dies. Usually it prints about half a page, violently spits the paper onto the floor, and goes into some form of cleaning mode that makes them scream in frustration. Since both are night owls, this nearly always occurs after the Overlord has gone to bed.

My attitude when awoken to fix the printer is where the word Sadistic got added to my title. I’m not much help after I’ve gone to sleep – part by mental capacity and part by groggy choice, I admit. The help desk is closed! I come out of the bedroom like Jack Nicholson poking his head through the door in The Shining – “Here’s Johnny!”

We’ve been dealing with this for a while and I’ve been dragging my heels on getting a new printer. I guess in some way, my sub-conscious sees this as one thing I can control. As you can imagine, there are ripple effects – mainly in attitude towards the overlord.

Come to think of it, control can be a dangerous thing…

Anyone have a recommendation for a wireless printer?

Photo credit: Jack & some cool app on my iPad

The Unrelenting Butt-Itch

The List goes on.

Unending…Daunting…Disheartening

Until I reach a breaking point…

My dismal attempt at poetry? No, just my mind reeling after I read an email this morning. It is build weekend for our high school thespians and once again, I didn’t see everyone else take a step backwards when they asked for a volunteer to lead the charge. Actually, I love being around the kids (who call me PartyMark) and having a small part in the production. This is my fifth build and we’ve done some incredible shows.

Legally Blonde

Moon Over Buffalo

Little Women

The problem is that when I’m meeting with the director about the task at hand, she shows me the large pieces and that’s where my mind stops. She keeps telling me about the other things they will need and I hear Charlie Brown’s teacher, “wapwapwa-wa!” So after finishing the three big pieces yesterday and feeling quite smug in the accomplishment, I got an email with a 20 item list of things to do today. TWENTY! I nearly lost it and decided to do what I always do when I get stressed, go for a run.

When my toasty skin hit the cool air outside, I got a mild skin irritation in an unfortunate location. I figured it would go away, but it didn’t. At the top of my street, I was so distracted with it that I turned right toward the hilly 6-mile course instead of left to the flat 4. The sun rose above the tree line in front of me as I scratched. At first I tried to be discreet and wait for times when there were no cars around. But after a couple of miles, I quit caring. The unrelenting butt-itch won – for the moment.

At about mile four, something funny happened. I guess I didn’t hit my usual run playlist and some songs from the shows the girls have done streamed through my earbuds. They weren’t the best running songs, but they took my mind off the butt-itch and made me focus more on why I’m doing the building than the list. For me, it’s about the kids, specifically my daughters.

We all have lists. Sometimes they are unrelenting butt-itches that won’t seem to go away. I have to remember why I have the list and be grateful that I have the wherewithal to accomplish it. I keep up with Caringbridge posts from a friend who is watching her husband struggle with a brain tumor. He would love to have my list. I take my health for granted too often.

Today, I’m going to go to church, worship well, then hammer out 20 things – one at a time.

How are you going to attack your list?

I Know That Face!

Have you ever seen someone completely out of context, recognized their face, but it took some time to come up with the venue where you typically interact with them?

Maybe you know a policeman who you typically see in uniform. Then you run into him at your son’s baseball game. The face looks so familiar. “How do I know this person?” you ask yourself until it finally clicks.

Or possibly you are at your favorite Portuguese restaurant and a familiar-looking woman you positively should know is seated three tables away, only you can’t recall her name. Maybe she is an old girlfriend (you’ve had so many), maybe you worked together, or went to the same high school. Also escaping you is whether you knew her well enough that you are compelled to say hello. Through the appetizer, salad, and main course you glance so many times she is wondering if she should call the police or if you are going to buy her dinner. Finally during desert, it comes to you that she’s the teller at the bank, leaving you nothing to worry about except her surly husband whose eyes are riveted on you.

All of that leads me to something that happened recently. For many years, I was an early morning gymrat.  I love going to the gym, but hate much of the meat-market style interaction that goes on there. I hate waiting for the lat press while Joey finishes texting. I loathe the flirting, that guy doing curls in the mirror hoping someone is watching, the girl who is wearing less fabric than my sock, and the people who sweat like they are being interrogated but don’t feel the need to wipe down a seat. So I started going to the gym at 5 am. At 5 am, the gym is full of people who are serious about working out. I made many friends over the years and joined a group of people who ran a few days a week as well.

One evening while at the store with my lovely wife, I saw a lady I knew I should know. While her husband didn’t look the least bit familiar, her face did. Across several aisles, I stared her down. I wracked my brain to come up with my association with this woman, but could not. Finally our paths met, she smiled when and said, “Hello Mark.” Upon hearing her voice, I knew immediately she was part of the running group from the gym.

I replied just like anyone would in the situation, “Hello Patty, I was having trouble placing you for a minute. I didn’t recognize you with clothes on.”

Those words hung there for a second while everyone besides me tried to make sense of them. Me? Oh, I didn’t really know what I’d said, I was just relieved to have the mystery solved. I stood there with a contented smile on my face until I noticed the shock on their faces. I did a mental recount of my statement and went directly to panic mode.

I’ll have that back, please!

Nope, no taking it back. I could only explain that I meant I was used to seeing her in very appropriate work-out clothes.

Yes, I’m still married and no, her husband and I did not tussle! (I could have taken him, though – with all of my bicep curls into the mirror.)

A Wayward Egg

“Mr. Creech, I suppose you know why you are sitting on the other side of my desk…again,” said Principal Conley gravely.

Virgil opened his eyes wide with feigned surprise and answered as innocently as he could, “No, sir.”

“It seems that an egg was thrown in a certain restroom – the boys’ restroom. This fact was brought to my attention by Harvey Heckles moments ago. As we speak, the egg is running down the porcelain tiles, creating a large mess that Mrs. Pritchett will be forced to clean up, unless I can find the guilty party.”

“That’s awful, sir,” Virgil uttered, while managing a curse of the Heckles under his breath. “But why did you call for me?”

The principal felt it best to pause and let the absurdity of the question settle. He gave the doe-eyed trouble maker his best intimidating stare while rising to his feet. “Mr. Creech…did you or did you not bring one dozen eggs to school this morning to participate in a science experiment?”

“Why, yes sir,” the boy replied. “But me and Henry used ‘em all up.”

“You used them all?” countered the principal as he began to pace.

Without a flinch, Virgil answered, “All of ‘em.”

“I have it on good authority from Ms. Singer, that you only required eleven eggs for your experiment.”

“Yup, we used all eleven,” Virgil said with a merry feeling that this was working out quite well.

“Mr. Creech,” asked the principal sternly. “Do you know how many there are in one dozen?”

“You just said eleven.”

“No, I most certainly did not.”

“Not to be difficult, but you said we used eleven.”

“Correct…”

“So there must be eleven in a dozen on account of that’s how many I brought,” interrupted Virgil. “If that’s all you need me for, can I get back to class now? We’s got math lessons comin’ up. We just started division and I…”

“There are twelve in a dozen, Virgil Creech! Twelve!” screamed the man as he lowered himself and rested his hands on his knees to get a good look into the boy’s eyes. “So, tell me – what happened to that last egg?”

“Like I told ya before, we used the whole dozen.”

“What did you do with the remainder?”

“Usually I put it beside the answer. Only I get those wrong mostly because I’m not too good at division,” Virgil explained. “Ms. Singer says…”

“The remainder of the eggs, boy!” yelled the principal. “The scraps! The shells! The remnants!”

“Oh! I’m sorry, Principal Conley,” replied Virgil coolly. “I put the shells and stuff on top of the garbage can because I was afraid they would get to smellin’ if I dumped them inside and Mrs. Pritchett didn’t get to the trash ‘til tomorrow.”

“Aren’t you kind,” mocked the principal. “If you put them on top of the can, who do you suppose threw them against the wall?”

“I’m not telling you how to do your job,” began the boy. “But if I were you, I’d check out them Heckles twins. They’re an awful lot of trouble, especially that Horace.”

“Get out!” demanded the principal, pointing to the door. “Get out, now!”

“You want me to tell one of the Heckles to come down here? Like I said…”

The principal’s head fell into his hands in utter frustration.  “Just Go!” he begged the boy.

Virgil promptly obeyed, letting go of a mischievous grin only after the door closed behind him.

♦

This story is a work of fiction.

The events described herein may or may not have happened to a particular blogger who may or may not have taken eggs to school for a sixth grade science experiment. Should this have been a real event, it is unlikely that the perpetrator had Virgil’s wherewithal to escape punishment, if any of this actually happened.

image credit: Jorge Barrios

An Alarming Contradiction

I live in what is called the most affluent county in Georgia and according to statistics, the 30th wealthiest in the nation. Before you think I’m all high-rent and ask me for a loan, please understand that we were here before the rich folks came. Almost all of the trailer parks are now gone, replaced by huge communities with dozens of tennis courts and golf courses. I’ve got nothing against them besides the fact that I live close enough to walk to their club house but can’t afford the green fee.

There was this guy nearby who wouldn’t sell his mobile home to a developer, so they just raised fence and built around it – kinda like Mr. Fredrickson in UP. To get back at them, he put an old toilet in the center of his lawn, lifted the lid, and used it for a planter. I love that guy.

With all the money around here, I guess its easy to let folks slip through. I suppose we see what we want to see and look past what is inconvenient. Downtown, the county is building a new municipal complex with the following estimated costs:

Jail  - $41.5 million
Courthouse – $31 million
Two new parking facilities – $7.9 million
Other renovations – $1 million

I’m not too good with numbers, but my calculator says that is $81.4 million in total. Does that seem a vast sum to anyone else?

I drove literally a couple hundred yards past the complex yesterday to help some good folks who are gutting a house for homeless men of the area. They already have two renovated houses in operation, within sight of the crane erecting the massive new government buildings. I sanded drywall, painted, and got to jack up the house  (which is an awesome thing to add to my resume of experiences! Yes, I have now jacked up a house.) I worked with several men from area churches and side-by-side with three of the residents who had been homeless…right here, in the richest county in the state…neighbors of an $81.4 million complex being built to mete out justice. An alarming contradiction.

These are good men, who don’t take for granted what they’ve been through, and are grateful for what they now have. They weren’t paid for their labor. They worked with us only to help more men get under roofs.

I’ve been blessed to work with homeless ministries in nearby Atlanta. But that is the big city with big city problems.  That is there…not here. I don’t have any grand answers, not even a proposal. All I can do is work with my hands; smooth a ceiling and jack a house.

I try to be funny most of the time here on my blog, and genuine always. I’ll be lighter tomorrow. But today, my heart hurts a little.

Provide justice for the needy and the fatherless; uphold the rights of the oppressed and the destitute. Rescue the poor and needy; save them from the power of the wicked.

Psalm 82:3-4

The Colonel’s First Story, pt. 5

Today I submit the final installment of the Colonel’s First Story.  I hope you have enjoyed it. To start from the beginning, click here: Part 1

 

The children all rose in a disorganized fashion and wandered back to their play except little Sally who stood beside him smiling, still holding her hand on his knee.

“What’s your name?” she asked with an innocent lisp that was immediately endearing.

“I, Sally, am Colonel Clarence J. Birdwhistle,” he replied.

“Why do you have such funny whiskers?”

Although her mother quickly shushed her, the question dripped of sugar and honey to the ears of the old man.

“Well, my dear,” he said stroking the side of his face.  “They are traditional for a man of my age.  It seems that it was just a few years ago when everyone had them.  Sometimes it is difficult for a man to let go of things from their past.”

She leaned up, put both hands on the side of his face and whispered in his ear, “Mr. Birdsong.  I still like monkeys.”

Having said what she needed to, she bade him farewell and left.  He hadn’t the faintest desire to correct his name, and in the light of little Sally’s affection, even monkeys seemed more favorable to him at that moment.

*******************

 

As you can see, the Colonel is a worthy storyteller who, unbeknownst to even himself, has a wonderful way with children.  He and Sally develop a very special relationship as the book continues.  As fate would have it, Sally is the younger sister of Henry Lee, whose friendship with Virgil Creech is mentored by the old Brit.  But that’s tale for a different time.

Thanks for taking time to read a story from the Colonel. I am excited to say that book number two from Portsong is in the final edit stage and should be ready in the Spring! Yes, the menace returns (along with a healthy dose of more stable characters like the Colonel) in Virgil Creech Sings for his Supper.

 

 

 

 

Type Twice, Save a Life

Back in the day, there were these two brothers, Tom & Andy, who I really looked up to – the eldest especially. I remember they lived in my neighborhood, both drove motorcycles, and worked on old cars and motorcycles in their yard, where I got to be the wrench monkey. Tom played keyboard in a band and had that awesome 70’s hair, perfectly parted in the middle with wings. When they fixed up a bike, they would power up and down the street while I would sit under a tree and watch, dreaming I was on the bike.

One glorious day, Andy invited me on. It must have been forbidden by his brother, because he waited until Tom wasn’t home. We went around the block then onto the dirt ball field of the school yard where he told me to hold on. Only I didn’t hear him. So when he popped up on one wheel, I flew off the bike onto my backside. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt much. I was up and dusted off by the time he circled back. I remember distinctly Andy asking me if I was okay, then swearing me to secrecy as we walked back to his house. I’ve not ridden a motorcycle since. I don’t think I’m afraid of them, just never had an opportunity or desire (I haven’t climbed in a shark cage or run with bulls, either). As a driver, I do watch out for motorcycles. I respect the signs and stickers that say, “Save a Life, Look Twice, Motorcyles are Everywhere.”

My Lovely Wife has had a tough year leading an organization at our kids’ school. I won’t bore you with details, suffice it to say, the children have been delightful. A few days ago, she received a rather curt text related to her office and read me her reply. I asked her to read it again. When she did, she decided it was a little harsh and we talked about how to change it. Look Twice, Save a Life. Or maybe a relationship – even if it is precariously dangling off the back of a speeding motorcycle.

I’ve gotten pretty good at this over the years, which would come as a shock to some. If you could see my elementary and middle school report cards, the comments would almost all say: “Mark needs to think before he speaks”. It’s like there was a conspiracy between them – or possibly a pattern of behavior.  I’m voting conspiracy. Now that I’ve matured (some), I actually have a pretty good verbal filter. I also often type replies to texts and emails and reread them before I send them. You can type what you really want to say as long as you don’t push send. I have now learned to not put a name in the email header just in case you push send out of routine before deleting the anger. Yeah, I did that once and it was kinda ugly.

6  Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer each person.

Colossians 4:6

 

A modern day application of this is our non-verbal speech: text, email, IM, and others. It is actually easier to saltify than speech since we have the chance to preview before sending. Has your first draft ever needed some grace salted in? Did you send or type twice?

Prospector Dances & Brazilians in Leggings

I am typing this on the last day of our vacation to the place where the mouse takes all your money. We saved, scrimped, used Christmas presents and Visa points…and now its just about gone. But it has been a fantastic trip. So why, you might ask, am I wasting time blogging on our last day?

We have come here a handful of times, and when our children were napping ages, we never went to our room for a break. We just powered through and let them crash at night. It seems the teenagers can’t do that. So during the crowded afternoon hours, we’ve been coming back to the room and napping. Only I don’t nap well – I stare at the ceiling.

They have these things now called, “Extra Magic Hours”! These hours are great for our night-owlish kids because most people leave the park around ten and they stay open until 1 am (or 3 am tonight). But they are deadly for middle-aged men. At about 11 my mind can no longer focus on much and at midnight, I get all swimy-headed, which makes some of the wilder rides more like acid trips complete with delusions like Dumbo’s elephants on parade. But it’s all good. We’re having a wonderful time and I wish it didn’t have to end.

Random observations:

1. I love multicultural experiences. I really do. I love seeing the name tags here and talking to people from around the world. If you have ever come here in winter, you know that it is summer in South America and the parks are filled with Brazilians. They fascinate me because it is hard to tell an American from a Brazilian by quick glance. Sometimes you have to get close enough to hear if they are speaking Portuguese or English. Often, the leggings give it away. The South Americans we have seen have fully embraced leggings and yoga pants, and unfortunately, it isn’t always confined to women. I don’t think that is a particularly good look for me, so I’m hoping that style trend doesn’t cross the gender line north of the equator.

2. At the end of It’s a Small World, they wish you good-bye in many languages. One of them is Arabic and the word is written:  Ma’assalama. For the immature, it really stands out as a fine way to wish someone well in their journeys. I’ve used it many times to the embarrassment of the girls and confused stares of my fellow park-hoppers.

 

 

3. The prospectors dance is real gold!

In one of the late, swimmy-headed hours, I did this little jig at Thunder Mountain Railroad and my kids decided I had to do it on command for them. I’ve done it pretty much everywhere now. In fact, at Dance Time with the Incredibles, I got Mr. Incredible to join me, but Frozone was too cool for it. Oh well, he was wearing blue leggings anyway.

Back to the real world tomorrow, but I’m about to wake them up for some extra magic. I love these ladies!

A Valentine’s Day Dilemma

“Henry, what’s the matter, boy?” George Lee asked his son. “You’ve got that stress face your mother and I worry about.”

Henry quickly scrambled to cover the red and white clipped paper on his desk. When he looked up and met his father’s gaze, he found a measure of comfort in his concern. “Teacher gave us an awful assignment, and I don’t wanna do it.”

George chuckled, “I’ve never seen you shy away from anything too hard. What is it? Math? History? I can help you with those. If it’s writing your mother or Dorothy would be a better help.”

“It isn’t any of those.”

“Well, what is it then, son?”

Henry looked around to see if either of his sisters or mother were within earshot. He wasn’t sure he wanted to tell his father what he had to do, but knew the man was going to pull it out of him somehow. Reluctantly, he answered, “I gotta make a card for someone. A Valentine’s Day card. And it’s awful.”

George Lee started to laugh, but noting the angst in his boy’s eyes, he caught himself and took a seat beside his boy. “Here now,” he said. “That doesn’t sound so bad. You used to love to make pictures and such.”

“It ain’t the making that’s so bad,” Henry lamented. “It’s the giving.”

“Well, what’s Virgil going to do?” George asked before pondering the question. He typically wouldn’t use Virgil Creech for any sort of standard of behavior.

“Aww, he’s sweet on that old Esther Haywood. So he’s got all kinda big plans about making something for her,” Henry explained. “Said he might even put a quarter in his card so she can take him to a picture show.”

Again, George stifled a smile. His boy was on the cusp of the wonderfully tragic discovery of girls, but obviously not there yet. “Didn’t he get in trouble for putting a cockroach in her hair last week?” he asked. “God help the poor girl Virgil sets his sights on.”

Henry laughed and the tension in his face eased somewhat.

“Isn’t there any girl you think is just okay?” George asked.

Henry thought for a moment. “There’s Abigail Jacobs. She’s not too bad.”

“There!” proclaimed George. “Make it for her.”

“She’ll slug me if I make it for her,” Henry said. “She already warned us if she got anything from us boys, something bad was gonna happen.”

“Well son, I’m out of ideas,” George said as he rose to go. “Surely you can come up with someone.”

“Dad, what did you get for Mother?” Henry asked, only to watch his father turned as white as the paper on the desk.

“I completely forgot,” George said vacantly. “And the stores are closed now… Oh, tomorrow’s not going to be pretty.”

George left his son alone and spent the duration of the evening plotting his own plan to stay out of trouble, while Henry finally finished his work.

In the morning, George came into the kitchen to see his wife cleaning up after the children’s breakfast. Instead of the reception he dreaded, he found himself met with a very loving embrace.

“George Lee,” Harriet gushed. “Of all the sweetest, most wonderful husbands, I do  believe you are the best.”

As she squeezed the shocked man once more, he noticed over her shoulder a colorful card made of the very paper he had seen on his son’s desk. He couldn’t make out the words but he knew that Henry had not only found someone to make a card for, but saved his father’s hide in the process.

Happy Valentine’s Day from Portsong!