A Refusal to be Ordinary

Everything was blurry. I jerked my head from side to side desperately trying to be free from the cloud of images flashing in front of me like a frantic music video. A couple talking at a café, a group of crying children, two women fighting, a crowd rioting in the streets.

What was this? Where was I?

Suddenly the images stopped, and the picture faded to black. Slowly it began to clear, only this time the camera was still, and I was somewhere else.

A hockey arena?

The air was cold and I pulled my jacket in tight. The squeals and sounds of skates scraping over the ice mixed with the peppered sounds of cheering from the stands. The arena itself wasn’t big, it looked like the local arena you'd find in a small town, and I walked slowly to the bleachers where a small group of adults watching the little kids flop around the ice. It was hard not to smile, the way the youngsters would take two strides, whack at the puck, and fall over. There was no positioning either, the whole group of them flying after the puck like baby ducks following their mother. My gaze focused on one man standing apart from the others. He was tall and dressed in casual white slacks, but you could tell he had money. He held his coffee tightly in one hand. The other hand he’d cupped over his mouth and was yelling instructions to his son on the ice.

“C’mon, Billy! Skate! Don’t let them push you around!”

A couple of the other parents looked embarrassed by the man, but they remained silent.

“C’mon, Billy! Do you really think that you’ll make the pros if you keep flopping around like that!”

The man, who looked to be anywhere between thirty and forty, had a hardened, tired cast to his face. I imagined a smile would’ve taken great effort. I still didn’t know where I was or what I was doing there, but I figured there had to be a reason.

“Your son out there?” I asked him.

He pointed to a little boy wearing number five on the back of his sweater.

“Good skater. Needs to work on his shooting.”

I nodded and watched the kids play for a while. They were all so tiny. I watched the man’s son, too. How he could discern his boy's individual skills? They all looked the same to me.

“Start ‘em early, and maybe they can play in the NHL.” I said, laughing as a whole group of them fell down.

The man turned, his dark eyes blazing.

“Exactly.” He turned away, and fixed his gaze back on the boys. “I didn’t make it, and now I’m stuck in this life. But not him. He’s gonna play in the pros if I couldn’t. One of us is going to make it.”

My eyes widened, and suddenly the images started flashing again. I felt myself thrashing and suddenly everything was still. I looked around in puzzlement, and realized I was in my bed.

A dream? What a weird dream?

I got dressed and put the coffee on, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the man in the dream, especially after the long conversation I'd had with myself the night before. What had he said? I didn’t make it, and now I’m stuck in this life. When the coffee was ready I poured it, mixed in the cream and sweetener, and headed out to my balcony.

The skies were gray this morning, the air mild and damp. The one thing I couldn't get my head around was the timing of my dream. Last night had been the kicker, but the past five months I’d been thinking about how I needed to change things in my life. How maybe it was time to be a ‘grown-up.’ Maybe these dreams of being a writer, a speaker, an actor… maybe it was time to let those go and just settle down, find a good woman, settle down and have a family. Heaven knows that I wanted to be a husband and father. Especially on those lonely weekend nights, when I would sit at my table at Starbucks editing yet another of my unpublished books, watching couples and young families stroll through the door.

Let it go, Steve, it was just a stupid dream!

I sipped from my coffee, letting the sweet warmth linger in my mouth. But there was something… wrong about my dream that kept coming back. Like it was a warning of some kind. A warning about what though?

I took my time getting dressed and showered. School was out for the holidays, and it felt wonderful to relax and plan my day. About thirty minutes later I packed up my stuff and headed to Starbucks. Thankfully, the lineup was small and I was soon back at my table with a fresh coffee. I stared at the blank screen for a while before finally flipping my laptop down and fixing my gaze out through the huge window. I couldn't stop thinking about my dream. The rain had started to fall, and people in the parking lot scurried to their vehicles or bustled inside. What about them, I wondered. Did they feel stuck in their lives like the man in my dream?

What about me? Did I feel stuck in my life?

I took another sip from my freshly ordered coffee, idly wondering why I could not reproduce that taste at home. As I worked the dream around in my head, still watching the people as they passed in and out of the store, I realized why I hadn’t moved towards a less ‘artistic’ lifestyle. Every time I thought about taking a desk job or starting a family ‘because it was time’; I felt the sting of betrayal. A betrayal of self. No matter how often I longed for the ‘normal life’ or wished for a female companion simply because I was lonely, I could not bring myself to commit to it. And not because those weren’t good things.

I flipped up my laptop and began to write. The man in my dream had given up because he felt his life was over. That he was stuck. I realized that if I gave up my dreams, I would never be content. I didn’t want an ordinary life! It seemed that somewhere along the way we had taught ourselves to settle for 'good', instead of 'great'. I knew that some people thought I was a bit crazy, that I was a bit different, but as I sat there sipping my coffee, I wondered… would I want to be somewhere else? Because if all that could be said for my life today and my hopes tomorrow were that things were ‘steady’ and ‘secure’ and ‘smart’… I wasn’t that interested. I wanted a revolutionary life. I wanted to reach for all that God had for me.

I left my laptop lying open and strolled outside. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and I walked out onto the parking lot, letting it fall against my head and face. I thought about the man in my dream. I thought about the people I met every day who seemed resigned to their life. As if they’d been dealt a hand, and couldn’t do anything about it. I felt their sadness as the rain trickled down my face. So many people had bought the lie. The one that said 'ordinary' was okay. That security was more important than your dreams. That following Jesus was about proper behavior and being nice, not risk and adventure.

I walked back inside, my face wet, my mind decided. There’d be no going back, no consideration any more. I wasn’t sure what God had in store for me, but from now on I was going to pursue my dreams without holding back. Oh, I still hoped for a family, longed for it in fact. They were as much part of my dreams as being a writer, but in the meantime, I wouldn't settle. I wasn't the richest guy in the world, but I'd no longer be intimidated by men working only for money, guys making three times my salary. Yeah. i was crazy, but at least I was living my dream.

I moved to the counter.

“Lydia, I’m going to need another coffee.”

"Another one?"

"Yeah. I might be here a while."

I breathed in the freshly perked smells and the sounds of laughter and conversation. Pursuing my dreams was no fairytale, and I'd had to make some difficult choices, but I'd made my decision. God had given me my dreams for a reason, and an ordinary life was out of the question.

-Steve

P.S. May God grant all of you the courage to reach for your dreams, whatever they may be.

New Year's Doesn't Always Mean a New Year

The wind is cold as I trudge back to my car with my coffee. It’s been a mild winter so far, but as I glance up at the gray sky, it's obvious that the icy winter has finally returned. I shiver as I wait for the car to warm up, unable to stop myself from reflecting on this past year. New Year’s is, in many ways, my least favorite holiday of the year. Christmas has its own ghosts, but the enforced celebration of a new year inevitably turns me back to the year before, and like a company review, forces me to analyze the life that was, in this case, 2006.

Most writers are unavoidably self-analytical to the point of neurosis. It comes with the territory. To observe the world of humanity is also to observe one’s own role in that world. What we see is often not pleasant. And as a Christian, introspection seems to fit hand in hand with that same tendency. This year, when I look back, I see so many things I wish that I could change, accomplishments that didn’t happen, goals that were not met. Like most New Year’s, this will be one where I will once again rededicate myself to working harder, pushing farther to grow and learn and become all that I am supposed to be, all that I should achieve. At thirty-four, however, it is becoming increasingly difficult to convince myself that this year will be different from the next, that I will achieve any of the hopes and dreams I felt as a child.

My tires crunch over the snow crusted parking lot as I head home. The traffic is light still, but in a few hours I know that the streets will be packed with a swelling mass anxious to ring in the new year. Maybe that’s what worries me the most. Maybe that’s why I can’t seem to work up any enthusiasm for my gathering tonight with my friends. Will this year really be a new year? Or will it be an updated version of last year?

When I was young, I had so many dreams about what I would do when I was ‘grown up’. As a young Christian, I had dreams of a world wide ministry and marriage and family. By this time, I figured I would be well along that path. None of that has occurred, and while I have begun to step back towards the ministry at last, it has been with a shaking trepidation and little thought of my earlier expansiveness. New Year’s reminds me of all that has occurred this past year, and my failure to reach all that I envisioned.

As I park my car in the tiny lot that serves as reserved parking for my building, I still can not decide if I’ll even bother going out tonight. The truth is that I don’t want to celebrate a new year. I’m not ready. I don’t have a family. I haven’t accomplished enough. My books have not been published, and while my knowledge of the world has grown significantly, my influence over that world has not. Not enough, anyway. And I feel it, too. I feel it when I meet a woman. I feel it when I talk to ‘successful’ men my age making mounds of money or in line for the right promotion or about to have their third child in their happy family. And being a Christian sometimes doesn’t help. Sometimes it’s at the church, more than any other place, where I feel the shadow of my inadequacy.

The coffee is good, hot and sweet on my tongue. Thank goodness for the consistency of Starbucks. I take a few sips and finally push myself out of the car. The sparrows are singing up a storm in the bushes adjacent to the parking lot, and I wander over quietly, so as not to disturb their song.

And that’s when I start to pray.

As difficult as it is, I know that there are many positive things in my life. My job. My family. My friends. Beautiful people to which I would gladly entrust my life. And it is in the midst of my prayer of thanks that the revelation of New Year’s hits me. Every year really is a new year. Much like our lives, God wipes the slate clean for us, and asks us to join Him. He does not bully or rip me with guilt, but tenderly holds out his arms and asks me to consider Him, and to forget the past year’s mistakes and failures.

I sip from my coffee, and stare at the sparrows fluttering loudly in the bushes.

“I’m here, Lord.” I whisper, unwilling to break the hush over my soul.

For the next few minutes, I sense it. Sense my Father’s love for me and His desire for new beginnings. Oh, I know some of us like to shut up these moments and call it melodramatic nonsense, but over the years I’ve learned that it’s in these moments where my soul truly breathes. Still, it catches me by surprise. I can not say a word and my gaze fixates on a little gray sparrow fluttering and singing near the bottom of the bush. With all the sparrows comfortably nestled above her, she seems content down near the ground to sing and hop on her branch.

Within a culture that is so comparative and competitive, it can be difficult to think of ourselves as successful, especially when we compare our lives to our original dreams. And while it is good and necessary to dream, sometimes we forget that God is more interested in our character, in who we become, than what we have accumulated. Especially for men, I think.

I did not have a book published this year. My earnings did not increase. I do not have a world wide ministry. And yet, I became a better son this year. I have learned much about friendship and servanthood. And as a man, I am making strides at tearing down the poser who so often wants to assert himself in place of the real me. Maybe, just maybe, this past year was a good year, and maybe, just maybe, next year will truly be a new year.

I watch my sparrow near the bottom of the bush, still hopping on her branch. For a moment, she’s still, and I wonder if she will try to move up to a higher perch. I can see the gray stripes on her breast as she quivers, and suddenly, she starts singing again, content with her perch. With a smile, I finally head up to my apartment. Looking forward is always good, and without dreams we die. But contentment can often be found if we are willing to sit still, and start singing.

“Happy New Year.” I whisper as I pull out my keys… “Happy New Year.”


May God grant all your dreams this coming year...

-Steve

With the Game on the Line

I glanced up at the red bulbs on the scoreboard. 26-21. Not a big lead and a lot of time left, but we'd controlled the game so far. If we could get by St. Pat's we'd be on to the finals. I could hear the faint cheers of the raucous crowd, the squeak of the sneakers on the hardwood floor, the heavy grunts from my team as they hustled back on defense.

"Be aware!" I yelled.

The ball moved fast. Wing. Hi-post. Back to the wing. Suddenly she was free. Standing outside the arc she launched a three, and when it connected the home crowd went crazy.

Two point game.

We threw the ball in and suddenly I heard screaming from the other sideline. Only it wasn't cheering.

"It was a three! It was a three!"

I glanced up at the score board. 26-23. The ref hadn't signaled the three point effort, and so the scorer had given the other team credit for only two. A break for us. But the other coach wouldn't stop screaming. Her hair whipped across her face as she threw the clip board to the floor. It echoed across the gym like a gun shot.

TWEEEET!!

The whistle halted the game as the refs came to the scorer's table for a consult. I told my team to huddle up and get a quick drink. Sweat covered their faces and jerseys. Lauren was limping. Steph couldn't stop her hands from shaking. We'd played a tough game the previous night and earlier that morning, and with two players missing, the girls were dead tired. The refs were still talking at the scorer's table.

Last year the Senior Girl's basketball team had won twenty games for the first time in over a decade. But in the two seasons before that we'd won only twice. This year's team was better. They worked harder. They were smarter. And most of all, they were good kids. I desperately wanted them to taste the success I felt they deserved. Last year we'd finished third at this tournament. This year we were good enough to win.

I looked over my team, their heads hung in tiredness, and slowly walked over to the scorer's table.

"If it makes a difference, it was a three." I said.

The refs nodded, and the other coach, her long hair wet across her forehead, seemed to look past me.

"Thank you for your honesty."

I nodded and walked back over to my team. I told them what I'd done, and Sarah, with her red hair and bright eyes, just looked at me.

"Win in fairness. There's more to the game then the game." I said.

I meant what I said, but I was reasonably certain that we'd win anyway. The girls masked their shock, and when they went back out continued to play disciplined, efficient basketball.

Until the middle of the fourth quarter.

Up by ten points, I watched in frustration as the tournament's physicality and our short bench finally took its toll. Our lead whittled. Ten. Eight. Six. Five. Three. Two. Suddenly they were ahead. I couldn't seem to hear anything, I was lost in the madness of the last two minutes, of analyzing and yelling and cheering and moaning and squinting and hoping and planning. With less than ten seconds left and our best player with the ball and a chance to tie, I watched as she drove in and was fouled. I glanced up at the clock, but the scorekeeper forgot to stop it and it rolled down to zero.

"They didn't stop the clock." I said to the refs as they came to the scorer's table to make the foul call. The older ref, a big man with a bulging stomach and little hair on his head, looked over at me.

"There was about four or five seconds on the clock when she was fouled." I said.

Time was precious here. If Steph made the two free throws, than St. Pat's would have time to bring the ball down the court. But if she missed, it'd give us time to get a rebound.

"Okay." The older ref said, his voice a bit too squeaky for his large frame.

"What!" The other coach was screaming again. "There wasn't that much time! I saw one second on the clock."

The other coach looked at me, and I could see the lie in her eyes. So much for fair play. The two refs conferred, and split the difference. 2.3 seconds left. I glanced up at the red bulbs on the clock, and covered the sinking feeling in my stomach as I walked back to the huddle.

"Okay, guys. Do your best."

When Steph missed the first free throw I knew the game was over. She missed the second one intentionally, but with only 2 seconds on the clock there simply wasn't enough time to get the rebound and the horn sounded to end the game. I couldn't stop thinking about the point I'd conceded earlier in the game. How my honesty might have cost us a shot at the tournament championship.

My heartbroken young team gathered around me at the end of the game.

"You all played your guts out, and you know what happened at the end. Some people need to win, but sports are about more than winning. They're about excellence. About integrity. About effort." My team looked at the ground, their sweat soaked socks and shoes lying haphazardly beside them. Lauren's feet were a mass of bandages. I sighed. "But I know that right now, none of that means too much. I'm proud of you, though."

I looked at them and then moved away, respecting the team's need for a little time alone, away from the coach. Two hours later we played for 3rd place, but I couldn't bring myself to care, and I rested my starters as we lost by fifteen. I finally arrived home just after dinner. I did not know what to do with myself. I sat in my living room, unable to stop thinking about the game, or about the other coach and the look on her face when she lied about the time left.

I wondered why it meant so much to her. Why it meant so much to me. And why was I still thinking about it, anyway? It was just a stupid game! I went to the kitchen and poured myself a fresh mug of coffee before drifting outside. The trees outside my apartment had begun their autumn transition into a fresh burst of red and yellow. And I glanced up at the cold blue sky, watched the steam rise from my coffee. I watched a cardinal flirt from tree to tree and sipped from my mug.

In many ways, I'd always believed that sports were a microcosm of society. Coaching was a way to impart truths about life, and playing was a good way to learn them. Within the accelerated boundaries of a game, you learned life lessons that could hold you in good stead when the real tragedies of life drew near. Maybe that's why I was so upset. Maybe it was because what I'd seen earlier in that day echoed across our society, and my frustration with those who would not play fairly.

People lied and cheated all the time. Cheated on their taxes. Cheated on their insurance. Cheated on their tests and lied to their bosses. Lied about how much they made and about who they were. And too often, I thought, it worked. Too often they were rewarded, just as the other coach had been rewarded for her lie. And sometimes it just made me tired.

How can I compete, Lord, if we don't have a level playing field?

Part of the appeal of sports was the idea that it was supposed to be a level playing field. I took another sip of my coffee, watched as a blue jay flickered to the same tree as the cardinal. Their wings flashed as the jay's caw caw agitated the cardinal who flushed from the tree and flew out of sight.

I wondered if the girls had learned anything today. And if they had, was it positive? Had they learned that the right way to play and live was to do it with honour? Or had they learned the undeniable advantage of cheating and lying? We always assume that young people pick up the positive messages like everything is a Disney movie. But the truth is that there is an advantage in life if you are willing to lie and cheat to get ahead. The bigger truth, of course, is that the cost is the corruption of your character. That however, is often hard to see.

I finished my coffee and moved back into my living room. I had no idea what effect this game would have on my team, but we would find out soon enough.



P.S. Six days have passed since that game. Two regular season games against difficult opponents. Two blown fourth quarter leads, the last one an eleven point lead with 3 minutes left. We always think that being honest and fair pays off right away, but all that seems to have happened so far is that we've learned how to lose. After the last game I did not know what to tell my devastated team. I wish that life was more like a Disney movie some times, but we must keep the bigger picture in our minds, understanding that character is forged in the fire. The same character that will hold us when life leads us down the road of tragedy and heartbreak, as it always does at some point. And its there we will see who we are, and make the decision about who we want to become.

No matter how old or young we are, whether we play sports or not, we face those decisions every day. At work. At home. May God help us to see past the moment to the eternal, and to that which matters most.

-Steve

Interview with a Stranger

Interview with a Stranger (learning why I hated prayer)

I know why you’re running.

You try going off the path to avoid the stranger, but his words catch you off balance and you skid to a halt. Some of the ducks that had waddled up on shore take flight in a flash of wings. The stranger stands calmly, and only glances at your tank top and shorts, and the sweat glistening on your skin from the shortened run. You take a quick look along the pathway, but it’s quiet today, and there’s no one else in sight.

Do I know you?

Yes. You don’t remember me yet. But you will. I was a minister once, like you.
You shake your head, and start to run around him, when he calls out again.

I never used to like prayer much, either.

This time you stop and turn slowly. Twenty minutes ago you stood in front of your mirror and convinced yourself that you needed a run. You hadn’t prayed in a long time, and even your time in prayer was leaving little but the salty taste of unfulfilled dreams. So you’d stopped. Your life had been a swirl of events lately, and you could feel the footsteps of discouragement coming closer. A run always helped, but how could this stranger, know any of that?

The sun flashes off the swirling water and you shiver as the wind blows hard against your moistened skin. It couldn’t be true, could it? Prayer is something you do. Something you’re supposed to do. It’s never even mattered if you like it. Of course, no one has ever thought to ask you either. An elderly couple is walking their dog, and you smile at them as they pass. Maybe this stranger knows something you don’t. It couldn’t hurt just to talk.

You move closer.

He smiles when he sees you turn and you walk along the path together, although he stays just behind your left shoulder.

You haven’t prayed much lately, have you, Steve?

No.

You can’t be present without time in the Presence, he says.

It sounds like he’s quoting a bumper sticker, and he waits to see whether you’ll accept it. Two seagulls cry as your presence forces them away from some bread someone has left for them near the path. You don’t even see them.

He starts talking. His voice is softer, steadier than you remember, although you still aren’t sure how you know him.

When he was a kid he was scared of his father. He grew up in a traditional Catholic home. Prayer was nothing more than an apology. And appeasement. He says that last part ruefully, as if he still feels sheepish about it. God was angry and very disappointed with us humans. With him. Again he smiles, although this time it is tinged with regret. When he first moved to a Pentecostal church, he felt different. Free. It wasn’t like the Catholic Church at all.

What does that have to do with prayer? You ask, unable to hold your tongue.

Our faith rests on our image of God, he says, unperturbed by your question.

You bite back a sharp retort. You hate his abstract answers, but he’s pulling you in deeper somehow.

You move closer.

People in the Pentecostal church prayed, he says, loudly and often, but what surprised him was how ritualistic they were. In their own way, even more than the Catholics. He hated their rigid belief structure, the way they hid behind the language of the church. It didn’t seem like they were free, he said, it seemed more like they were afraid. And he’d known fear quite a bit when he was younger, not just with his family, but in a lot of ways.

You motion for him to sit with you on a bench near the water. You watch the wind lifts tiny caps on the waves as the afternoon sun gleams off the river like a thousand crystals. Is he right about the fear?

You move closer.

I wasn’t able to minister anymore, he says, and so I left. His chin drops to his chest and tears lay trapped in his eyes. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I didn’t know how to relate to my wife or the people around me. As he tells you what he’s lost, you want to cry for him, too.

He wipes his eyes but doesn’t stop.

My wife and I argued so much, he says, that I would often leave at night and go to a coffee shop or a sports pub just to avoid conversation. When I came home she was sleeping. Always sleeping. She didn’t care. Years later he learned that she was never sleeping. Always awake. The memory haunts him still.

Another elderly couple walks by but this time you can’t take your eyes off the stranger. He’s gotten to you, you realize. You need to hear his story.

You move closer.

Three years pass, he says, and he realizes that when he goes out, when he drinks, when he’s loud, when he’s talking a mile a minute, it all feels the same. He stopped going to church, but he goes back. He doesn’t know what else to do.

He smiles again and asks you a question.

Have you ever felt separate from your own life? As if your body was living and you, the real you, was somewhere else? Or maybe dead?

You frown and then nod. You know that feeling all too well.

He waits for you to answer, but instead you stand up and start walking again. He falls in beside you. The smell of freshly cut grass and the afternoon buzz of insects bring a quick sense of pleasure, but the frown returns when you realize that he’s watching you. And for the first time you realize that his story may be painful for you. But you need to hear the rest.

You move closer.

I have run most of my life. We all run in some ways, but I didn’t understand that I was running. And even when I learned the truth, it was so hard to stop. Any distraction was better than facing the truth.

You want him to be quiet. Your stomach is clenched tight as you turn onto your street. You can’t stop him. If you don’t face it today you never will. You take a deep breath.

You move closer.

Did you know that God loves you?

His question startles you so much that you lose your balance and nearly fall off the sidewalk.

Of course I know that.

He smiles, this time with an enigmatic twist to it. Well, he says, I said that too. I just didn’t believe it. I couldn’t stop running until I accepted that. Everything changed when I stopped trying to earn God’s love.

You frown. He is starting to sound like a hippie, like being a Christian means no work. No effort. He grins at your expression, and you realize he is doing it on purpose.

You move closer.

The funny thing about prayer, he says, is that it used to be easier. Easier to cry and moan and yell and scream and chant. But talking isn’t prayer. Prayer is also quiet. Prayer is listening. Prayer is confrontation.

What! Your voice carries down the street. You just said prayer was listening and quiet. You just said you don’t have to earn God’s love. How is prayer confrontational?

He smiles and nods.

When you see God, you see yourself. When you see yourself, you see you sin. When you see your sin, you see your need for God. Prayer, time in the presence of God, forces you to face yourself. It forces you to own your decisions. To own your sins. And to own God’s love. Perhaps more than anything, it forces you to be present in your own life.

You realize that you’re standing inside your apartment, but you don’t remember going up the stairs or letting him in. Despite your churning stomach, you brace yourself to let him finish. Besides, you’re starting to remember how you know him. Why he seems so familiar.

You move closer.

So why do you pray, I ask.

This time it’s his turn to be startled.

Without prayer, we are blind. We lose the big picture. The eternal picture. Without prayer, temporal things become eternal, and life becomes heavy. The greatest thing about prayer is the more we learn to lean on the Creator, and the more we own the details of our life, the more freedom we enjoy. It’s a strange paradox, but the more we commit to the big picture of what God wants, the simpler life becomes. And we can not only enjoy our life, but be fully present in it as well. He pauses. You know what I’m talking about, Steve.

He smiles and suddenly you recognize him. Same eyes. Same face. Different smile. Softer.

The floorboards creak as you step closer to the mirror, and the stranger disappears. He's right. I know what he’s talking about.

I step onto the balcony and watch the trees sway in the summer breeze. Slowly I peel off my running shoes as I begin to pray.

-Steve