If It Sounds Too Good To Be True...

     I got angry tonight. I had plenty of justice juices pumping inside me and I wanted someone to pay for their crimes. We're looking for a second car since my accident several weeks ago. We found a steal on Craigslist, a 2005 mini SUV for $2250. A poor, recently divorced woman needed to sell it quickly because her husband wasn't being very kind to her and she needed the funds. We inquired through email and received a response back that the transaction would happen through Google Wallet "for both of our protection, so please provide your name, mailing address, and phone number." What does she need our address for, I wondered.
     When we got home from church, I looked for the original listing and it was nowhere to be found. That struck me as strange. I started to get suspicious. I went to the Craigslist scam warning page and found an example of a fraudulent post that had several similar components as this dream offer; divorcee,  low price, car in great condition, low mileage, transaction will be handled through another payment service, asking for shipping address.
     I then priced the 2005 make and model of this car on Kelly Blue Book and a car of this style in fair condition sells for 11 grand plus. We stumbled upon a scam. Yeah, the deal was a steal, this put upon "divorcee" was trying to steal from us. And it made me angry. I had flashbacks of feelings after our house was ransacked and robbed in 2009. How DARE they! Who do they think they are? How heartless to take possessions and money that doesn't belong to them. I wanted this "Sarah" person to be found and stopped. I looked up reporting the scam, but I realized they've probably already set up another email account and are waiting for the next potential pigeon. I probably wasn't going to get my serving of justice around this. Simmer down, justice juices.

     At dinner, before discovering the swindle, I said the blessing over our food and threw in there an inquiry to God for wisdom about this car. I'm thankful He quickened me regarding the details of this "sale." And I realized this was uncharted territory for me. All my life my parents have been involved in providing or helping to finance a vehicle for me. This is my first time venturing into Cars Land without them. My anger turned to thankfulness as I remembered my incredible parents who were not too good to be true. And now I'm left thinking about them. Sigh (but a good sigh).

The Marty Poem

This month hosts my wife Marty's birthday. I recently came across this poem I wrote for her back in 1999 when we lived in a little one bedroom apartment pre-kids. Couldn't wait to share it...

M is for the merry times that I think are so neat,
A is for the arches on your sweet and petite feet.
R is for the romance that in these walls abide,
T is for the teasing that you love deep down inside.
Y is for the years gone by, 31 to be exact,
C is for the counseling for the disturbed and whacked (posting as is, unedited in all its mature glory).
O is for the opposites we are and I must say,
U is for your underwear I folded just today (This happens to be true right now in 2012 as well).
C is for the caring and compassion you convey,
H is for, um, "Happy" that goes with your birthday!

So glad you were born, my Beautiful Marty. Happy Birthday.

Makes You Think

     I was out the door at 5AM this morning headed to Fernly, NV. I had a window (speaking opportunity) that would last fifteen minutes and I hoped to make some good contacts while there. Then I was going to drive home all in one day. That would have been a first. It was kind of a challenge that I was looking forward to accomplishing, driving all that distance in one day. It wasn't to be.
     I got on the freeway and the world was still dark. There were a few other motorists on the road but not the swarms there would be in an hour or so. I was driving along at the normal freeway speed when I don't know what happened. I hit something, hard, and I said out loud, "Oh my gosh!" (I know if Hollywood made a movie out of it, they would definitely be re-writing my rated G dialogue). Something was in the middle of the freeway lane that couldn't be seen and it sent me in to a chaotic suspended animation. For a few seconds, I didn't know what was going to happen. I was very aware that my life could be over as my car felt very out of control at 65 miles per hour. So I waited to see what would become of this, of me. In the midst of it, I was able to steer the car to the side of the road, collect myself and call 911. I heard other cars driving by that were hitting pieces of whatever it was that I just did, when a truck skidded to the side of the road just like I had. As he approached me, he didn't hesitate to use a more PG kind of language. He had no idea happened either.
     As we waited for the police officer and the sun began to rise, we could finally lay our eyes on what was obstructing the freeway lane, one of those giant Cal-trans sign trailers, the ones that are supposed to warn you of things on the road like closures and construction. Someone had even struck it before me but couldn't do anything from the side of the road as they watched me collide with it.

     I'm fine, for now. Don't know how I'll be feeling tomorrow, but I've been in kind of a fog today. I think back to those few seconds when I didn't know how it was going to turn out. Many have had those few seconds. Some lived to tell about it, some didn't. Those few seconds make you think. I'm very thankful I'm here tonight to write about this. Grateful that I was able to walk away from this accident, and though I didn't make it to Fernly, NV, I did make it home in time to walk my kids to school. Thankful for walking. Thankful for kids. Just grateful to be alive.

This is what I hit. 

So long, "Ingrid." You were a good car.

   

It's Only Hair

   
     Money's tight, so when I walk past a sign that says "$8 haircuts for men by Vivian," I take notice. Never mind that the salon used to be called "Lovely Lady Coiffures." It is now "International Hair and something something." AND, Viv only charges 8 bucks. This was a place I had to patronize at least once. I had a gut feeling it would be an experience to remember.
     When I walked in, Viv was casually sweeping the floor and told me to take a seat. As I settled in, Viv kept sweeping, veeeery casually, and then started to prep her hair cutting tools. She asked me what I wanted and I pointed to a picture on the wall and said, "Just do what that guy has." Right as she was about to clip my sides, the phone rings and I wondered if Viv would be the type to answer the phone in the middle of a hair cut. Viv goes and answers the phone and starts giving directions in her native tongue very loudly to the caller. Apparently, they weren't getting in on the other end, so Viv kept repeating herself and got louder each time. Once she returned she told me that they were here from New York and she didn't have time to see them, so they were coming to the shop. Yes, Viv would be entertaining family during my hair cut.
     Viv finally took the clippers to my head but suddenly stopped and said, "Sorry," and something else I couldn't understand because the clippers were right next to my ear, but I was thinking "Sorry" isn't really what you want to hear come out of your haircutter's mouth.
     Then the family arrived and as she was still clipping, she shouted out some greetings or instructions to her loved ones. And sure enough, she walks over to them and continues the not so light banter. But I just kept thinking, "8 bucks for this experience."
     Viv returned and asked me if my hair was short enough. As I checked out the top, no, it wasn't, She suggested using some gel, but I had her take some more off. As she did, she says, "Oh, I see what I did." Again, not something you want to hear from your hair cutter. Then she muttered something about my gray hair. I'm just going to assume that she was calling it distinguished.
     As she wrapped it up, she was blowing the hair off me with a hair dryer, and as I stood up and was walking away, she was still blowing the hair off me with the hair dryer. I paid my 8 bucks plus tip and was on my way, but not before Vivian said to me, "Come again."
     Once I got home and on further inspection, I found that Vivian took me literally when I said, "No sideburns." She had raised my sideburns higher than they have ever been in my life. Now I know what she was apologizing about. But it's just hair, and it was only 8 bucks and quite a memory. And the crazy thing is, in a month I'll probably be visiting Viv again and paying 8 bucks for another experience. The even crazier thing is, I'll probably be taking my son!

I Just Want to Help People

     I started attending seminary classes mostly out of convenience. My denomination's theological seminary was opening a branch at the church where I was on staff. And we were given scholarships and a discount for enrolling in classes. Hey, why not? But could I do it? I had three kids five and under, like under my feet, in addition to a full-time ministry. I hadn't been in school for fourteen years. Could I do this? I took it one class at a time.
    In one of those classes, I observed my professor's passion for the topic. Being a father and husband in a blended family, he was driven to help others affected by divorce. This class was designed to equip us as pastors to minister to this population in the church and their special needs. The professor was so... impassioned! There's no other word. He lived out the painful experience he was teaching us about. He studied the topic, he wrote books and materials and started a ministry. As I sat in one of his sessions, being remarkably impressed by him, I said to myself, "I just want to help people." I'll never forget that moment. I wasn't feeling called to that specific people group (though I have used the information gleaned in that class on several occasions), but I just felt impressed to help others. I didn't know who or what issues I would be tackling, I just wanted to help in a way that I hadn't before.
     As the years passed and our focus in ministry became more clear, I transferred to a university that offered a Master's in Pastoral Counseling. This resonated with me. In other classes I would get A minuses and B's, but I got solid A's in all my counseling classes, affirming that impression of just wanting to help people.

     About an hour ago I finished my Master's program. Recalling the last four years and working on this task boggles my mind. We took a trip to Disneyland and played all day then I had to study all night. When we went back to Springfield, IL to be commissioned as US Missionaries, I lugged my heavy textbooks on the plane because there were book reports to write and discussion board posts to create. On my first fundraising tour, I would get up early in the morning to get some homework done before driving off to my appointments. We left our home church of 17 years. We established a non-profit ministry. We were living life and all the while I had looming due dates and tests to take. But now, the last test has been taken. I have finished. This is probably as close to an awards show as I'll ever get so...
     I'd like to first thank my God for seeing me through. There were several times I didn't think I could do this and I begged Him for help. And He helped. I want this to be for His glory and purposes.
     I'd like to thank my wife for her support and belief in me. I know it's cliche' but it doesn't make it any less true: I could not have done this without her.
     My kids... Now I don't have to tell them "no, because I have homework," or "don't bother me, I'm taking a test!" I know they're grateful for that.
     I'd like to thank my professors, each one bringing a unique dynamic to my experience. Each of their names have been logged in my journal and the notebooks saved, so they can be credited when necessary in the future.
     And I would like to dedicate this achievement to my parents. This is when it gets hard, when they're not here to witness these things, but I know no one would be more proud of this accomplishment than those two dear and dearly missed people.
     So, now what? I just want to help people.
   

Friday the 13th, Graduations, and Anniversaries

     June 13 is a significant date for me. I graduated from high school on Friday the 13th. I heard a rumor that some girl from another city wasn't allowed to participate in her graduation ceremonies because she was seated in the 13th row and the 13th chair. It also happened to be my parents' wedding anniversary. I was their fourth and only kid who walked the line, so I think that was a good present for them. As I waited for my name to be called, I tried to work up the nerve to take the mic and say "Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad." What would they do, take my diploma away? Suspend me? Suspend me from what? I was done with that place! I couldn't work up the nerve to step up to the mic, so I did the next best thing: I yelled my sentiment at the top of my lungs after receiving my diploma. Friday the 13th of June 1986 was a pretty good day all around.
     Twenty-four years later I found myself at a different kind of graduation ceremony. I had been on staff at one church for sixteen and a half years, but my last Sunday had come. So, on June 13, 2010, I said my final good-bye to that congregation. I felt like I had grown up there. Lots of milestones occurred for me. I was married, all three of my kids were born, I lost my parents... In my last sermon I told the church the story about my high school graduation and how I screamed my congrats to my parents. And since I was graduating from that place on the same date, I whispered through my tears as I looked up to heaven, "Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad."
     In summary, June 13 is a significant date for me... Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.

To Zzzz or Not to Zzzz?

I'm at my mother-in-laws' house with my oldest daughter. The other two are staying at their cousins' tonight. I had some fund-raising appointments and I brought the kids along so they could have extended family time and to give my wife a couple days of peace and rest. Julia usually shares a bed with her sister here at Gramma's, but Ella is not here. I was tucking Julia in and she subtly let me know that she didn't want to sleep by herself all the way down the long hallway where her room is when she stays here. I asked her if she wanted to sleep with me. "Maybe." She's too cool to admit she's a little afraid to sleep alone. She won't dare admit that she misses her sister. But she clearly conveyed that she still needs her dad. So, I'll be bunking with my daughter tonight. It may not be the most restful night of sleep for me, but sleep wasn't the priority when these new arrangements were made. Good night.

I Like Now

I was thumbing through an old journal today. One entry was dated December 26, 2000. That date is very significant to me now since it is my firstborn's birthday, but looking at that date with a 2000 following reminded me we didn't have children at that juncture. It was like I went back in time but I wasn't comfortable doing so. Going back there meant I didn't have my kids yet. We still lived in a one bedroom apartment. We had only been married three years. December 26 only meant "Boxing Day," the day after Christmas, a big shopping day, the day to drive back home from whatever relative's house we were staying at for the holidays. That was it. Nothing more. There was no baby crying in the middle of the night, no poopy diapers, no trips to the emergency room, no sibling in-fighting, no scrambling to make lunches and rushing out the door for school, no time outs, no Hannah Montana marathons on Netflix, no force feeding vegetables, no multiple cases of strep throat, no constant potty talk, no squabbling over toys or TV remotes,  no incessant messy bathrooms, no hair ties and legos scattered... It was just... Boxing Day. It was quieter, more peaceful, serene... Life was calmer and less chaotic. I like now.

NOT

I was on the road the last two days and found myself in three different environments that were perfect for writing in my journal; alone in a house out in the country with a fire going, a mellow coffee shop (Starbucks is NOT a mellow coffee shop), and a lavish hotel lobby with no one around. One problem, I did not have my journal! I posted on facebook about these various locations and how great they were for journaling. Then someone asked me, "Where do you NOT like to write in your journal?" Hmmm...
The shower.
In an uncomfortable chair.
In a moving vehicle (though I have written on planes on several occasions).
Lying on the floor.
In dark places (can't see).
At a concert.
On a roller coaster.
In a box with a fox.
In places where journals are outlawed.
The grocery store.
A movie theatre.
In a tree (I'd fall trying to balance the journal on my knee, probably).
In windy places (blows the pages over).
In a stockade.
Needles, CA.
Turkish prisons.
Wal-Mart.
Fabric stores.
The post office.
Happy Feet (the foot massage place. They hurt!).
Sitting on barbed wire.
Next to the cat litter box.
In an earthquake (makes my writing messy).
The 13th floor of hotels.
The basement in the Alamo.
At the Hunger Games.
Angelina Jolie's house.
On Star Tours.
Where there's no bathroom close by.
At my next door neighbor's house (that would be awkward).
The Motown Cafe (because it closed down right before I got to New York. Still upset about that).
The bank.
While surfing.
Hanging upside down.
In hell.

My Heart Soared

     I had always wanted to be the father of a son. I adore my girls and wouldn't trade them for anything, but there was a part of me that wanted to make up for what I felt I missed in my relationship with my dad. If our third would have also been of the female persuasion, I would have been completely fine with that. Girls rock! Girls rule and boys drool (which is actually true, I've come to find). But I still wanted a drooling boy. When Marty was having her ultra sound for her third pregnancy, we wanted to know. The tech performing the ultra sound was kind of cranky and not very personable. She didn't ask if we wanted to know, so as she worked, I finally asked, "Can you tell us if it's a boy or a girl?" "You want to know?" she asked. Um... I wouldn't have asked if... YES, we want to know! Then she very cooly said, "It's a boy." And my heart soared.
     Fast forward 6 years. We went to Max's first baseball practice this week. I never played any organized sports but I always wanted my kids to have the experience. I had so many unspoken desires for that first practice. Max didn't have to be the best, but I didn't want him to be... the least experienced. I wanted him to enjoy it. I wanted him to go on with it through the years and have that team photo on the mantle along with his individual shot with him holding the bat over his shoulder. I wanted to be there for him. I wanted to cheer him on and encourage him when he made an error.
     Max stepped up to the plate, first time batting off a pitcher. First pitch, swing and a miss. Second pitch, the same. Third pitch, CRACK, ball goes flying over his coach's head with a repeat performance the next time he was up to bat. And just like that ball, my heart soared.
     His first game is tomorrow and I'm excited. But today is his birthday, and we get to mini golf with three of his friends from school and eat pizza. Today we celebrate Max Colby Couch. Happy Birthday, my son.