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.

   

God Moments

     I was traveling last week and the next appointment had me in Roseville, CA. I don't get out to Roseville much. In fact, I believe it's been well over a decade since I've set foot in that town. I don't even drive through it. My journeys just don't take me there, until last Friday. I was meeting a couple at 11:30 but I had 20 minutes before the appointment so I walked into an unfamiliar coffee shop hoping they had WiFi. I went to order something and a young man approached me. He took my order, engaged in small talk, and then said "You look very familiar." I mentioned that I had been thinking the same thing. "What's your name?" I asked. He told me and the light came on. He used to be in my friend's youth group back in my youth ministry days so we had done summer camps together and the like. He was also my friend on facebook, but being out of context I didn't recognize him instantly. He came around the counter and gave me a hug and was able to sit with me for a while. He shared that he had been dealing with a lot lately, and that last week was the worst week of his life.  He had called his former youth pastor to talk about his issues, issues that my current ministry addresses. Knowing this, his youth pastor said he needed to give me a call. That was the week before, and there I was sitting across from this young man last Friday. He said he felt God had brought me there that day. I was in full agreement as I listened to him talk. I gave him my phone number. I'm waiting for his call.
     I left that coffee shop in amazement. God knew. He knew that kid's work schedule and what my calendar had for me that day. Being 20 minutes early, the coffee shop, Roseville... God was aware of it all. When I told Marty about it, she commented on how much God cares about us to orchestrate such a meeting. I agree. He cares so stinkin' much.

Pig-pen Part 2 (or Sobered by a Stranger)

     In my last post, dear readers, I left you in the parking lot of Jack in the Box, humiliated and vowing never to return, but there was always Taco Bell down the road.
     One Sunday evening, I decided to write the 12 steps down in my journal along with a scripture and I prayed for God's help. As I worked my way through the steps I stopped myself because I wasn't ready to give over my late night eating binges. In fact, I was looking forward to having a couple beefy crunch burritos in a couple hours (after everyone had gone to bed).
     Later that evening, I was checking my facebook and I met Kristian.

     Kristian made a birthday video for his wife that became quite popular on the internet. What can't be seen in the tribute is Kristian was battling bowel cancer at the time the video was made. This man immediately got my attention. The video was moving and intriguing and pulled on the heartstrings when he incorporated his two young sons at the end. I was compelled to learn more about Kristian's story. Marty had recently told me about cancer and how sugar can exacerbate it. Mm hmm. Then I got an automated email from some fitness dude that discussed research dealing with sugar and cancer. Coincidence? Then I met Kristian.
     I found the blog he started once he was diagnosed. I read what his reaction was when he first found out. I discovered a man who had his faith securely in God and would believe for healing. I read about his fears, not of dying, but of leaving his young family without a husband and father. And I was sobered when I read his very last entry, posted by his wife after he had died on January 2, 2012 at the age of 36.
     I went to bed that night and laid my head on the pillow with my eyes wide open. Kristian did not choose to have bowel cancer, yet I was choosing destructive behavior regardless of the consequences. Kristian did not want to leave his family, but I wasn't insuring that I would be around that much longer if I continued doing what I was doing. I realized I couldn't keep living like that. Tomorrow was going to be different.
     It has been two weeks since meeting my life-saving friend Kristian, and I am happy to say that I have not patronized a fast food restaurant since. No soda has touched my lips. No candy has been consumed. We had cake at church last week and I passed. And I made a lofty goal. As much as I love candy, I resolved to not eat one piece of holiday candy for the entire year of 2012. No Valentine's, no Easter, no Halloween or Christmas candy allowed. It will be a first, and if you know me, this is huge because I've been known to hit the clearance shelves after the holiday and stock up on the sweets.
     Kristian is one of my best friends that I will never meet here on earth. He was my bucket of cold water and he has impacted my life drastically. I am so glad I ran across his story and I look forward to thanking him someday in heaven... but not any time soon.
 

A Friend in Pig-pen Pt. 1

     I've long been fond of the character Pig-pen from the Peanuts comic strip. One cartoon shows him clean himself up, go outside, and as he walks only a few steps, he is back to his same dirty self. Even when he tries to be well-groomed, life just makes him messy again. I can relate to Pig-pen. Just when I've cleaned up one area of my life, there's another that needs tending to.
     I'm about to get vulnerable, fair warning. However, I know as I share out of my weakness and brokenness, it will connect with someone else's and offer them hope (which, I guess, has become my mantra). It is no secret that I'm a recovering addict and I thank God for sobriety and healing in certain areas of my life. But addicts are known to struggle with more than one addiction, or trade one for another. And I'm humbled to admit that's me.
     My eating habits never really matured. I'm not a big fan of salads, always preferred regular sodas over diet, and helped myself to something sweet to eat after a meal. For the last few years I have been dealing with aspects of food addiction. I hesitate when I think of typing the details because it's embarrassing... I got into the habit of waiting until everyone was in bed at night, sneaking out and driving to a nearby fast food joint, and bringing home an entire meal to consume in front of the TV. This would happen at least three or four times a week.
     Marty and I would have discussions around my diet and I would brush off her concerns or admit I needed to change, but nothing ever really stuck. I knew she was worried about me, but it still wasn't enough to make me do something about my issue.
     One night I pulled up to the window at the Jack in the Box that is two blocks away from my house. The worker greeted me warmly and asked,"Are you coming from home?" "Yes," I said. "You're earlier than usual," she observed. And at that, I was humiliated. That was as bad as it could get. The drive-up window attendant knew me on sight and knew my late-night routine. As I drove away, I told myself I would never patronize that place again. And I haven't been back since. Maybe I wouldn't be as familiar at Taco Bell down the road...
     To be continued...