GET YOUR &%*% DOWN HERE

“BARK!  BARK!  BARK!  BARK!  BARK!”  That’s the sound I heard at 2:11 in the morning.  I was suddenly awakened from my recurring dream.  (You know, the one where I’m falling from the sky in my underwear with a parachute that refuses to open.  But that’s not important right now.  That therapy session will have to be another day.)  The truth is, I about leaped through the ceiling when the barking started.  I’m not even sure why I mention this, but readers should know that I didn’t scream when I woke up.  Definitely not!  And by the way, even if I did … nobody would hear my screams above the incessant, loud barking coming from inside the house.

“BARK!  BARK!  BARK!  BARK!  BARK!”  Our dog, Duchess, continued sounding the alarm that there was a security breach at the Monroe compound.  This was not a, “That’s right, Master Kev, Timmy fell in the well again” kind of bark,  It was not even a, “Wake up Master Kev, there’s a bus load of orphans perilously teetering on a bridge and innocent children are facing imminent death.” kind of bark.  No, this particular bark was decidedly different.  It was clearly a “GET YOUR &%*% DOWN HERE ‘CAUSE I CAN’T HOLD BACK THIS THREAT MUCH LONGER” kind of bark.  Yeah, that kind!

“BARK!  BARK!  BARK!  BARK!  BARK!”  The pattern continued.  It was still 2:11 am.

I was alone.  The barking was coming from downstairs.  I was upstairs … all alone … yep, it was just me.  Carrie, my wife, was out of town visiting our twenty-something year old kids in Idaho for a few days.  I know, I was thinking the same thing you are, but Carrie couldn’t save me this time.

It was still 2:11am, the dog was still barking non-stop, and an all-out heart-pounding, panic situation was still taking over.  My mind was racing.  I just knew that, most likely, there was some kind of home invasion in progress.  The compound was under attack.

What gang violence was awaiting me?  Was it Ninjas?  Street thugs?  How many of them were there?  Was I surrounded?  And did those intruders know that I bruise easily and do not appreciate getting hit in the face repeatedly.  I’d be sure to let ‘em all know during our initial meeting and conversation.  Perhaps I could offer to do their taxes in return for something like … oh, I don’t know … MY LIFE!  That seems fair.  Maybe it’d somehow be possible for them to push me out of a plane in my underwear strapped to a malfunctioning parachute.  I think I’d prefer that familiar freefall descent instead of getting snuffed out in my own home by several angry, tattooed gang members.  Besides, I hear blood stains are difficult to remove from carpet.  

BARK!  BARK!  BARK!  BARK!  BARK!”  The pattern continued.  It was still 2:11 am.

My hesitation and mind wrestling was over.  Knowing that sending my son downstairs to assess the situation was not an option, I realized that it was up to me.  I knew my only choice was to run into harm’s way to protect my homeland.  Years of watching Chuck Norris movies only helped my confidence in this dire situation.  I suddenly had steely resolve and possessed no fear.  Invasion?  Not in my house!  I’ll show them an invasion.  I further reasoned, if this is how it ends, so be it!

At that moment, the hunted became the hunter.

“BARK!  BARK!  BARK!  BARK!  BARK!”  The pattern continued.  It was now 2:12 am.

The slightly overweight, middle aged accountant made sure he had his weapons with him before heading downstairs … that’s right, I had both guns … my left arm and my right arm.  My whole body was a weapon.  I left my favorite bunny slippers at my bedside.  My adrenalin was pumping.  I was shirtless, barefoot, and … um … (insert awkward moment) Ok, never mind what I was wearing.  I beat my hairy chest with both fists and bellowed out my war call … the airwaves were soon filled with a famous quote from the Sioux leader Crazy Horse, “HOKA-HEY!”  (Loosely meaning:  “Today is a good day to die!”)

“BARK!  BARK!  BARK!  BARK!  BARK!”  The pattern continued.  It was now 2:13 am.

Moving toward the sound of constant barking, I hustled to the bottom of the stairs.  Darkness was everywhere.  I managed to regain composure a la Navy Seal style and turned on the back deck porch light.  With my fists clutched and posing a formidable Karate stance, I saw it.  It was a mere three feet away.  And the furry mass of scary-ness saw me.  We locked eyes … frozen in time with each knowing a battle was eminent.  Only a double pane door window separated me from that terrorizing raccoon that was roughly the size of a large grizzly bear .. perhaps larger, but definitely more threatening than one of those wimpy grizzly bears.

Wait, what was happening?  Was it running away?  What about our epic battle?  Evidently, the Godzilla-like raccoon wanted nothing to do with my chiseled, hairy chested 49 year old body.  He quickly scurried off ... and it was over.  Done.  Finished.  Clearly, it was afraid of my heroic and exceedingly brave accountant-ness.

The barking subsided.  I relaxed my Karate stance and took a deep breath.  I was alive.  There was little doubt in my mind that this exhilarating experience contained all the makings of a future two hour, edge of your seat movie deal.  And if that happens, I plan on portraying the lead role as myself ... shirtless of course.

It was now 2:16am.  A bowl of ice cream to celebrate the overwhelming victory would soon be consumed beginning at around 2:18am.

The harrowing ordeal ended without a ‘coon skin cap for the winter.  I don’t even have a raccoon animal head trophy to display on our living room wall.  I do, however, have this blurry action shot shown below.  It’s evidence of a slightly overweight raccoon running away from a slightly overweight, middle aged guy that just so happens to be standing at a glass door wearing only his boxers.  Yep, I sure scared that Big Foot imitator.

Seriously, can you imagine?

Be Nice … and Stop Being a Jerk. How to Give Your Wife Verbal Encouragement and Stop Cutting Your Toe Nails on the Carpet

I think the wordy title of this essay steals the thunder of what you’re about to read in the next few minutes.  I know it may be tempting for any husbands out there to read the essay title, quickly apply the essay title, and then walk away into the sunset to live happily ever after with his wife ... because we all know that it … Just.  Might.  Work.  And husbands really are just that good.  There’s no hiding the fact that the title above could very well be the antidote, the instant marriage saver fix, for all husbands currently breathing on the planet.

If you decide to keep reading, though, I promise to share a few tips that have crossed my mind recently.  Read about it, laugh about it, and who knows, perhaps you might even apply some of it to your marriage.

Look, I know there are many ways to build a strong, happy marriage.  My book shelf is filled with top-selling books describing the five, seven, or ten ways to have a successful marriage.  And I think the books on my shelf raise excellent points.  I encourage you come over to my place and read as many as you’d like (as long as you don’t start cutting your toe nails on the carpet).  Please, by all means, be a student of your marriage.  Various book topics include Christ centered, communication, money matters, putting down the toilet seat, blah, blah, blah … and all of these books provide excellent insights.  Each topic is worth the pursuit and worth mastering.

But what about “Be Nice … and Stop Being a Jerk”?  To my shock and amazement, I found no book titles or chapters that offered such direct, profound insight.  I know I used the word jerk in the title, but some may be more comfortable referencing a long-eared horse like animal known to have buck teeth.  And you are welcome to use that three letter word if you choose.

Now, are you ready for powerful, mind-blowing insight?  Here goes.  If you’re being nice, then you’re not being a jerk.  And if you’re being a jerk, then you’re not being nice.  Got it?  I’m not going to waste either of our time telling you what nice looks like ... you've heard it your entire life.  Follow these steps:

1. Think of what you believe nice will look like for your wife.
2. Ask you wife if she can add to or modify your list.
3. Be nice ... and stop being a jerk.

Done.  Moving on.

The subtitle of this essay is “How to give your wife verbal encouragement and stop cutting your toe nails on the carpet.”  Translation:  Use your words and actions to communicate love.  You've got to do both.  Follow these steps:

1. Get an imaginary empty bucket.
2. Place it next to you.
3. Put your wife's name on the imaginary bucket.
4. Fill the bucket with encouraging words.
5. Go splash her with the contents of your encouragement bucket.  (reminder:  this is not literal.)
6. Repeat often.

There are plenty of discouraging words to be found from other sources outside the marriage.  Don’t pile on and bring those words into your marriage.  Be quick to catch your wife in the act of doing right.  Follow these steps:

1. Find a penny dated 2014.
2. Put the penny in one of your pockets.
3. Always carry that penny with you.
4. Let that penny be your encouragement reminder that 2014 is the year that you decided to begin splashing your wife with praise.

And finally, regarding cutting your toe nails on the carpet … uh, yeah … probably shouldn't do that, OK?  Same with finger nail cutting.

Please look for my next essay.  It will be the same title, but I’ll trade out the word Wife and replace it with Husband.  Because wives shouldn't cut their toe nails on the carpet either.  I suppose that also means both husband and wife will have to be nice to each other.  Wait, what? ... whoa, that might actually work.

I know I've offered an overly simplistic solution for any marriages that were perhaps struggling or needing an idea boost, but I'm thinking that whole being nice and encouraging each other stuff sure can't hurt.  Marriage is a beautiful, fun, lifetime friendship.  Treat it that way.

Problem Solver

I went out the Reception desk this morning to get a stack of papers that I needed.  It didn’t take long for me to realize that I needed both hands for the task.  This clearly meant that the object I was holding in my right hand would have to be relocated.  As a true problem solver, my eyes darted back and forth between the stack of papers I needed and the lone object in my right hand.  Sensing the time pressure, I knew I needed to do something.  Immediate action was required.  Then, to my amazement, I soon began to see the solution play out before me.  As if by instinct, I found myself stuffing those remaining four or five bites of Snickers Bar into my mouth as one colossal, super-sized bite.

And just like that … done.  Problem solved.    Yep folks, and not really bragging here, but that’s a lot of what I do as a manager all day.  Uh, you know, solve problems that is.

“Ahhhhhh!”  Suddenly, to my horror, I made eye contact with the receptionist as she was returning to her desk.  “Ahhhhhh!”  I screamed again in my mind … because … well, screaming out loud was not a favorable option for me at the time.  Both of my cheeks were freakishly stretched beyond normal capacity.  I gave the receptionist one of those “deer caught in the headlights” looks and hoped beyond hope that this dreaded situation would soon go away.  Various thoughts were racing through my mind … like, why can’t she leave well enough alone?  Can’t she just focus on doing her job?  Why does she hate old people?  I’m hungry.

I prayed for the phone to ring.

The phone never rang.

The awkward silence was finally broken with the sound of the receptionist’s voice.  I was relieved to hear that she only wanted to know if I was eating a Granola Bar.  Ha!  That’s it?  She only wanted to know if I was eating a Granola Bar?  Awkward silence filled the room for a bit longer.  Meanwhile, freshly ground pieces of Snickers Bar enjoyed a trip down their water slide to my slightly overweight stomach.  Eventually, I answered her question then slithered back to my office.

Look people, in my defense, there was a lot of background noise at the time and her question was rather confusing.  Besides, everyone knows that there are plenty of healthy, granola-like peanuts inside a Snickers Bar.  Really now, whether it’s Snickers, granola, or a steak sandwich … there’s not that much difference anyway.

Now leave me alone.  I need to get back to work.

I Tied My Shoes Today

Here's a brief recap of my day.  It's an unbiased assessment of my experiences and the miracle-worthy-ness of it all:

• I tied my shoes.  Yep.  Miracle.

• I got a front row parking space.  Whoa! Another miracle.

• I mowed the lawn.  Thinking ... thinking ... yes, it's a miracle.

• I saw Mt. Hood today.  Definitely a miracle.

Look, I know that by shouting miracle for seemingly normal, common, and even predictable occurrences, I risk diluting the sacredness of that word.  But instead of saving/hoarding this word "miracle", patiently waiting for … well, only truly miraculous conditions, I choose to go on a reckless, yet reverent, verbal spending spree of the word, “miracle.”  I am willingly and intentionally seeking out experiences in my day that I can and will attribute to miracles.  And I really can’t help it.  I am compelled to, arguably, lower the standard of what constitutes a miracle.   

But wait … did I just admit to lowering the standard and saturating the miracle market with my rapid paced "miracle of the minute" view.  Please stay with me here.  I submit to you that I am not lowering the miracle standard at all.  I submit to you readers that I am, in fact, elevating it to a new, higher level of daily praise and celebration.

I will rest ... and breathe, smile, splash someone, shoot a rubber band at a co-worker, and wash dishes.  All in a quest to seek exhilarating examples of the miracle of life.

And there are more miracles out there ... cover me, I'm goin' in.

==================================

One year ago I wrote the following:

I will smell more flowers, pet more dogs, hug more people, and laugh more often.  I will swim in oceans, climb up mountains, and run in open fields.  I will seek ways to serve others, order off the dessert menu, and make a miserable face whenever I eat Sushi.

I've been given another chance at life.

I was hospitalized with a serious brain injury.  The central part of my brain, the thalamus, was swollen from lack of blood flow.  "The thalamus plays a major role in regulating arousal, the level of awareness, and activity.  Damage to the thalamus can lead to permanent coma."  New-medical.net.

It started with severe headaches, dizziness, and finally, coma-like symptoms that would send me to the hospital.  At that time, May 22, 2005, doctors could neither predict my outcome nor my recovery.  They could not offer my family any assurance that my health would return to normal.  Permanent damage was a possibility.

During my hospital stay, I was overwhelmed with prayers, family, friends, phone calls, and visits.  I am forever grateful for all the encouragement and support my family and I received during such a difficult time.  I soon began the rapid recovery that would amaze doctors.

About a week later, I would conquer the feat of tying my own shoes.  Tasks that were once simple, brought mental challenges.  I remember walking the long hospital hallways, with Carrie, in what always seemed like a marathon endurance race.

Today, I enjoy a 100% recovery.  The doctors refer to my case as a miracle ... and I believe them.

I tie my own shoes with renewed appreciation.  What was once a mental challenge, has returned to simple.  I walk the long hallways of life, with Carrie, and it always seems like a walk in the park.

I've been given another chance at life.

So with renewed passion and purpose, each day I will seek ways to smell it, touch it, see it, taste it, and listen to it.  Care to join me?  Lace up your shoes ... get out there and start enjoying your walk through life.

Kevin, a grey-haired eight year old.

==================================

My miracle recovery, described above, occurred nine years ago this month.  Since then, I've noticed that my life is continually surrounded and inundated by miracles … and on a daily basis.

So how about you?  Got miracles?  Tied your shoes lately?

Your daily miracles are out there too … start looking, experiencing, and then start celebrating.

The Belly Laugh of a Child

As a warm up, please read the following poem by Mary Stevenson:

Footprints in the Sand

One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord.
Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky.
In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand.
Sometimes there were two sets of footprints,
other times there were one set of footprints.

This bothered me because I noticed
that during the low periods of my life,
when I was suffering from
anguish, sorrow or defeat,
I could see only one set of footprints.

So I said to the Lord,
“You promised me Lord,
that if I followed you,
you would walk with me always.
But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life
there have only been one set of footprints in the sand.
Why, when I needed you most, you have not been there for me?”

The Lord replied,
“The times when you have seen only one set of footprints in the sand,
is when I carried you.”

I've known this poem since childhood.  Perhaps you have too.  It touched my life back then and it continues to touch my life today.  The mental imagery offers so much peace, comfort, and understanding.  How wonderful to know that we are carried safely in the arms of the Lord when we suffer from anguish, sorrow, or defeat.  I do not want to take away from the power of this poem, but I do want to invite you to consider a different understanding of the poem and a different understanding of those same footprints in the sand.  The alternate view I will present could be a challenging one for you, but I want you to at least give it a try.

So please proceed to read my thoughts with caution and, who knows, you may even have some fun in seeing how the Lord could decide to carry us in our storms of life.

May you experience peace in your journey along life’s sandy shore.  And may your hardships be met with the Lord’s direction and the hearty belly laugh of a child.

Seat-belts fastened?  Let’s go!

Carrie and I were enjoying our lunch last weekend at the Seattle airport.  The area was abundantly ripe for people watchin’.  I have trouble thinking of a better place to be if someone wants to pass their time watching people.  At the airport, people come in all ages, attire, and hairstyles … even no hairstyles.  There’s quite a bit for the eyes to see.

During my visual harvesting, I glanced over and noticed a young family that was beginning to gather their suitcases together.  They placed their leftover food scraps and ketchup smeared wrappers onto a tray and they shuttled it to a nearby trash can.  The father then reached down with both hands and hoisted his young son over his head and placed junior comfortably on his sturdy shoulders.  Then away they went to meet their plane.  The dad was smiling and knew exactly where he was headed.  The son was carefree and let out a contagious belly laugh.  You know that sound, right?  The boy was enjoying the ride, taking in the view, and assured that his daddy was in full control of their destination.

He was saved.

So that got me to thinking …

When I was younger, the Footprints in the Sand poem gave me a mental image of the Lord carrying me in His arms.  It was comforting.  It was reassuring.  I saw myself as an exhausted and tattered warrior carried in the arms of the Lord.  In my younger years, I would wave my right arm in a forward motion and instruct Jesus to follow me as I went into battle for Him.  He was always there to pick me up, be my shelter, and carry me when the storms of life beat me up.  And there was one set of footprints in the sand.

As I’ve grown older, it seems my walk with the Lord has taken the two us further down the shoreline along that same beach.  The mental imagery of the poem is decidedly different for me now.  I don’t feel like a warrior so much anymore, but rather, I feel more like a big kid with a belly laugh.  I trust Him.  I feel safe releasing the worries of this life over to Him.  As time passes on, I’ve gradually become more and more like a carefree child of God.

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”  Matthew 19:14

Today, the Footprints in the Sand poem has taken on a new mental image for me.  He calls out to me with love and I no longer lead, but willingly follow in His footprints.  When the trials and storms of life roll in, I find that I approach it much differently.  I see myself as a child that runs into the waiting arms of his Father.  I can feel His nail pierced hands hoist me over His head and place me comfortably on His sturdy shoulders.  I can hear myself let out a contagious belly laugh as I enjoy the ride, take in the view, and know that my Daddy is in full control of our destination.

I am saved.

And there is one set of footprints in the sand.

Am I Bothering You

As we were slowly getting into a chilly swimming pool today, I asked my wife, Carrie, if she'd like me to splash her.

More on that later ...

=======

From 35,000 feet in the air, the annoying husband kept pointing at his wife's computer screen to show her the next move she should make in her game.  As his finger would inch closer to the screen, both of her arms would begin flailing in an attempt to slap his hand and repel his approach.

She was unsuccessful, he remained undeterred, and both were enjoying a good laugh.

Those two kids were on their way to Hawaii to celebrate their 40 years of marriage.  I congratulated them and told them Carrie and I have been married almost 28 years.

I learned about some of the joy and heartache they experienced together throughout their 40 years together.  It was beautiful.  It was inspiring.

Finally, I asked her what was her favorite year.  She smiled as she told me it was this year because every year gets better.

=======

Without warning, Carrie slapped her hand to the water and splashed me.  She then asked me, after the crime was already committed, if I wanted her to splash me.

I could hear Carrie scream as my slightly overweight body hit the water beginning my cannon ball entry.  I returned to the surface to hear my wonderful wife call me a brat.

We both had a good laugh together ... as we celebrate our best year ever.  Well, until next year that is ... and then the year after that, followed by the year after that.

I plan on being with Carrie to love, honor, and annoy for years to come.

I'm her little brat.  Ok, big brat.