Another hair cut, another ...

I got my hair cut today.

all of them

but one.

Sheena calls it the worst hair cut ever.

That's saying lots, because last time there were about nine hairst right in the middle of the front that stretched two inchest past the rest.




Or the time before where there were missed clumps all over my head.

I should point out that all cuts were by different people. 

The real problem with this cut is that it is short. Before scissors touched my hair she asked, "what is one thing that you would never want to have happen to your hair?"

I said go bald.

technically I didn't go bald.

But only technically.

I've decided that I'm going to begin naming my hair cuts. This one will be known as the quick dry. Or maybe better yet, I'll now be telling people I'm quick drying. I'm not evern certain there's enough hair to retain water. I may not even need a towel now.

The hair cut before will be referred to as "the rogue" because that clump in front disregarded all the rules.

The worst part about all this, despite my wife not being able to look at me, is the response from my son. When he wakes up from a nap he is all smiles. It's a rule. It has always been that way. Now that my hair is shorter than his, some paradigm has changed. When I went in to get him after his nap he was, instead of ear to ear smiles, frightened. He didn't recognize me. I leaned in to pick him up and his lip quivered. He was frightened.

That's no good.

Want to see the cut?

Anyone have a hat?

It might look longer than it is. That's because it is longer at the crown, you know, where a lot of guys go bald. Maybe that's what she took from my comment about baldness.

If you don't see much of me for the next few weeks, it's because Sheena isn't letting me out in public.

the worst time to shop

I stopped at Wal-Mart yesterday on my way home from work.

There are a few important facts to get straight before I go on with this:
    1. Wal-Mart is super close to where I live and the most convenient place to do basic shopping,
    2. I had previously finished Sheena's valentines gift,
    3. I had recently killed a potted plant Sheena purchased for our dining room table.*

So I stopped in to pick up a new plant and quickly realized that in many ways 5pm on Valentines is a horrible time to shop at Wal-Mart, if you're a guy. "How many ways?" you ask. Well, let's count them.

1. The seasonal aisles (the ones closest to the entrance) are packed with guys purchasing candy that, I'm assuming, they're hoping will help them impress a lady or will help drown their loneliness.

2. Every female in the place gives you a dirty look for waiting until the last minute to purchase something that is supposed to express your never ending love. Or they're thinking, what kind of a valentine's gift is toilet paper?


3. You can't get anywhere near the card aisle. Even if all you want is a sympathy card or to wish someone well, forget it. Guys are taking a number to see what's left of the cards. No doubt more than a couple people got cards with the word "birthday" crossed out and "Valentines" written in sharpie. I've never seen so many people in a card aisle before.

4. Any move you make could inspire a guy, and therefore either make or break the valentines day of his girl friend/fiance/wife, or hoped to be girl friend/fiance/wife. The guy in line behind me was purchasing a box of chocolates and two clear storage totes. I don't know where he got the idea but that is not a winner of a gift. The guy in front of me had a fern: that's at least headed in the right direction. Another gentleman saw I had a pot of mini daffodils and after proclaiming me a "genius" he grabbed one too.**

5. The female cashiers have a tone about them. They say the words "happy valentine's day" but you hear "I better remind these guys what day it is because they probably forgot."

In conclusion: are there good times to shop at Wal-Mart? Yes. They've got great deals and everything you could possibly need. But are there times to avoid? You better believe it.

Next Feburary 14th I'm going to check out the 5 pm scene at the 7-11. I bet some crazy stuff is going down there.


* who knew you could over water flowers?
** To the lady that recieved the mini daffodils, if they aren't your thing I'm sorry. I didn't tell him what to buy, but made no attempts to stop him. Also, I got the best ones. By far. You see, my pot was the only pot that had a large number of  flowers yet to blossom, so there were flowers for yesterday and many more for tomorrow. While yours are fading and dying my wife's will still be blooming strong. See, I know how to pick them. I don't know how to keep them alive, but I know how to pick them. If you loved the flowers then forget all that. You're welcome.

The Problem With Being Knuckleless

1,907 Days.

Or if you prefer, five years, two months and and 20 days.

I've learned a lot about myself since saying "I do" to Sheena 1,908 days ago. I've mentioned often how my understanding of my head size has changed.

I also learned I have no knuckles.

Eash finger is essentially a tapered sausage. They are fattest where they attach to my hand and narrower at what I'm sure my ring calls, "The beginning of freedom."

Having tapered sausage fingers is essentially only a problem if you try and wear a ring. Prior to our wedding, the only ring I had any interest in wearing was a ring pop. You remember those delectable mounds of sugar shaped like a massive diamond? Tasty right?

Well, now that I've taken to wearing a ring on the finger, conveniently named the "ring finger," the days since our wedding have become one epic battle to keep from loosing it.

The ring tried to escape me while surfing. It's rather difficult to paddle for a wave with a clenched fist, but I won that battle. It even tried to swim to freedom through a  bathroom sink drain, but was no match for me and my wrench. And there have been too man incidents to count where my ring has jumped from my digit at the sudden extension of my fingers.

I've learned from each of these incidents. I no longer wear it while swimming of any kind. Our drains all have guards on them. And my left hand no longer makes sudden moves.

However, the battle almost came to an end yesterday, with the ring winning.

We headed up the mountain to go sledding. Before locking the van I took my ring off and put it in what I thought was secure location. I knew that if I kept it on, at some point I'd take my glove off on the hill and my ring would disappear. So leaving it in the vehicle is the safest place. Perhaps my house would have been safer yet. I had driven half-way down the mountain when I realized my ring was no longer where I put it. It was somewhere on the snowy road, most likely right next to where I was parked, but it was snowing heavily and the ground was no longer the ground we recognized. We went back but between the dark, the fresh snow, and the multiple lines of tire tracks over where we were parked, it seemed the ring was gone for good.

I went to bed thinking about the 1,907 days of blissful ring wearing. I wondered if there was a betting pool somewhere with people wagering on how long I would be able to keep from losing the ring. My sleep war far from restful.

This morning I woke early readied myself for the day and went back up the hill in the morning light. But this morning I went up armed with a weapon I knew the ring could not withstand. I carried a metal detector. It even had a ring setting. I thought one last look would be in order. If I didn't find it, I was preparing myself to resume the search once the snow melted.

In less than 120 seconds I found the white gold devil.

It seems to have been driven over multiple times. It hasn't lost its shape, but the snow in and around it was packed tightly. You can't even call it snow anymore. It was the frozen and watery equivalent to coal. Freeing the ring was like extracting a fossil from rock.

So, we had a scare, but we're at 1,908 days and counting. Let's see how long I can keep this band where it belongs.

Introducing...

My wife is amazing.

Three weeks ago she was sprawled out on a table in an operating room to be sliced open so that our son could join the outside world.

This was not the outcome my wife had hoped for. It turns out that when you combine our DNA you get kids with big heads. I mean, we make noggins. And it takes medical advancements to bring these melons out into the world.

So my wife was in the OR, some 14 or so hours after going into labor, and many hours after the epidural wore off.*

The only thing, in my wife's opinion, worse than a cesarean, was being completely put under. Being right out meant not seeing the baby right away. It meant missing hearing the first cry, and missing that special moment, even though it is incredibly brief, where they let the mom see the baby before it heads up to the nursery.

She was not about to miss any of that.

Oh, and apparently I wouldn't be allowed in the room if she was right out. And she didn't want me to miss out on anything either.

Even if it meant having some feeling in her abdomen. As in, she felt the knife.

What?

Okay, there's no way I'd put up with that.

So, they couldn't freeze her completely, I get that. She had a lot of pain medication already, and her body was showing signs that the medication wasn't going to work.

So, she grinned and bared through open abdominal surgery so that the two of us wouldn't miss the first moments of our son's life.

I have a long list of proof that my wife is a whole lot tougher than I am, and because of stunts like this it  keeps getting longer.

And so our son emerged on September 17. Unfortunately, despite much pleading with the nurses, I was not allowed to recreate the scene from the Lion King by standing on the hospital roof and holding him out for the world to see.

But now that he's home there's no one to stop me. Oh, except for Sheena, who I'm now a little bit afraid of, because of what she put up with in that operating room.

Makiah's doing a pretty good job showing him off, and maybe that's even better. She tells everyone we meet: "That's my brother."

She's proud and possessive.

And if she doesn't hug him to death she'll do a great job protecting him.


- - -
*how often does that happen?

Why Do I Do This...

I was standing in line for a cash register yesterday and I learned two important things about myself:

Whenever I have the choice between Smart Water and Water, I always choose Water, because it feels like I'm making a wiser decision.

and

Whenever I see one tabloid with the headline "X + Y Married in Secret Ceremony" then on the tabloid next to it "Are X + Y an Item?", I always feel bad for the second tabloid because they're obviously not in the loop.

Am I the only one who does these things?

3 ? Thursday

I'm coming worship music looking for new songs to do with the youth. What are some songs that you've enjoyed recently, that have maybe meant something, or are just plain fun?

I'm working on a charge for the high school grads. Do you remember your high school grad and what was shared there? What is the best advice you've ever received?

I can't believe that we go to Port Hardy in one month. What are you most looking forward to this summer?

Coombs Baby

I love it when Sheena has an ultrasound appointment.

I know they're controversial. I know some people have strong feelings about ultrasounds. I know some people never get them.

They are missing out.

They're so much fun.

I love seeing the images, but they're more than images. They're tiny clues into the personality that is already forming. The kid is playing around in there, and as a dad you are privy to such a tiny amount of what the mom is aware of.

My understanding is that Sheena feels movement almost constantly. While I probably play patty cake with the kid maybe ten minutes a week.

But when it comes ultrasound day I get to see what is going on in there. And it is awesome.

Kinda weird, because the kid looks more like an alien than his father at this point. But it's still amazing.

Here's a bit of what we saw on the last appointment.

So apparently, our kid is going to be a hippie.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Can I Get an Amen?

Now, what if I told you they scored?

A fun thing happened this Easter Sunday: a group of us had gathered with a communal purpose, and passion, with the same hopes, fears and anticipation.

Now, given that it was Easter you might be expecting me to be talking about the church service. Yes, I went to church in the morning. However, the service had a very different, you might saw more hidden, kind of passion compared to this other gathering.

And what was the other gathering?

A hockey game.

At the arena?

Nope.

I was in a ferry terminal.

One TV in the ferry terminal had the game on. And the place was packed. All sorts of travellers and terminal employees gathered to cheer, talk about the game, and experience intense joys and bouts of anxiety. Fortunately I was there nice and early to get a good seat as it quickly became standing room only.

I probably loved watching the crowd as much as the game. There were all sorts of people shoulder to shoulder.

One of the employees gathered there was a supervisor of sorts for the ferries. He had his radio and cell phones squawking at him from time to time as he tried to watch the game and do his job. Another employee there was the sole operator of a salad bar. She almost seemed disappointed that customers were pulling her away from the game. One traveller to join us, the youngest spectator by far, was dressed head to toe in visual displays of which team he was cheering for. He was very concerned that he'd miss the end of the game, until he learned the boat he was on had one.

Why was there so much passion in the crowd watching the game?

Well, it's hockey, in a hockey crazed Canadian city.

But why was there more passion there then in church?

I'm not entirely sure.

Perhaps it's not fair to say the service had less passion. I suppose it's more fair to say that it merely had less visible passion. But then again, what good, or of what evidence is there, if passion isn't on display? Can you call it passion if you're quiet about it?

When the Canucks scored their first goal Sunday, there was loud, audible, make people not paying attention drop their coffee because of fright, cheering.

When the pastor said, “he is risen.” people were rather quiet.

I don't get it.

I hope with too much energy that I live to see the Canucks win the Stanley Cup, but as awesome as that would be, when you compare that with God's redeeming work through Jesus Christ, it is no where near as great.

If ever there was something to be passionate about it's that God loves each of us so much he would do anything to restore the relationship. God is crazy passionate about us. Can we begin to be passionate about the same things God is? Or are we too distracted by the hockey game?

By the way:

Go Canucks Go!

Wiplash

I've had my share of wipe outs. I've hit my head on a lot of things. I've fallen in very creative and unfortunate ways. Three times I've been in car accidents where the vehicle was written off. I have scars on my body that have no known cause. I have scars with known cause, but the explanation makes no sense.

And yet very few major injuries.

No concussions.*

No severed appendages.

Very few broken bones.

No whiplash.

It amazes me that those last four lines are true. I don't know how I've made it this far without having spent more time in the hospital. This is especially true of those days when I was learning to drive a whole new class of vehicles that you can't just "shift" into drive.

Learning to drive standard was a lot of fun, but it rattled my brain around something fierce. Some youth would ask to go for a ride in the Eurovan, while I was mastering the nuances of a clutch, because it was the closest thing to a carnival ride in our town. Perhaps I should have charged admission, or at least enough to cover the gas, but I was driving anyway.

The day after I bought the van I wanted to drive it to church. But I was nervous. I didn't want to stall in front of everyone in the parking lot. At the grocery store everyone was anonymous. On the highway it didn't matter I'd never see them again. But at church, I knew these people and they knew me. I was hoping to spare myself some embarrassment.

So I practiced.

In the driveway.

Back and forth. Back and forth: wearing ruts in the dirt and taking years of life off the clutch.

My parents driveway isn't long, but long enough to get comfortably in first gear before slamming on the breaks. Then I'd throw it into reverse and find my way, literally, backwards to the start. I'm sure I put a good twelve kilometers** on the odometer.

For 45 minutes or so I was working at this trying to get to the point where I could roll through the church parking lot smoothly. I din't care so much what happened on the open road, but I wanted everything to be elegant in that parking lot.

Clutch in. Clutch out. Clutch in. Clutch out. Clutch in. Clutch out.

The van lurching, rolling, stuttering, jerking every which way. And my head right along with it. Now, my cranium has impressive girth. So there is considerable mass sitting atop my neck. And numerous laws of physics at play. Adding to that, my hair was much longer at the time--carrying momentum, and adding effect if nothing else.  Yes, my hair was whipping back and forth.  It's a wonder I didn't sustain any injury as I was bouncing around.  This was what I imagined riding a mechanical bull to be like. The Eurovan was my giant, blue, made in Germany, mechanical bull.

After all that it was time to leave for church. It was time to see what the outcomes of my practicing would be.

It wasn't pretty.

It wasn't smooth.

You'd think I hadn't practiced at all. I guess that's the outcome of never getting to second gear.

I was in the wrong gear as I attempted to hop the curb into the parking lot.*** The van then, mostly because of the wrong gear thing, began to shake violently and I was certain and explosion was immanent.

Fortunately, no explosion.

But there was a whole lot of head turning.

Eventually my driving skills improved. The headaches went away.  I rarely turn heads in a parking lot anymore.


*at least not that I know of

**I'm sure it was more like .12 but much of my memory may have been skewed by rattling.

***The entry into that church's parking lot is like the entry into any parking lot, in that if travelling the right speed you barely notice the bump. However, if you're not travelling the right speed, let's say because you're in the wrong gear and made poor estimations of how much time your much-heavier-than-you're-used-to vehicle needs to slow down, you may in fact find that "small barely noticeable bump" have an affect on the van much like a mogul would on a downhill skier. The van never went air born, but it certainly hopped.

9 Years of Eurovan Love

I cleaned out the inside of my '93 VW Eurovan this weekend.

It was long overdue.

There was dirt, sand, and raisin boxes all over the floor.

But I didn't just clean the floor. I got out the armor-all wipes and wiped down the dash, and any surface that looked the slightest bit dirty. I used over 15 wipes. I cleaned the glove box, taking out every last item and evaluating whether or not the glove box was the best home for it. Then I put back only what belonged.

Then I changed the air freshener.

Now the van looks and smells wonderful.

Well, at least on the inside.

Makiah calls it "the dirty van."

I don't know how that started. I'd love for it to stop.

As I was cleaning out the van, I found the original transfer papers from the purchase.

And that's when I  realized that in a few days I'll be celebrating* nine years of Eurovan ownership.

Nine years...that's incredible.

Well, it's been nine incredible years anyways.

I began to think about all the wonderful memories I have from the past nine years, and the van is featured in most of them. The best example being that I proposed to Sheena in the van. Now I'm really wondering if those memories would be so sweet if it weren't for my good friend Eileen.**

What is more, Sheena and I will probably be saying our last goodbyes to our transportation friend within the next year. Her life is nearing it's end. At least she is becoming too aged to meet all of our transportation needs.

I wish there were some farm, perhaps with sheep, where she could live out the rest of her days frolicking in fields with other Eurovans. Oh how the Eileen loves to go off road. To my knowledge no such farm exists, leaving us uncertain of her future.

I feel that to celebrate the old girl in a manner that is truly fitting, I should share with you some of the stories that play out so vividly in my memory.

Those will come in time.

All I say for now is that I still remember sitting in the Toyota Tercel outside a closed tire shop, my dad in the seat next to me, we had just test driven the van and I had to make a decision: to buy or not to buy.

I had been working for Canada Post for a year and a half. In that time I had saved up enough money, but this would wipe out my savings. Did I want to take the plunge? It was the most incredible vehicle I had ever been in. And I hadn't even driven it yet because I didn't know how.

The Eurovan is a six speed manual, with a hidden reverse. I didn't want to grind the crap out of it and then say: "No thanks. I'll keep looking."

After ten long minutes in that parking lot I had made a decision. We went back to the guy's house. He was very surprised to see us again. I don't think he expected to be selling his van that day. But he did.

We signed a bunch of papers and that was it: I had purchased the Eurovan.

My dad drove it the two hours home while I drove the Tercel.  The Tercel had been my primary form of transportation since the summer of '99. It had taken me far, and had left me stranded far too. The Tercel and I never boned. I had memories but they were nothing special--unless you count the time my friend Brad and I had to push it across Crossfield, Alberta.

During the drive my dad and I chatted back and fort on walkie-talkies.  I remember that we were each eating an apple while driving up the Malahat. When I got down to the core I had to manually roll the passenger window down before throwing it out. This was awkward, uncomfortable, and very dangerous given the speeds we were traveling. I was not going to miss that.

My dad delighted in showing off how one finger rolled down the passenger window of the vehicle he was driving. Oh how I was moving up in the world.

My standard education would begin latter that day. It was a rough first week. I'll tell you more about that next time.



*I say celebrating, but this will be the first time I've ever marked the occasion. The past 8 anniversaries have come and gone without any sort of fan fare.

**Eileen is, of course, the name of the Eurovan. Our relationship had progressed several years before a truly fitting name was found. Perhaps one day I'll tell you how that came to be.

Wedding Lessons

I learned a very important lesson from the wedding of Sheena's brother last weekend.

Well, several lessons.

The first, and most serious, is that when you're officiating a wedding be very careful when, where, and for how long you pause. For example, a pause right after you say "You may kiss the bride" is highly appropriate. They need time to kiss without you yabbering through it.

However, a long pause right after you ask the groom: "Do you take [the bride] to be your wife" confuses the groom. When you're nervous, and in front of a room full of people, and especially when you're not used to being before a room full of people, a second feels like an hour. Your groom will begin to wonder if you're waiting for him to respond. So, if you leave a pause after that phrase, don't be surprised if the good says "I do."  It seems like you're asking him a question.

And you are.

So, if you're officiating a wedding, watch the pauses.

The second thing I learned is that it's becomming popular for weddings today are borrowing from 1960's TV shows. Let me demonstrate this with a picture.

This is a picture of the truck the couple used to leave the ceremony. It's an old white. Yes that's a rocking chair in the back for the bride to sit on.

This is the first wedding I've been to with such a vehicle for the newlywed couple. However, it wasn't the frist time I've seen this truck. Standing there watching them leave, I kept thinking I'd seen this vehicle, and scene, before. Then it occurred to me. I had seen it. 

This is a picture of the Beverly Hillbillies from the 1960's TV show. It looks crazy similar to the truck pictured above. There's even a rocking chair in the back. I'm sure somewhere, I've even seen Granny sitting in that rocking chair up there.

I am now going to be looking for other 60's TV show inspired weddings. Wouldn't a batman themed wedding be amazing?

"Holy inappropriate first kiss Batman."

That would be awesome.

The last thing I learned is that it doesn't take much for my wife to return to her roots. This picture serves as witness.

Can you identify Sheena?

She's in there along with members of her family. It's scary how naturally she dressed up for the reception. She heard the reception was a red neck theme and out came the flannel, gumboots, suspenders and grubby t-shirt.

I almost didn't recognize her.

I'm a little bit afraid of what might happen if we move to too small of a town. And it totally explains why Makiah's favourite footwear is her pink rubber boots. She just wants to be like mommy.

Competitve Sleeping

I had some trouble sleeping this morning. Then a funny thought poped into my head:

What if sleeping was a competitive sport?

Not that I think sleeping would be easier with the pressure of worrying about whether I was winning or loosing at it, but it was a crazy thought.  As with most crazy thoughts, my brain began to explore it. Coincidently, this led to more trouble sleeping.

Here are some of the thoughts:

If sleeping were a sport what would define victory?

Would it be for longest span of uninterrupted slumber, or for being able to function on the least amount of sleep? Or  would it be something else?

And why shouldn't sleeping be a sport? They made eating a sport, so perhaps more of our everyday routines should be turned competitive. And if more of our everyday routines were turned competitive, what else should be?

T.V. viewing
Grochery shopping
Thank You note writting

I think I'd most love to see a competition in sarcasm detection.  That would be crazy.

What about you, what everyday routines would you like to see turned competitive?

Little Miss Backseat Driver

Sheena and I have been trying to help our daughter learn colours.

She's getting it, but on occasion will shout "Pink!" for absolutely no reason.

Which leaves me wondering: is there such a thing as colour turrets?

But then, then, she'll do something absolutely brilliant like point at the different colours on her jammies and tell you what they're called. This makes us fell like good parents, and we pat ourselves on the back for a brilliant job educating our daughter.

Yes, she's quite smart.

Perhaps too smart.

The other night Makiah and I were driving through town and while stopped at a red light I began making funny faces at her in the mirror.  This is a common event while driving. Then something new happened. I'm in the middle of my best goofy face, one that usually causes her to bust out laughing, when she begins pointing straight ahead and shouting "Green! Green! Green! Green!"

I look up and see the light has changed.

As I start to drive away I look back and she my daughter all proud of herself. While it's wonderful seeing  her full of self-confidence, I can't help but wonder if she's more proud of herself for corectly identifying the light colour, or prompting my driving.

I think it might be more the latter.

I can't believe that she's not even two and already an excellent back seat driver. I'd be more proud if it wasn't kind of annoying.

Fingerprints

I was at the police station yesterday getting my fingerprints taken.

I should point out that I wasn't in trouble with the law.

I was getting a criminal record check taken.

Apparently, they don't want to just take my word for it.

I'm in the process of applying with the school ditrict to volunteer at a local elementry school helping kids improve their reading skills. 

I'm excited about the prospects of helping in a local school. And I totally understand, and even appreciate, the criminal record check. But here's the thing, I'd love it if someone would explain to the guy taking the fingerprints, that not everyone having their prints taken is a criminal.

It wasn't a police officer who processed my digits. And this guy had some attitude on him. To his credit he softened as we went along, but at first I thought he was going to throw me in a cell until they got word back from Ottawa.

It turns out that not everyone doing a criminal record check needs to be printed, however, if you share a birthday with someone with a record you're going to get inked. And that ink does not wash off easily. I still have a bit of ink on my hands.

So, does anyone have any suyggestions for getting this stuff off? I promise not to raise any suspicions about your past.

Saving Milk for Daddy

Saturday Sheena and Makiah flew to Vancouver Island. Sheena's brother is getting married in a couple days and Sheena wanted to go early and help with last minute prep.

Typically when Sheena goes away for a week I try and keep myself as busy as possible. It is during times like these that I tackle house projects that generally go over better when she isn't around. A typical week of her absence looks like 5 days of me destroying the house and two of me trying to put it all back together.

Last night I began the putting it all back together phase.

I began the reconstruction in the living room.

For some reason I keyed in on Makiah's toys as the place to start.

Here's a fun fact about my daughter. She loves milk.

She loves milk so much that she doesn't want to stop drinking to play. She will do as much as she possibly can with a milk cup in one hand.

Now, if that milk cup has chocolate in it, I believe her hand and the cup become fused together. I'm pretty sure that somehow flesh and plastic become one.

It get's kinda gross.

I'm also pretty sure that this caused her to begin walking when she did. After a few weeks of trying to crawl with a milk cup in one hand she gave that up and when vertical.

Often when she's drinking and playing she'll put her milk cup down for the few things that she needs two hands for. Usually when she does this she puts the cup somewhere safe: as in, somewhere where I won't pick it up and relocate it to the fridge. Somewhere like in her toy box.

I'm never surprised anymore when I ask her to get her milk cup and she pulls it out of the toy box, or the doll house, or from under the TV. That is how she rolls.

And so last night I began putting away her toys in the living room and made a discovery: six day old milk.

Given the browness in the cup I think it was chocolate.

I hope it was chocolate.

I have much more cleaning to do tonight and I'm a little anxious about what I shall discover as I go.

Now I'm quite certain that my daughter is not the only toddler to have done this. Where have you found nasty old milk or other food your kid was saving for later?

Dear P-trap

Dear Sink P-trap:

Thank You!

I cannot say that emphatically enough.

Tonight you saved me from a world of emotional and physical hurt.

Normally I don't think all that highly of you. It's not that I think lowly of you, I simply give you little consideration except to chuckle at your name.

I understand the role you play as gatekeeper. You stand watch over the forgotten points of entry into my house. At night I deadbolt the doors and lock the windows. I never think to secure the pipes. Yet there you are keeping predators from entering my sanctuary. You enable me to sleep deeply, soundly, safely without ever wondering if I'll wake to the smell of sewer gas roaming my halls.

Yes, now and again I hear of water born pathogens such as snakes and alligators entering homes through the pipes, but that's not your fault, perhaps we humans haven't given you all the tools you need. You're a dip in a pipe, how much should we expect?

And so I must apologize for all the times I take you for granted.

Tonight you bailed me out big time. I will be forever grateful, for while I was washing my hands my ring fell off and slipped down the drain.

Now don't go blaming the drain. I know you two are at odds because of such issues. It isn't the drain's fault that the installer never provided the drain with the pop up top. The drain's only half installed so back off!

I take full responsibility for the ring washing away. You see it was a very hot day when Sheena and went ring shopping and my hands were swollen. Now on cold days, such as today, my fingers are so thin that it just pops right off.

And today as I saw my wedding ring disappear into the plumbing abyss, I was so thankful that you where there watching my back. The gatekeeper extraordinaire, standing tall, keeping predators from entering the house, and our most prized possessions from running away.

If it wasn't for you I'd be ring-less tonight.

I will, from this day forward, be singing your praises o mighty P-trap.

Gratefully Yours

Chris Miller

Christmas Shopping

Did you know that you can type "What should I get my wife for Christmas?" into a Google search and get a ton of responses?

It's true.

Out of frustration, because I have a horrible Christmas shopping track record, I mound myself turning to Google for help this year.

In years past I've gone the whole rout of trying to listen to Sheena's "hints" about what she wants for Christmas. Then Christmas day would roll around and it would be revealed that I failed miserably at deciphering what she wanted. "What do you mean you don't want four boxes of that tea? Were you hoping for five?"

This year, at first, I took a new approach. I developed an ingenious way of getting the answers I wanted. I formed a question so brilliant, so simple, so perfect that the most amazing Christmas list ever would be developed. I knew that these seven words were going to deliver the best Christmas presents ever: "Sheena, what do you want for Christmas?"

It's brilliant isn't it?

Here's what I got in response:

- A perfect daughter.

At first I thought, Sweet, I'm done.  But then I grew unsettled.

I wasn't as satisfied with the answer to my question as I hoped. Oh sure, there was also some nonsense in there about a sowing machine (way over our spending limit) and something about a pillow.

A pillow?

Here's why Sheena is not going to be getting a pillow from me for Christmas: For the past two years she's be in pursuit of "the perfect pillow." We have a room full of pillows as a result of her vain efforts. I imagine that she could Frankenstein a pillow together of all the parts of the worthless pillows that she has "invested" in. Pillow shopping has become something of a hobby for her--right along with pillow complaining four days later.

I don't believe that my efforts will change things so I'm moving on.

And without her help I turned to the internet.

So you can Google "What should I get my wife for Christmas?" but I'm warning you, the answers there aren't very helpful either. You get the male responses (flowers, bath stuff, spa package) which some women might like, but mostly you get women weighing in on how your wife really needs a new husband: perhaps one who doesn't turn to the internet for help in shopping for her.

So then I made two lists. The first is of all the stuff I know she does not like: bath stuff topped that list pretty easily.

The second list was all the stuff I want. This list proved very helpful. Do you remember that Seinfeld episode where George Costanza made all his decisions by thinking of what he would normally do and then doing the opposite? I basically looked at the list of what I wanted and then bought the opposite.

I'll let you know how that works out.

Banff

Sheena and I spent last weekend in Banff, Alberta.

We were at a conference for pastors.

We had a good time.

Thank You.

- - -

Did you ever write reports like that?

The above is all true, and now I'm working through how to report what happened to the church board who paid for Sheena and I to attend. We had a great time. But that should be a given considering the two major factors in the weekend. 1. It was in Banff* 2. It was all paid for by the church.

In school I probably wrote reports similar to the first three lines of this post. Simple. To the point. Reports.

That may be fine when you're six, but at 31 people expect more.

Also, I expect more.

So here are some of the highlights:

We considered every imaginable way to get to Banff except the train and bus.** So basically we considered driving and flying. We decided we wanted to drive then considered a rental. In the end we took our car. And we're glad we did. It was a wonderful drive. It was supposed to take six and a half hours. I got there in a speedy seven.

We often fantasize about living and pastoring in a small town. Now we've heard stories about having to drive 45 minutes for milk and have a greater appreciation for where we live.

Thank you Tony Roma's buffet, I gained three pounds: three pounds of meat and animal fat. Tasty.

Makiah had a holiday of her own at Chez Bessy. Friends took her in so we could talk about other things than "the potty," "ray-rays" and "eeze."  While we didn't miss Makiah as much as we thought, we still talked about potties and ray-rays. And while she was excited to see us when we got home, when I dropped her off there today because Sheena and I are both working, she got super excited to be back.

The weekend provided us, relative newbies to the NAB, with better insight into what's going in the our conference of churches. We now have some faces to the names, and a better understanding of where things are.

And finally, the sessions were short, to the point, meaningful, and few. All that translates into a lot of free time to hang out with Sheena, poke in shops, and soak in the hot springs. It was great.


* If you've never been to Banff this might not be obvious. Here are some things you should know: it's gorgeous, even without a car you can see great sights, it's a wonderful place to relax, there are several incredible candy shops.

** Seriously, who considers the bus? I mean, when was the last time you heard someone say: "So I'm taking the buss..." and thought wow, I bet they'll enjoy that trip, get there refreshed, and have a lovely journey. No, you're thinking really? the bus? are they that broke? were the flights all full? can I loan them my car? I sure hope they don't get stabbed.

New Haircut?

Tuesday I saw this here video



Wednesday, I got a haircut.

The whole time I was in the chair it was running in my head.

No I did not get a bowl cut.

Yes, despite trying a different place the result was the same.

I suggested to Sheena that perhaps I need to try a new style: one that would be easier to reproduce on my noggin'.

She said that guys my age do not just go out and get a new style.

That being said, maybe next time I'll just get a bowl cut.

What To Expect In A Youth Conference Foyer

On Friday evening I was walking into a church auditorium for a youth conference that was about to begin. We had three students from our ministry with us, but they had scattered looking for people they knew and a spot much closer to the front. 


Makiah was with us.


What can I say, she's a hardcore 18month old rocker. She loves music and we were quite confident that the worship band was going to bring it*: an experience that she would love.**


So, we're about to walk into the auditorium, but were still in the buzz that is a conference venue foyer. You know, you've got colleges, missions agencies, child sponsorship programs, and band merchandise tables all competing for the attention of the teens who have cash to spend.*** You mix all that testosterone infused competition, with the buzz of students who have just been shooting back 5 hour energy drinks on the bus ride over, and add a tsunami of Axe Body spray and you've got the typical youth conference venue foyer. 


Our heads were buzzing a little bit. Do we go right in? Do we want to pause and check out a booth or two? I forgot a pen, do you think anyone will give me one?  Do any of the colleges have an iPad I can play with? If I stop here is that guy going to talk at me for 20 minutes about the awesomeness of their ministry in Timbucktwozistan, while I think about how I could have read all this in 30 seconds off their website, and wonder if that school over there has an iPad I could be looking this up on?


There is much to consider in a conference venue foyer.


And as we were walking towards the auditorium door, someone was grabbing my hand, to shake it and greet me. 


A bit weird. 


But awesome.


It was a guy I met five years ago in Northern Ireland, and hadn't seen in four. 


We were able to chat a bit here and there over the course of the weekend. Catching up and hearing what God was doing in each of our lives. 


It was wonderful.


Wonderful because it was such a picture of how the family of God is supposed to be. Brothers who can chat after four years of separation as if nothing and everything has changed. 


We've both been through a lot in four years. Which is exciting. All the more exciting when you get to see similarities between the stories and share in the faithfulness and awesomeness of our God. 


It was the highlight of my weekend. Right up there with my daughter dancing in my arms to the music. 


Also had the opportunity to preach in church Sunday morning. Check back later and I'll post a link to hear the sermon online. 






* They did


** She did. And I have to admit to a certain sense of awesomeness for getting my kid into such great concerts. She might as well experience as many as she can while she's free. 


*** And I'm sorry, but colleges, when you're over there in the corner saying: "hey come chat with me, I have candy." You come across a little creepy. And no one is excited by pens anymore.  Well, that's not entirely true. I'm excited by pens. But guess what: I graduated from college 10 years ago. I'm not your target audience. Your target audience doesn't use pens anymore. Just a few tips. By the way, thank you for the pens.