black and white

These are my sister and brother-in-law's dogs: Pony (black) and Bear (white). They're crazy.

the band name is...

courier

thank you

for the anonymous, you know who you are. thank you.

electronic contact

electronic contact
has me sick to my stomach

with twenty six letters
i can change the world

but with one look
you can change me

from the inside out
to the furthest places

from here to where
everything's real

i long for all that is human
laughing, breathing

crying when it hurts
but loving through it all

with twenty six letters
i can change the world

but with one look
you can change me

pyromarketing

Author Greg Stielstra is launching our PyroMarketing video today at the Word of Mouth Marketing Association in Washington, D.C.



Sign up for Creo Updates at www.creoproductions.com!

opposite of bing crosby

Tonight we returned to Oak Crest.

Ted and the others were happy to see us; he even brought his brother and sister-in-law along. Lois played Christmas Carols on the keyboard for us, and we screeched them out as best we could. One of the women we talked to last time brought the pictures she promised to show us of her driving trucks.

David was there, too.

We met David a year ago, and the first time we talked, he told me how he landed in Japan just days after the bomb went off. He spent the majority of his time in the service pulling the lever that released jets off the carrier.

Tonight, he leaned over and said, “I used to sing opposite of Bing Crosby.” I perked up in my chair. “Really?” I replied with excitement.

“Yeah. He sang well, and I sang opposite.”

field trip

yesterday afternoon i dropped my laptop onto the floor. while it was falling, everything moved in slow motion, like a bad dream where you can't run any faster.

i became powerless.

the ac adapter head broke off into the computer, but we pulled it out with pliers this morning.

i headed into best buy, where they told me i should've bought the warranty back in july. "good luck," the geek squad member said to me. great.

as i went to look for a replacement, a guy was holding his fallen adapter in hand like a dead octopus. "you too, huh?" i said as i walked in the aisle. "yeah, it sucks, man," he said.

together, we stared at a rack full of adapters and mourned the inflated prices ($100+), then i told him i was going to go online to find a better deal ($54, delivered overnight), but he had college exams to study for tonight so he had to buy one now.

"that sucks, man. good luck," i said.

then i went to the mall. i hadn't been to a mall since the day we landed in london and our hostel room was hot like a finnish sauna ("sow-na"), but there was no lake or pool or snow to cool off in, so we mustered enough strength to search for suitable ac.

at the mall, a woman stopped me and tried to sell me hand lotion or something that smelled really good for my "lady." i told her i don't have a lady right now and that on top of not having a lady, my family wasn't buying christmas presents this year.

she didn't really believe me and i probably should've let her finish her sales pitch, but i told her i wasn't lying and i was only in the mall because i dropped my laptop and i lifted up my bag from radio shack to prove it and...

we say we're not buying christmas presents, but i got an email from my mom last week, who still enjoys giving us presents from santa, though we're all over twenty. when my brother found out that santa wasn't real (apologies to any believers out there), my sister and i conned him into pretending he still believed for a year or two longer so we could get the good presents.

santa packages always come in brightly colored cartoonish wrapping paper with all capital letters. santa never got us socks, he'd usually pull through with tecmo super bowl or a new tv or a breadmaker that we used once and decided it was easier to just buy bread.

what's funny, is that this year, all i really need is some new socks.

the right tools

this morning, i tried clearing the thick, half-melted ice from our stairs with an axe.

we discovered the axe hanging above our coat closet when we moved here in august. i thought it was odd that we had one, but i proudly show most guests when i give them a tour.

first, i scraped the loose snow off with my hillbilly gore-tex books and hands, then went to work with the steel. the axe wasn't really working properly as a shovel, and after a minute of hacking, i wondered how many neighbors were watching this display.

i glanced across the street in lust at the neighbor's shovel.

it was propped on their house, metal and rusty, a good shovel that's proved itself capable of handling a decade or more of frosty michigan winters. this shovel would make any plastic shovel feel insignificant. i decided that if i knew the neighbors across the street, it probably wouldn't be a big deal if i went and asked them to use their shovel. but then i thought better of it, since they just saw me come out of my house to spend 25 minutes clearing the snow and ice off my car that's been idle for two weeks. then i hauled a bunch of garbage out of my car into the house and came back outside with an axe to clear the ice off my stairs.

then i remembered how odd they must think i am already, from their perspective, i rarely leave the house and a strange car comes here every morning at various times. some of them know me from the potluck they had in the middle of the street last summer. we stopped by and ate some casseroles and listened to an older lady talk about her yoga class and assured them we weren't huge party-animals and we left. i imagine what they think we're doing some days when we haul heavy gray boxes and black bags and pvc piping and boards with wheels out to our cars and drive away. then i wonder if they can hear the band playing on wednesday nights, but dan says they can't and that's what's sweet about renting a whole house. i wonder if the newspapr guy thinks i'm even alive or just crazy or lazy when a week's worth of newspapers stack up on the front porch.

maybe i should just talk to them. or maybe i should buy a shovel.

sufjan christmas streams

http://www.asthmatickitty.com/suf_xmas/suf_xmas.php

sing it, ray

Last night Dan and I ventured to Detroit Rock City to see Ray LaMontagne (pronounced “La Mon Tang”). If you don’t know Ray, go to (www.myspace.com/raylamontagne) and listen to “Three More Days” and “Trouble.” Then purchase a CD; you’ll have no regrets.

When the lights dimmed inside the Scottish Rite Cathedral, a woman quietly walked on stage, grabbed an acoustic guitar and started picking a hauntingly beautiful tune. She was “Tristan Prettyman from San Diego,” who used to make pizzas but now travels the globe singing surfer music.

She was good. And apparently she surfs, too. Spicy.

Ray carries a mystical presence. With his signature beard and fro, he utters few words. He’d tease the audience like he was going to speak, then he’d just look to his band and start another song. At one point, some Sloppy Joe yelled, “Take your pants off, Ray!” He responded by springing up a middle finger salute, the crowd applauded.

Ray’s voice is soft and raspy, as if he’s stricken with a permanent-cold, but it’s what makes him memorable. When he bellows his signature crescendo, “Ohhh, ohhh,” his knees bend, his voice explodes, the crowd goes bananas.

Ray’s band is tight, both functionally and adjectively: His guitarist is a master of slide, electric, acoustic and classical; the drummer aware and accurate; the female bassist swaying like she was experiencing heaven on earth.

But what I like most about Ray is that he’s a poet; though he doesn’t recycle clichés or care what mainstream culture thinks is music (ahem, MTV & VH1).

In “Burn,” about an ex-lover who has moved on while he remains heartbroken, he writes:

Oh so don't pay no mind
To my watering eyes
Must be something in the air
That I'm breathing

While essentially saying, “Yes, you’ve broken my heart, it has made me cry and I am embarrassed,” he avoids abused country music phrases, and says it “must be something in the air that I’m breathing.” All men can relate. Wow.

Yes’n I try to ignore
All this blood on the floor
It's just this heart on my sleeve that's bleeding

No parsing necessary, this is literary gold.

Oh mama don't walk away
You leave me here bereaving from the words so hard and plain
Saying the love that we had
was just selfish and sad

To see you now with him
is just making me mad
Oh so kiss him again
just to prove to me that you can
and I will stand here
and burn in my skin

In order to fully appreciate this final line, you have to hear Ray sing, “Burn in my skin.” It’s top notch. It’s raw. It’s authentic. It makes your stomach hurt. It’s additional cliché words for cool.

All this to say: Music reaches the unreachable places. It is powerful. It has the power to bring us together or tear us apart. Music is a universal communicator of love, hate and everything in-between. I love music.

laugh a little slower

Today is the first day of "winter." It would be a white lie to say I'm pleased. Every year, on the first day of unofficial "winter," I always question why I live in the land of the Trolls.

To uphold a counterproductive tradition, I vent:

Not only do we receive inadequate amounts of snow to fully enjoy the winter sports of my youth (skiing, snowmobiling, sledding, midget tackle football), Western Michigan happens to be one of the grayest areas of the U.S. during the winter. Give credit to Lake Michigan, I heard, though I don't know exactly why, but I don't blame the big lake, I love her 70 percent of the year.

(As I compose this vent, blue skies appeared outside my window, crushing my always-gray hypothesis, though I will stand my ground, since winter doesn't officially begin until December 22. Canadian Alanis Morrisette would be pleased with this blue-sky irony. I imagine she gets her songwriting inspiration by cutting prime rib with a spoon.)

Additionally, I hypothesize that my migration "Downstate" six years ago molded me into a loyal follower of the Counting Crows, who often sing praises of the color gray, for example: "Gray is my favorite color, I felt so symbolic yesterday, if I knew Picasso, I would buy myself a gray guitar and play, Mr. Jones and me..."

And, in "A Long December," they sing,"I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower, makes you talk a little lower..." "A Long December" is about a relationship meltdown (with a certain Friends' star) rather than crappy weather, but the winter vibe is heavy.

Finally, in the coming months, I'll experience a new kind of winter. I won't have to drive everyday or scrape the ice off the Jetta as often. Most days, I can survive without driving. However, if this morning's battle with the snooze button morphs into a trend, I'm threatened by the thought of turning into a twentysomething winter hermit.

Now, for the soap-box dismount and glimpse of snowy hope:

"Maybe this year will be better than the last." -Counting Crows, "A Long December"

thanksgiving and alternators

Tonight, I drove downtown to visit Tim at the hospital.

Tim is a friend from our community who was in a 4-wheeler accident on Thanksgiving. He shattered some vertebrae in his upper back, but doctors performed successful surgery on Friday and Tim will make a full recovery.

We praise God for Tim’s health and pray for his recovery in the coming months.

Tonight, while attempting to "re-park" my car, it died. I knew last week she was tanking. I recently poured her market value into repairs, and mailed the final loan payment in last week. After years of interest, she was mine.

I didn’t get to see Tim tonight.

I got my first jump from a family exiting the hospital. They left. She died shortly after. I called Andrew, my trusty friend and business partner. He came and jumped her. I made it down the street, then she tanked, again. We jumped it and let it sit while I talked to Tim on the phone. Tim said he'd help but he was in the hospital. We started her up and coasted into the Wealthy Street Market parking lot, where she died. Again.

There, a man informed us we were stupid and were jumping the car for no reason; he told us the alternator was shot. It’s the same thing Tim, the hospital security guard and Andrew all said, too. I think they're right, I’m no mechanic. Cars and I don't click. Undeterred, we continued to jump the car, drive for a few blocks, let it die and repeat.

But we made it. Finally, we arrived at home, bulldozing in the wrong-way on a one-way.

On many nights, things like this would frustrate me. Not tonight. One of these days, I’ll get the alternator fixed, though I won’t lose my mind over broken-down cars, because they’re going to break again. And again. And again. In the big picture, a car has very little value. It’s just another possession. Tonight isn't about an alternator. It's about perspective. It's about thanksgiving.

Tomorrow morning, I will visit Tim, and I will praise God for his life.

give thanks

We spent the evening at an old folks' home.

We chatted and sang old hymns and were dazzled by Lois, a former church organist who tickled the ivories for us on the keyboard. She knew every song by memory. We only had to tell her the title, and she would start playing the introduction, we soon joined with our voices. I was amazed. She smiled and blushed a little when a few of us clapped after a song. "I haven't been able to stump her yet," the attendant Kathy said.

There I met "Ted," the 84-year-old who told me he doesn't belong there, he is perfectly healthy but had a dangerous mold growing in his basement so he decided to move in across the hall from his 88-year-old brother, who broke a bone in his neck, so is forced to get nourishment from a tube. I asked Ted for the secret to staying healthy so long, he told me to stay active and not to smoke. He walks two times a day "if the weather isn't too bad," and had a hip problem but took a pill called Glucosamine for three days and was back on the prowl.

Ted was in WWII, stationed in Germany as a machine gunner. He hates boats but remembers riding on a carrier in the Atlantic when all the soldiers had to pile up on one side after the ship had been sabotaged and started to lean in one direction. They made it to Nova Scotia and stopped there to pick up a new ship and kept on going.

Ted once witnessed a fellow soldier get shot in battle, who fell into his arms, but Ted "kept him quiet" until the firestorm stopped, then hauled him to the back lines, saving his life. "I never knew who he was, but he lived," Ted said.

The woman next to us, who was recently reunited with her husband of 66 years, Jack, after his three-week hospital stay where he widdled down to 103 pounds, told us how Jack's only brother was killed on the beach, most likely on D-Day in Normandy, she couldn't recall.

Modest, Ted only brags about one thing: While in the service, the platoon leader challenged the troops that if anyone out shot him in target training, he would throw a party for all of them. Ted out shot him. And they partied, all because of Ted. He told us how he learned how to shoot by aiming at 22 shells behind the train tracks in Caledonia, where he attended high school.

He doesn't like guns anymore. "Not after that," he said, referring to the great war.

After the war, Ted worked as an auto mechanic until the owner died and his son couldn't run the business so it folded. He worked in construction with his brother-in-law for the rest of his career. His brother-in-law quit two weeks earlier than Ted, against their company's retirement recommendations. Ted still receives a paycheck today and drives an Infinity. His brother-in-law doesn't.

Ted's wife passed away in 1986 at age 59. I read her obituary, a laminated bookmark in Ted's Bible. "It's tough losing a friend like that, even today," Ted told me. "She's beautiful," I replied. A charmer, he could've easily gotten remarried, but I sensed he loved his wife too much, no one else could fill her void. Twenty years later, he still wears his wedding ring.

I scanned the pictures of his 9 grandkids, including the three triplets, two girls and a boy, all six. "The cleaning lady tells me that I have the cleanest room in the place," he said. "I believe it," I replied, glancing around the spotless room. "I told her, 'That's because you clean it!'," he quipped. You don't belong here, Ted, I thought to myself.

Ted told the story of how his pastor gave him a verse to take with him to battle before he went overseas. I asked him to bring the verse for our Christmas visit, "Do you want to know now?" he asked, so I followed him to his room so he could flip through his Bible. "This is an old Bible, I think my wife gave it to me," he said.

A few notes were written in the back, Ted's WWII verse was Psalm 91:7. "A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you." He made it out of WWII without even a scratch on him.

For our last hymn of the night, Lois led us on the keyboard as we screeched out "America the Beautiful." Tonight, there was much to remember, and many people like Ted to be thankful for.

click

It hit me last night.

I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the room pitch black, when a light in my brain clicked, revealing (part of) the answer to a question I’ve been wrestling with.

I finally took ownership of something I’ve heard countless times but have failed to absorb or comprehend. I woke up this morning, debating if it was a dream or reality, but decided to make it reality, make it a part of me. Something changed.

It’s funny how people speak truth to us over and over, but until we take ownership, until it becomes ours and we understand, it eludes us. These moments of clarity amidst waves of confusion make all the difference in the world.

name that band

tonight we started a band. we need a name. we need you to think. be clever. post your thoughts...

today @ work

november 9 + beach + small towel + red stapler + shot glass + hd camera = ?????

jaded

This photo is the collection of political brochures on my doorstep, a growing mass of opinions and doctrines others have attempted to persuade me to adhere to. I left them on my doorstep as a silent protest of sorts, yet they keep appearing, even this morning.

On this election day, I have never been more politically jaded in my brief voting career. In the days of old, I was spoon fed ideologies: there was a right and a wrong, good and bad, wise and unwise, even lists of candidates to vote for. The process was seamless. Back then I believed.

I will no longer be spoon fed; I've been let down too often.

Today, I strolled through a local Catholic elementary school, observing the jackets and backpacks reaching waist level, the artwork on the walls, and for a moment remembered the care-free days of youth. I walked into the ballot room, where a volunteer began to explain how to vote a straight-party ticket, to which I politely interrupted and said, "No, don't worry about that."

This election, I voted, not because I have the answers or am convinced either is right, I voted because freedom is a gift. This election, I didn't fill in all the blanks, in spaces I knew nothing, nothing remained. I left my mark, slapped a sticker that reads "I Voted" on my chest, and somehow remained hopeful that those making these brochures still believe.

grocery store trenches

I don't know why I do it.

Lying in bed this morning, hungry, I mourn the absence of weekend breakfast food, minus a half-bowl of bran cereal and one egg. I finish the cereal to hold me over and make the decision to go to Meijer.

It's Saturday morning. It's Prime Time. It's like going to the tire shop immediately after the year's first snowstorm (which I've also accomplished two years running after annual bald tire near-death experiences).

Remember, I could go grocery shopping nearly any morning of the week—I could leisurely stroll around, leave my cart in the middle of the aisle, throw cans at the floor to get the 50 percent off discount—but I choose Saturday morning. I opt for suburban torture.

As I drive 15 minutes out of my way, weaving in-and-out of busy traffic, I revisit my game plan: Coffee. Bread. Meat. Pizza. Cheese. Eggs. Chips. Exit. All in 45 minutes.

I arrive in the jam-packed SUV lot, whisper a pep talk to myself, walk in, locate my Starbucks gift card and land a breakfast blend for the grocery derby.

(It's been nearly two hours, and I'm only half-way through this "mild" cup—Starbucks is like the crack of coffee. Personally, I boycott Starbucks in instances other than free gift cards and caffeine emergencies on principal for not allowing guests free Internet after I've just paid $2 for a cup of coffee. Yet somehow they still win.)

As I move through the store, picking up two loaves of bread for the price of one (on this IQ test I began yesterday, http://intelligence-test.net/part1/, the answer to #24 is 13 Loaves in a Baker's Dozen), I realize one reason I came here this morning.

It's like New York City streets out there. It's intense.

You and I morph into angry cab drivers, screaming at each other to get out of the way, but glossing over our fleshy gut feelings with polite "Excuse me," "Pardon me," or "I'm sorry," when in reality, we're trying to score that last 2-for-1 deal on the chicken breasts before you. Admit it: Rain checks suck, and like Ricky Bobby says, "If you ain't first, you're last."

We blaze through normal-sized aisles with oversized carts, gazing at the colorful food all around, either scouring for survival or indulging in excess, enjoying the diversity of the people, though un-proportionately saturated with soccer mom's and little children.

Which brings me to my main thesis: Motherhood.

I always leave amazed after observing mother's bringing their children grocery shopping. Some bring three or four rascals, managing them all, holding the infant, grabbing gallons of milk while attempting to get her boy to stop screaming and her little girl to stop crying without making a scene.

They accomplish all of this while hundreds of others invade the grocery store, further complicating matters. I ran into a mother I used to work with, her son is three, who informed me that Thomas the Train had paint on him after watching this morning's DVD. "It's what's important when you're three," she said.

Respect the mother's, I say, there is no more difficult job on Earth. This is not to say that there aren't father's who do this as well, there certainly are, but a mother will usually accomplish all of this with a great deal of compassion and grace.

Of course, my original food goals are thwarted by big box discounts and loss-leader products, as I approach grocery shopping like the stock market (buy low), applying lessons from my youth, remembering how my Dad would purchase six bottles of ketchup to save 54 cents.

All this to my Mother's chagrin, though he would always claim delayed victory at the dinner table over meatloaf when the ketchup ran dry, when my Mother would grab another from the well-stocked cabinet, the grin of victory pasted on my Dad's face.

On the same note, I'm slightly gun-shy to admit how many frozen pizza's I acquired this morning, though I count it as an investment in friend's and Monday Night Football traditions.

ESPN, if you follow this blog, please fire Tony Kornheiser, he's worse than listening to Dennis Miller (cracking drawn-out jokes while stranded on a remote island in the Bermuda Triangle with a baby monitor pod cast that plays through every single radio station in the continental United States and Puerto Rico). I think Joe Theismann is going to monkey stomp Kornheiser in the booth of these days, which will make for great TV memories.

Finally, after I check out, I nod with pride after reading "YOUR SAVINGS TODAY!!!!," (33 percent on the dollar), thinking for a moment that I've subversively defeated "The Man," then quickly recalling that "The Man" owns Meijer and I'm exiting a superstore with a Starbucks cup in hand.

After weaving through increased traffic on my return journey, I arrive at home and haul all goods in on one trip (certified "Man Law" since the invention of the plastic bag for groceries), put them away, open my laptop, and begin writing about why I put myself through a Saturday morning at Meijer.

in the news today

Today, I picked up 11 newspapers from my front porch. It took about five seconds. Over the past 11 days (4 of which I was out of town), I've had 950,400 seconds to fetch these papers.

I guess I'd make a bad dog.

american idol

I recently found a sheet of paper with notes and capital letters scribbled on it.

On this paper are lyrics to a song I wrote about a girl I thought I might’ve been in love with. I never played the song for her—before it was polished and ready, the relationship tanked. I’d tried to remember the lyrics and chords over the past years, but I could never recover it, until this mysterious paper appeared.

The song is titled “Lucky Me,” a traditional, sappy, pathetic love song about how one person can be so sweet and perfect and make you feel all buzzy inside, which must mean that it’s love (riiiight).

One of the lines reads, “She frees my worries and calms my storms.”

Honestly, I’m embarrassed to acknowledge writing this. (However, it should be noted that this song could easily pass as something we hear today at wedding receptions and I should look into selling it and cashing in on royalty checks for the next 25 years).

Looking back, it’s interesting to see how quickly we as human beings can make idols out of things—whether its relationships, money, work, status, influence, fantasy football—we seem to have this innate pull to misconstrue priorities and mess everything up, even when we know we’re messing it up.

Even worse is the fact I claimed a person could free my worries and calm my storms. It’s ridiculous! Ironically, to pounce all over my silly love-song claim, Jesus, the carpenter-turned-Messiah-in-human-form, promised both—ensuring I shouldn't worry about trivial things, while also literally calming a storm on the sea with his disciples, displaying his strength and sovereignty, even over nature.

“She” will never suffice; it is only through "I Am" that I can learn to walk on water.

snowed in

yesterday brought rain
the fat drops fell
like mini-missiles
exploding on contact

today brings snow
the flakes falling
like mini-parachutes
landing safely

but much too soon

if it wasn’t for the fall
we could've held on
to summer forever

but now we wait

seasons will change
the snow must fall
until the sun comes again

when i run out

"Come, let us return to the LORD.
He has torn us to pieces
but he will heal us;
he has injured us
but he will bind up our wounds.

After two days he will revive us;
on the third day he will restore us,
that we may live in his presence.

Let us acknowledge the LORD;
let us press on to acknowledge him.
As surely as the sun rises,
he will appear;
he will come to us like the winter rains,
like the spring rains that water the earth."

-Hosea 6:1-3

creo website launch

Creo Productions, LLC, has launched our first book trailers on CreoProductions.com and YouTube. Check it out and help spread the word about our new company!

to paint a picture

As part of our lease agreement, my roommate and I agreed to paint in exchange for lower rent. We are not painters.

Taking on the basement as our guinea pig project, our first mistake was removing the acoustic ceiling tiles--influenced by the classic male barley-and-hops-induced home repair peer pressure--exposing the “rustic” beauty of the ceiling (aka, old wood and mysterious wires).

Oops.

After a day-and-a-half of labor, I rediscovered how difficult painting is, though our task was simple: a bucket of plaster, fine sandpaper, a roller, brush, two coats and four walls.

I longed to return to the Vatican Museum, or the other sacred art assemblies I scrambled through just months ago. In this moment I understood why DaVinci declared painting the highest art form, arguing that unlike writing, poetry and song, it constructed no cultural or linguistic barriers—imagery is a universal communicator.

I decided I would pay for the tour, walk slower, gaze longer, question deeper, and again, stand in wonder.

if only...

if i only searched for You
like missing car keys

maybe i would find

what it is i need
and where it is i should go

Free, Good, Legal Music

www.freederekwebb.com

to be the most awesome in the world

The world is a big, funny place. And it's not everyday we are fortunate enough to come across sacred international monuments claiming to be the greatest in the world. These are breathtaking moments.

On our first business trip to Nashville, nestled somewhere off the Indiana freeway, we nearly lost control of our van as we passed "The Most Awesome Flea Market in the World."

Move over, Eiffel Tower; finish what you started, Sagrada Familia; stand in attention, Statue of Liberty. You've got nothing on this "most awesome" flea market.

The instant credibility generated by this marketing genius had us toying with the idea of "Creo Productions: The Most Awesome Video Company in the World."

Then we thought this approach might be a little too aggressive.

humility on wheels

Mountain biking seems like an appropriate stress-reliever to an awkward week. After visiting an ATM to purchase two 20 cent crackers at a gas station in order to “buy” air for my deflated tires, I arrived at the trails.

There, two middle-aged men (for some reason, seemingly overweight middle-aged men are incredibly speedy, the Discovery Channel should document this phenomena), informed me the trail was fast due to recent rain hardening the sand.

As they departed in their SUV, one said, “Have a safe ride.”

I hooked up my ipod, threw on my Camelback and headed for the trails. It was complete bliss: speed, exercise, nature and music. Before heading up one of the steeper hills, I promised myself I wouldn’t get off my bike, a sign of defeat in the world of mountain biking. (Pride?)

That’s when my chain snapped. Violently.

Standing at the top of the hill, two choices diverged in a wood. I estimated I was 1/3 into the trail: to go forward would be more difficult, but to go back would signal defeat. I lowered my seat to the bottom, and discovered a number of new, fun mountain biking techniques:

1. The Bobsled Bicycle: Biker must run alongside bike until reaching suitable ground speed, then hurling oneself onto the bike to coast as far as possible.

2. The Scooter Skip: By lowering the seat, biker can use his or her legs as leverage points, turning the bike into a scooter (of sorts). This technique works best after employing techniques #1 and #6.

3. The Slow Jog: Securing the handlebars with one hand, biker must concentrate on not hitting his or her shins on the metal pedals. We’ve all been kicked in the shins, it hurts.

4. The Angry Sprint: Biker must convince oneself they don’t hate running (mind over matter), and sprint as fast as possible until he or she gets too tired and implements technique #5, remembering, after all, it was the tortoise who claimed victory over the hare.

5. The Jaded Walk: Despite (frustrating) knowledge that biking is five times faster than walking, the biker must admit temporary defeat in order to catch one’s breath and/or take big gulps of water. Most useful when implemented going up hills.

6. The Elated Decline: Biker can proceed as normal down hills, temporarily forgetting about broken chains, ecstatic with the few moments of exhilarating speed while utilizing gravitational forces.

A half-hour after losing my motor, I stopped in my tracks, silenced by natures’ beauty. Tall, thick, aged trees covered by beds of green moss surrounded me, while a slow, winding river was coated with an eerie, foggy mist. Natures’ choir included singing birds, crickets, and calming water.

I stood there, eyes feasting, ears perked, breathing it in, and wondered if this pause was the reason I was stopped. When our plans are halted, we move so fast and anxiously to get to the destination we think we need. Unfortunately, in our panic, we often fly by the most beautiful things.

After this epiphany, I was daydreaming while coming down a hill toward a wooden bridge (The Elated Decline). Without warning, I lost control, and flew head-first over the handlebars. I absorbed the fall with both my wrists (a no-no when falling, take it on the forearms, son), and found myself prostrate to the earth on the other side of the bridge.

Standing up, bending my wrists and thankful they were working, I looked back at my bike, hanging vertically on the ledge of the bridge, the handlebars dipping into the stream. I thought about plans, expectations, pride, frustration, angry sprints, falling and humility, and realized they are all parts of a beautiful journey, and not a destination.

from america to me

“welcome home,” she whispers
“i caught you dreamin’
on the other side of the sea”

i feel like a settler
of centuries ago
lost in a strange land
that promises something more
than what i used to know

“this place is tough like nails,
so grab some fuel,” she says,
“you’re gonna need it”

so i make it a venti
and drink till i’m wide-eyed
staring blankly at the ceiling
as another sleepless night crashes

overboard

she hurls me into her
hurricane once again, and
i must learn to swim
with sharks and fishermen

“keep your head above water,
take a deep breath,” she screams,
“no one said it would be easy”

though

no one said it would be this hard
to make it in the land of the free

when not in rome

Four planes. Twenty-three trains. (Seemingly infinite) subways. One charter bus. One car. One ferry. Two feet. Eleven countries. Sixteen cities. Zero tourist-trap souvenirs. One thousand, four hundred photos. The end.

There is little time to process this adventure, as the speed of the United States grabs a hold of me once again (weddings, moving, business, car, cell phone, meetings, TPS reports, etc). It would be nearly impossible to write a neat little essay or create a power-point presentation to package this abstract journey.

There are life-changing events, but they are a minority amongst the seemingly mundane tasks of everyday life. While all experiences affect us--some move us closer to the person we were intended to be, others move us further away--we will never "arrive.” If we think we have, we're only pretending.

Instead, the majority of our lives are spent in the proverbial refining fire; we are never finished. It's this work-in-progress hope that fills this life with excitement and anticipation of what lies ahead, even when we're not in Rome.

the end of the world (as we know it)

Security at Heathrow was layered better than Ralphy's brother dressed for winter in “A Christmas Story.”

Lines outside, lines inside, passports constantly checked and stickered, twice frisked, twice x-rayed. Many were sick, coughing from the cold front sweeping through Europe. I even had to toss my chapstick (“gosh, my lips hurt real bad”), and predict the next security measure will be fingernail length restrictions.

As I was examined the final time, the security officer flipped through my Bible and asked, “What kind of church do you go to?” I answered, unsure of where the conversation would go. “Matthew 24,” he said, opening the Bible, “Do you know what it says?” I hesitated and tried to lean over the table to see the passage. “You don’t know your Bible?” he asked, before I could put together any decent response. (The British love speaking in question-statements).

“Jesus’ disciples asked him about the end times. Read it on the plane.” I took the Bible, glanced at the page, and knew what he was inferring. We shared a moment that required no words. We both knew that something is desperately wrong; he shouldn’t be searching little kids shoes for bombs, and I should be able to bring water on a flight.

Earlier, I saw the TIME subheadline, “What will it take to make us feel safe?” The concept of feeling safe does not make us safe at all, only the illusion of safety.

We will never be physically safe on this earth, no matter how secure we try to make it. People determined to do evil will accomplish evil. (However, I am grateful for security measures and intelligence; the bombs were set to go off the day after my flight).

As I waited to board the plane, I read through Matthew 24, with Jesus talking about nations rising against nations, “wars and rumors of wars,” and the Antichrist--and though no one knows the day or hour, I wondered if we are experiencing the “birth pains” of the beginning of the end.

high command

It is not possible to fully appreciate two of the world's greatest cities in one day, but I tried. I woke up in Paris, toured the Sacre Coeur church, caught a train to London, bought an all-day subway pass and spent a mapless evening popping out of stations to see what I could find (Trafalgar Sqaure and a Cornish Pasty dinner were backpacker goldmines).

On my last night in Europe, I passed multiple London newsstands, the headline boards drenched in black marker and all caps announcing, "TERROR PANIC ON PLANE," "AIRPORTS AT CRISIS POINT," the fallout of recent terror plots unmasked in this city.

Tomorrow I will arrive at Heathrow in the early hours with my Bible, ipod, wallet and passport stuffed into my pockets, to wade through an unprecedented sea of security in hopes of reaching the U.S. by nightfall.

While depressing, terrorists will not prevent me from flying across oceans, nor can they steal my freedom or force me to live in fear. And I wonder, in this messy global climate (politics, war, government), but more importantly, in the areas we can control (our individual actions), how we can live out the high command to overcome evil with good.

paris (without you)

i'll take you here
(whoever you are)

there'll be
no trains
or planes
to catch

only time, only us

the louve
moulin rouge
eiffel tower
and sacre coeur

we'll walk these
romantic streets
and discover
hidden rhythms

this city without you
is just another city

but history
will write
you and i

and

together this city
will come alive

big rapids

"The only guarentees in life are death and taxes," the Aussie guide joked, as we prepared to feed our raft into the glacier fed white-water of Interlaken, Switzerland. After learning a few basic commands (forward, backward, down, hold on, what to do if you fell in, etc.), we were off.

The ride pasted a continuous smile acrosss my face--it was my first white-water rafting experience--though with the cooler temperatures the river was running at a slower speed than normal. Unfortunately, none of us landed in the frosty drink, but were blessed with 600 meters of intense rapids, after getting out of river before a level VI rapid (a 4,500 Franc fine for attempting to ride it; the guide assured certain death, that only a well-trained team of professionals could hope to make it out alive).

At the end of the rapids, we plunked into the river, floating on our backs in the Swiss Alps, staring at the mountainous peaks, hoping our body heat would warm the water in the wetsuit, wishing this could last forever.

swiss watch

Trekking through the rain-soaked streets of Interlaken, Switzerland, spinning my head around like an owl, straining to catch just one glimpse of the mountains hidden by fog blankets, I located a walking path leading to one of the lakes.

Grabbing a fistful of moist grass, I breathed in deeply the scents of nature instead of exhaust, mountain air instead of the metro. Sitting on the edge of the water, the sky opened for an instant, the sun made its appearance, revealing the barricade of mountains I came to see.

I got what I asked for.

As the next storm came in, I watched the gray clouds swallow the last remaining blue sky. As I walked away, thankful for the glimpse, graffitti on the side of a boat launch appropriately read, "Keep the faith."

An old hymn came to mind, summarizing the moment and this adventure in Europe:

Oh, Lord my God

When I in awesome wonder

Consider all the world thy hands hath made

I see the stars

I hear the rolling thunder

Thy power throughout

The universe displayed

Then sings my soul

My saviour God to me

How great thou art

How great thou art

sometimes it rains

I never got the memo that it was winter in Switzerland, showing up in flip flops and shorts to the 14 degree (C) rainy atmosphere. The fog is blocking the view of the mountains, but the white water rafting brochure promises adventure, especially in "bad weather."

hvuala, ms. slovenia

i thought i lost you
on the world´s livliest street

seconds, minutes pass,
dissolving hope

of a proper farewell,
but there you were,

big sunglasses,
bigger smile

beautiful, really,
you are, no lies

you promised,
to send a memory
of the dancing fountains

i promise,
to send my best
when i reach these mountains

sorrow

In the midst of this vibrant city, an email informs me that a friend was the victim of a hit-and-run motorcycle accident. Aaron is alert, alive and hospitalized, but had to have one of his legs amputated below the knee. I think of our greatest memory, an amazing ski trip to Whistler, British Columbia in college.

There are no simple answers, no cliches that satisfy, only heavy hearts and prayer.

lady in red

The red blur is a stunning Spanish flamingo dancer, clicking and spinning her way across stage, motivated in motion by the wild sounds of her band--a violinist, guitarist, vocalist, bassist and percussionist--equally impressive in rhythm and sound, each counting on one another to create this feast for eyes and ears.

julia

4:30 a.m.,
still awake,
eyes perked,
too tired to sleep,
too confused to rest,

moving trains,
trading glances,
seat shuffling olympics,

argentina,
russia,
italia,
usa,

smile and nod,
she's talking about you,
but you can´t understand,

a miracle guitar,
the bossonova,
harmony,

a sign?

i wonder if she´ll write,
three days, four nights,

beinvendidos,
a la barcelona.

jehovah jireh

My stomach is still recovering from this ride.

After a oddly spiritual "wonderful disaster" the past 40 hours, I just arrived near San Sebastian, Spain, ready to ride an overnight train to Barcelona. (I had to cancel Barcelona reservations yesterday and my travel partner and I parted ways).

¨The train is full, completely booked, I´m sorry,¨the ticketmaster said, the words bouncing off my ears, piercing my heart, making me feel like I had to vomit.

Immediately, my mind starts brainstorming solutions, and...

The ticket-Master pulls some strings for the train (the best $32 Euro I ever spent), coupled with an encouraging (and strangley timely) email from a friend, assures me that we have a Provider, and that´s all I need to know.

this bordeaux is for you

On a train to find where I came from. Dad suggested I come here, who knew it would be like this. Plans change, anger burns, unutterable words uttered, with no reservation I jump on a train to anywhere but that station.

As I think to get off,

the train starts moving and I,

I will see where it is I come from,

and from what I am made of.

Arrive in what looks like a red light district; I am a green light for mugging. Wander around, ask a few people if they speak English; finally find two guys from Denmark sitting on a corner.

Across the street to ask for hotel rates, get hostel directions instead.

Bingo. $21 Euro for a night, including sheets. Praise God I’m not on the streets; he said the birds and flowers will make it okay--he was right.

“Do you care if we smoke?” the Denmark guys ask, (which is supposedly the “happiest country” in the world), to which I reply, “I don’t care; do what you want,” and that’s what they did.

The nightcap; talking to these smokers (not cigarettes), who win the award for the first people I’ve met who managed to get arrested in Europe (trying to purchase drugs in Paris). We talk about America, which smells sweeter as each day passes.

The Denmarkians stumble home at 5 a.m., waking this sleeping giant, discover this morning they nearly got jumped in these streets, but the guy dodged the bottle thrown at his head. And they ran. As fast as two intoxicated hash smokers can run.

Wandered to the train; stuck in Bordeaux for the afternoon. Found grace from two Californians who spoke English, felt refreshed and still alive, caught a subway and a museum.

Tonight’s dusk train leads to San Sebastian, the overnight ride to Barcelona; the city never sleeps.

Time ticks,

almost done,

reality beckons,

fairytale almost

wrapped up.

After ordering a Bic Mac meal at McDonalds somewhere in France, blogging about Bourdequx on my laptop with wi-fi; I know I’m American.

beauty is everywhere

There is so much beauty I've witnessed in the past four weeks, it's difficult to absorb it all, and easy to take for granted.

The four-hour hike through the five cities built on rock of the Cinque Terre National Park, Italy, overlooking steep cliffs and the sea. Sitting alone at midnight, watching the moon fade, listening to the waves crash and shift the pebbles on the beach. Walking through the French Rivera in Nice, absorbing the city lights and the tropical atmosphere.

At the same time, beauty is everywhere (though in different forms), and there is something about home...

cats

Life Lesson 87B, section 4: Women feel strongly about cats. If you are not a cat-lover, smile politely and remain silent during cat conversations. Repeat as necessary.

throwing fire in florence (italia)

broken promises

these things you give me
are not mine, i know

and all you ask for is honor
for what is yours

like a fool
i make promises
i can never keep

and store things in barns
until the famine flashes

over

empty; i become
and well-deserved

like a dog
tail sagged between my legs

i know what you know
and all i see is

mercy
&
blessings

for another prodigal
on his way home

i am afraid

Photo Flashback: What I'm not sharing is Cam's photo journalism to my clown-like, cowardly approach to launching off this cliff in Dubrovnik, Croatia. (The city walls are on the far right; the entire Old Town is enclosed by these walls overlooking the Adriatic--the most beautiful spot we've visited...)

Instead of just walking up to the edge and jumping like the Aussie imbibed with "Dutch courage" before me, I applied a snake technique around the railing onto the rock, creeping along like a military trench crawl exercise, as if my body was magnetically attracted to the rock and allergic to the air.

Just before the jump, I would stand up, shake wildly, count to five, jump and yell non-English fear-based noises on the way down (35-40 feet). Each time, the whole dramatic presentation was more entertaining for onlookers.

I'm slightly afraid of heights, but perfect water casts out all fear.

vatican city

Today, frustrated from minor complications in Rome, I was blessed.

It started with free tour of St. Peter's Basicalla in the Vatican City. I've seen many churches in Europe, but this was amazing (and the largest in the world). I stood wide-eyed in the place where St. Peter is believed to be buried 40 feet below, as our tour guide (a masters in history and theology from Louisiana) shared evidence that...

1) the skeleton is missing feet--Peter was crucified upside down, after which soldiers would cut the feet off instead of removing the nail,

2) a church in another part of Europe claimed to have a piece of his skull, which matched the remains perfectly,

3) archeologists determined the remains were from a large-framed man in his 60's who was killed in the first century A.D.

Wow.

I then climbed up massive flights of stairs to the top of the dome (over 400 feet high), listening to "A Mighty Fortress is Our God" on my ipod, gazing over the largest bronze statue in the world), and then came outside to a spectacular view of the city.

Then, I headed over to the Vatican Museum, where I stood in the Sistene Chapel, staring at Michellangelo's "The Last Judgement," with the Lord of the Rings soundtrack blaring in my ears.

Today, amazed with the beauty and history of Rome, I was blessed.

alive in rome

walking the ancient city
where men believed they were gods

and i wonder

how God sees us
when we believe the same lie

in 24 hours...

24 Hour Travel Formula from Dubrovnik, Croatia to Rome, Italy

1. Take a day trip to Mjlet, Croatia, and rent bikes to ride uphill for what seems like a week in order to find the cash machine to go to the national park where you board a small boat to visit and swim at a monestary on an island within an island.

2. Leave Mjlet, Croatia on a ferri, watch sunset over the Adriatic Sea just after camera batteries die just as the sun explodes with magnificant colors between surrounding rocky mountains and cliffs. Take mental picture instead and call it good.

3. Arrive back in Dubrovnik, Croatia to board an all night ferri to Bari, Italy. Sleep on the floor of the ferri and mow down as much free food as possible for breakfast.

4. Wait 1.2 hours in sweaty customs office, where you are asked if you are Italian, or at least if your father was. Instead, represent the Finnish, or at least smile and thank them for not interrogating you.

5. Take bus number 20 to Bari, Italy train station.

6. Purchase ticket to Rome, Italy at the advice of a ticket dealer who assured us this way was faster. Board train.

7. Arrive 15 minutes late and miss connecting train to Rome.

8. Wait two hours in sweaty train station for next train with combination of guys from Spain and Argentina. Italian pizza redeems high cost of sweat by being delicious.

9. Arrive in different train station than intended.

10. Purchase ticket to new train station.

11. Board train to right train station.

12. Locate tourist map at correct train station, discover that Metro is closed for the night. Try not to be angry, you are now in Rome.

13. Successfully navigate streets of Rome at night to locate accomidations.

14. Take shower.

15. Post exhaustive and boring blog about journeys of the last 24 hours.

16. Sleep like baby.

17. Repeat in three days.

go to croatia

To arrive in Dubrovnik, Croatia, we took a 15 hour overnight bus trip. It was worth every minute.

walls

i've spent years building these walls,
cold as stone,
hard to break.

when you come creeping in,
to break them down,
i'll unlock the gate.

bled, slovenia

There is a villiage called Bled, Slovenia, where pictures fail to fully communicate the beauty. We swam (the long way, of course) out to the island in the middle of Lake Bled, surrounded by alpine hills, a castle constructed on a cliff, with the Julian Alps as the backdrop.

Slovenia is said to be one of the greenest countries in the world--it's like the Upper Peninsula mixed with a touch of the Mediterranen, but encompassed by striking mountains.

They claim to have invented skiing, and I believe them.

the remaining journey

Today I’ve made far too many accumulated posts for anyone to read due to scarce internet access. The trip has been exciting and relaxing, with amazing sites, conversations and photos.

With uncertain future internet access, I’ve decided to post the rest of our tentative schedule, though, of course it will change.

July 19: Bled, Slovenia

July 20: Somewhere in Croatia (?)

July 23: Ferri to Italy (?)

July 24: Rome, Italy

July 27: Florence, Italy

July 29: Cinque Terre, Italy

August 2: Barcelona, Spain

August 5: Valencia, Spain

August 8: Gryon, Switzerland

August 11: Paris, France

August 15: Paris to London to Grand Rapids, Michigan

slowing down in slovenia

We arrived in the relaxing capital of Ljubljana, Slovenia yesterday afternoon from Vienna. The train ride was stunning and the landscape amazing: jagged cliffs and beautiful, rolling green hills.

It has been a much-needed break from the big cities—we are staying at the amazing “Most Hostel,” where the hosts are excellent and made us Turkish coffee.

We spent last night over pizza and Slovenian beer with two guys we met from England staying at our hostel: Chris, an Oxford graduate on his way to a PhD in chemistry to look for alternative sources of energy, and James, a recent graduate of theology who aspires to be a Vicar in the Anglican Church and is engaged to be married next June.

They were the first outspoken Christians we’ve met so far on our trip. With a common bond and language, it was refreshing to talk to these two brilliant-minded thinkers—about the church, the Gospel, our stories, and different theories of how it all will work out in the end.

About a year ago I was frustrated with the “Christian Bubble,” where we can often get lost in ourselves. On this trip, what has been truly refreshing is the opportunity to talk with people who are different than me: to be challenged, to be stretched, to learn to listen. A few we’ve met along the way:

The engineer from Alabama constructing robots to defeat the world’s best poker players;

The two wonderfully intelligent Jewish girls from Jersey taking a final breath before entering med and acoustics school(s);

The Australian chef who drinks absinthe in heaps with laughter as contagious as the bird flu;

Two young Australian girls on a holiday before going to school in Sweden;

Two older Australian girls on a two-year travel hiatus who aren’t afraid to dress in Italian futbol gear amongst 3,000 opposing fans;

Two music-crazy Austrian girls starting to attend school to be elementary teachers;

Two fresh LA high school graduates dreading the beginning of college;

Three image conscious girls whose parents own vacation homes in Whistler, British Columbia;

The Russian-born turned New Yorker girl who teaches children how to play piano;

The 19-year-old jokester from Ohio who tells others he’s a 22-year-old from Orange County;

Young Toronto girl who quit her job to travel Peru for three-weeks before heading to Croatia for a family wedding;

The deep-thinking writer working on his second book project;

And I, the cubicle-wearied turned entrepreneur on a multi-faceted journey;

We are all much the same, yet very different. Each of us is on a search for something, and I hope we all find it.

mozart's magic

I felt the musical magic of Vienna, more alive than the night before (see “if this is love”), as I watched an organ concert inside of the beautiful St. Peter’s Cathedral in the Old Town.

I imagined the same cathedral pouring out praises for Mozart, of Bach, all the legends of this town. My eyes, wide-open like a child on Christmas morning, my heart alive and mind working overtime to process the excitement.

“Create! Create because you were created,” the Composer shouts from the Heavens. I thank the Lord for music that ignites the soul, that sets a fire inside of us to create.

the organ blasts, reminding me of past
buildings where God lived and I confessed sins,
where i first purchased fire insurance
and later was given life and breath.

i come to your holy hill, reverent for You,
hoping you’ll move and begin something new,

reminiscent of saturday’s dressed in black,
in celebration of bride and groom,
but the marriage of love
was the place of the skull and an empty tomb.