words and emotions

Parking downtown isn't easy, but we have great metered parking on our side street. However, the city blocked four or five spots to make way for a trash dumpster and trucks and workers tearing up the space next door.

Last week, I was looking at the tag on one of the unusable meters.

It read, "The City of Grand Rapids Has Reserved This Space for: Quality Air."

"Quality Air?"

Immediately I started ranting inside my head about the loss of a great space and the underlying belief that eliminating one parking place is going to somehow save the city and the environment. People are going to drive, I reasoned, why waste a perfectly proximal space to my building?

Fireworks were blazing. I spewed to a few people about it.

Then, just now, on my short walk to drop a bill in the mail, a truck was parked in the space.

The side of the vehicle read, "Quality Air Heating/Cooling."

And I am a fool.

thanks everyone

Thanks to everyone who came out to Tour//Creo on Friday night.

We had a great turnout and a lot of fun celebrating the new space.

If you missed it, contact us to set up a time for your own tour.

rip: 1996-today

The Jetta died today.

(It's not technically "dead," but dangerous to drive and the fix-it bill is ridiculous.)

I'm still in shock. It hasn't sunk in. We've been through so much.

If anyone hears any amazing deals on crappy cars, let me know.

media: studio launch

The Business Review wrote this story on our studio launch. Remember to check out our launch party on Friday, December 12 from 6-10 p.m. at 40 S. Division, as seen below.

tour//creo: you're invited

support zim tonight

Tonight from 7 to 9 p.m., Vital Connections is hosting a Celebration and Silent Auction to raise awareness and support for Zimbabwe. It'll also be the official launch of the Zim Worship Project, the 16-track CD we recorded in April.


Zim Worship Project: Official Trailer from Vital Connections on Vimeo.

All proceeds from CD sales will go directly to orphans in Zim.

Tickets are $20.

There's stuff up for auction.

Mosiac Space
25 South Division Ave #225
Grand Rapids, MI 49503

See you tonight!

Visit www.helpzimnow.com for more information on VC.

november ride

I'd heard about Lake Michigan surfers before. Then I met electric Emily, who spent five years surfing in California before coming back to the people under the bridge.

This afternoon, she heard waves were out at Holland State park, so we headed west, surfboard strapped to the roof of her Lumina. Trees barren or bursting with color. It was 50 degrees out. Surfing in Michigan? In November? Really?

"This is my first documentary," she says, as I'm rolling video. Can't miss this.

We arrived and crammed into the wetsuits under towels (not as fluid as it sounds) in the parking lot with her other surfer friend, who thankfully let me borrow his extra wet suit hat. Emily had never surfed Lake Michigan, so I stayed back on the beach to absorb her wisdom and roll footage.

She rocked it. It was like riding a bike for her. She gracefully rode three long waves right away, flashing the peace sign before coming back in to fetch me. "I've never taught anyone who hasn't stood up," she says.

California girls. Did I mention she's battling a cold?

Talk about pressure. Your sick girlfriend just dominated Lake Michigan and you don't know what you're doing, only that you're wearing her extra wetsuit, and it's really tight. Really tight.

Emily tells me to stand with my legs at shoulder width, pushes me, calls me "goofy" (footed) and gives me a quick surfing lesson on the beach. We wade out in the great lake, dodging waves, my ankle strapped to the board, not knowing what to expect.

She tells me to get on the board, with my "chin by the marker" and points me in the right direction, her hand holding onto the tail. The waves start crashing.

Then she shoves me off and yells at me to start paddling when the right wave comes.

First try. Failure. Bail. Felt good though.

Second wave. We're moving. I try to stand up. Semi-success.

What!?

I'm in shock. I'm standing on a surf board, actually riding a wave without falling.

When I look back, her hands are in the air. I return the gesture. Air pumps.

Then I fall and it's over. But it felt amazing. Makes you want more.

"Second time," she says, smiling. Great teacher. Lucky student.

Third wave. Disaster.

I'm satisfied and quit before something breaks. I give her the gloves back, she grabs the key from the back of my (her) wetsuit and tells me to run to the car to change, while she wades out into the lake for another round.

We celebrated her first Great Lakes ride and my first ever surf by eating too much Mexican food at Tres Lobos.

It was delicious; and all is well.

my vote

Jesus for President.

viva la vida

Every 13 years or so, someone does something that flattens me. Last night, electric Emily picks me up at "4:30 sharp" for an engagement party in Ann Arbor. "I don't even know how to get to Ann Arbor," I tell her as we're nearing the freeway, still a bit frustrated from the day.

She's driving and looking at directions; I ask if she needs help.

She declines. "I got it."

As we're about to get onto the freeway, she hands me two tickets.

They say "Coldplay."

"Who went?" I ask, confused, curious.

"Nobody yet," she says, HUGE smile.

I look again:

November 3.
7:30 p.m.
The Palace of Auburn Hills.

At some point in the next 30 seconds, I begin to realize she punked me in the best way possible.

"No. You're not serious," I say, followed by a series of shock and awe stutters.

(She has this habit of stealing fluid language from my mouth.)

"Yes. I'm serious," she says. A surprise trip to Coldplay in Detroit for the Viva la Vida tour?

"You're crazy," I say. Wow. She was serious. This serious:

Serious enough to fabricate a story about her friend's fake fiance and ask me before if I like avocados and hummus for the amazing sandwiches and snacks neatly stored in the back seat.

Well into the morning after, I'm still in this "I-can't-believe-you-did-it-stage," but I realized during the show there's no reason, no earning, no scales, no paybacks; she did it because it's her nature to be giving and generous. It's an experience I'm grateful for.

The show was the best either of us has seen.

If the Palace wasn't sold out, it was about ten seats shy.

As she would say, "It was bomb."

The boys from Britain opened the concert as they open their album, plus explosions, laser beams, video, a tight stage and 15,000 people. They played almost the entire Viva la Vida album, including favorites "Lovers in Japan," "Strawberry Swing," "Lost" and "Viva la Vida" (Emily almost lost it here):



I also experienced a spiritual moment that's locked away in "Death and All His Friends," as confetti fell from the rafters.

At one point, they ran into the stands, where two acoustics, a mandolin and harmonica were waiting, and they serenaded us with "The Scientist." A quick shout out for rocking the mandolin, making Courier appear way hipper. (Here's a video from someone at the show):



My respect level for them as musicians and performers rose dramatically. They were spot on. At one point, Chris Martin messed up, laughed and moved on, proving they're only human.

They also played "Fix You," a personal favorite, and a fast-paced "Yellow" for the encore.

In the end, electric Emily got me good. Thank you. I don't know what else to say.

fall to summer

On Saturday night we had a show at our studio, where I sang a song called “Summer to Winter.” It’s about the last couple of years, the struggles and low valleys of the business, and ultimately, the value of surrender.

Heard the summer out calling
Singing, “Winter, come in”
But my eyes keep on falling
Asleep at the wheel

And I’m sick of rejection
So tired of projections
That keep falling short
Leaving my imperfections

And my legs have grown tired
From walking on a wire
So I reach out to You
A sinking man with the blues

Singing, “Come quick to save me
Cause I’ve fallen in too deep
Need your oceans of mercy
Cause You promised not to leave

This morning I received two packages. Expecting a winter jacket delivery, I opened up the boxes and discovered a piece of paper with a list of groceries. Neatly packed are enough groceries to last for weeks. It’s from my sister, who lives 400 miles away.

I didn’t bring any lunch today.

I’m running low on food at home.

This is love and grace and generosity.

Thanks Ali and Matt.

I’m not great with numbers. Recently, I calculated the sales for the business, and discovered we’re over double than all of last year, with checks arriving in the coming months that may take the edge off winter’s sting, or help us make a few dents with our gracious lenders.

So often I forget to give thanks, always looking ahead to the next big thing, forgetting to look back at the evidence, to discover the stories birthed through struggle.

All this has happened during an economic crisis and an international climate of panic. I’m far too uneducated in economics to predict exactly what it should mean for the business, but I know enough that it shouldn’t mean growth. All I know, as the evidence and my Dad suggest, is that we’re wrapped in unfathomable Mercy and Grace.

As Jon Foreman wrote, “Let that be enough.”

tell your friends

Simply summarized, daily life in Zim is a mess. This morning I received this email:

Back here its bad to mention for things ain't going on well. We thought the power sharing was going to change things, turned to be worse. Anyway, hard times never kill. For Paul says consider it all joy in times of trials, for we can do all things possible thru him who strengthens us. For all the things that I want to overcome now I need God's power my brother. Things are going up everyday again.

On Thursday, November 13 from 7 to 9 p.m., we have a chance to respond. Vital Connections is hosting a Celebration and Silent Auction to raise awareness and support for Zimbabwe. It'll also be the official launch of the Zim Worship Project, the 16-track CD we recorded in April.

All proceeds from CD sales will go directly to orphans in Zim.

Tickets for the Celebration are $20.

There's stuff up for auction (Wii, iPhone, Hotels, etc).

To order tickets, contact Josh at 269.303.8649 or josh.white219@gmail.com.

Mosiac Space
25 South Division Ave #225
Grand Rapids, MI 49503

(I'll be posting more media in the coming weeks as the CD is completed, the website launches and the videos are ready. Please email me if you have any questions or want to get involved, there's opportunities available for anyone.)

walking on water

“The writer does want to be published; the painter urgently hopes that someone will see the finished canvas (van Gogh was denied that satisfaction of having his work bought and appreciated during his life time; no wonder the pain was more than he could bear); the composer needs his music to be heard. Art is communication, and if there is no communication it is as thought the work had been still-born. The reader, viewer, listener, usually grossly underestimates his importance. If a reader cannot create a book along with the writer, the book will never come to life. Creative involvement: that's the basic difference between reading a book and watching TV.”

-Walking on Water by Madeleine L'Engle

venue change

The venue for next week's show changed. Details above.

my first presidential rally

I went to a Barack Obama rally downtown today.

This doesn’t mean I support Obama, nor does it mean I support McCain. I’ve assumed the stance of an Independent this election, though my voter registration card (and brief voting history) would tell a different story.

This was an experiment in observation.

I’ve never seen a U.S. President (or candidate) in person.

Perhaps, when Palin and McCain come back around, I’ll see them, too, though last time, I opted for Jim, and I wasn’t disappointed with that decision.

The gates opened at 7:30 a.m., and by the time we arrived at 7:40, we were about a quarter mile down from the entrance and wrapped around a corner, amongst a sea of people. The political evangelists must’ve arrived at 5 a.m.

I guessed early on that about 80 percent of the people in line were under 25, but the age diversity leveled off as the morning went on and the crowd got bigger. I commented how young people (myself included) have little historical perspective, something my Dad has been quick to remind me of during our lively exchanges this season.

My generation has been too busy having everything handed to us on a silver platter.

Obama’s speech was set right outside city hall, with a couple kids hanging on GR's giant signature artwork while Secret Service guys kept watch on the roofs of surrounding buildings. Someone opened with a prayer, throwing out a heap of pious language that sounded distant, like the monotone King James Scriptures read to us in Sunday School.

A few local politicians spoke; a small plane buzzed overhead, dragging a sign to vote for another local politician. Time passed, I sent photos and emails as a play-by-play of sorts.

The crowd got excited.

They chanted for Obama and change.

They waived signs.

Obama was introduced by a local blue collar worker hit by these hard times, who, bless his heart, made a few nervous mistakes telling his story, “My husban—wife,” and, “I’m looking forward to retiring my wife…retiring with my wife.”

We’ll give him some grace. I’d probably stand up there and just stare at everyone.

Sometimes I can't even play a guitar in front of people without shaking.

Obama came out to energetic music and an equally energetic crowd. Hands holding cameras and cell phones flooded the air. He spoke about the bailout plan, the bleeding auto industry, economic policies, health care, government reform, Iraq, hitting all the stops on the campaign trail.

If you watch the news, the media is pretty much predicting an apocalypse.

The debate on Friday night literally put me to sleep after an exhausting week of work. I’ve been having discussions with people I trust, talking politics over hot drinks, reading a book or two, watching the news, paying attention for the first time in years.

But something doesn’t sit right with me on either side.

I will vote on November 4.

But we’ve pigeon holed each other. I don’t like labels. It’s like playing the gnome game at a carnival. You can hit some issues right, but others inevitably pop up.

Honestly, I wish there was more to say.

I thought the rally would be a bit livelier, but it is West Michigan.

I thought there would be better stories to tell.

But if you’d heard one speech, you’ve heard them all.

I felt like I could lip synch portions of it.

I’d feel the same for McCain and Palin.

After the rally, someone said they experienced an emotional, not rational response to Obama’s speech. We've become enamored with the idea that either candidate will make everything new.

Maybe those of us who hope in Jesus have lost hope in real change. Obama made a comment saying that we are the change. We control our own destiny.

For some, it’s easier to believe in a tangible in-the-flesh politician than a Jesus who rose from the dead, and called the rest to do the same, spiritually speaking.

But I guess we’ll all have our say when November comes.

heaviness

I've been wrestling with responsibility in recent days. What is our response when someone asks us for money to buy food, and if we can't come up with the resources, others may suffer, possibly starve, potentially worse?

The Believers Share Their Possessions

"All the believers were one in heart and mind. No one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they shared everything they had. With great power the apostles continued to testify to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and much grace was upon them all. There were no needy persons among them. For from time to time those who owned lands or houses sold them, brought the money from the sales and put it at the apostles' feet, and it was distributed to anyone as he had need." (Acts 4:32-35)

Creative Christian Solutions (adapted from Culture Making):

"In feature after feature of Roman culture, Christians, animated by a powerfully different story from their pagan neighbors, were boldly creative. Their lives simply did not look like their neighbors'. But they were not cut off from their neighbors--the culture they created was public and accessible to all. ...

At least two major epidemics claimed up to a third of the population of the Roman Empire in the first centuries of the Christian era. In the face of terrible conditions, pagan elites and priests simply fled the cities. The only functioning social network left behind was the church, which provided basic nursing care to Christians and non-Christians alike, along with a hope that transcended death. 'Many, in nursing and curing others, transferred their death to themselves and died in their stead,' the bishop Dionysius wrote. ...

The church had no magic or medicine to cure the plague, but it turns out that survival even of a terrible disease has a lot to do with one's access to the most basic elements of life. Simply by providing food, water and friendship to their neighbors, Christians enabled many to remain strong enough to their own immune systems could mount an effective defense. ...

The church would grow not just because it proclaimed hope in the face of horror but because of the cultural effects of a new approach to the sick and dying, a willingness to care for the sick even at risk of death." (Culture Making by Andy Crouch)

two meetings

Last night there were two political discussions happening in our city. The first was team McCain and Palin, who held a town hall meeting at GRCC.

The other was Jim Wallis, the founder of Sojourners magazine and prominent author, who held a different kind of town hall meeting at Calvin. We went to see Jim.

Among other points, Wallis' lecture called Christians out of partisan politics, out of one-issue voting, and pointed us toward a Kingdom perspective that is highly engaged in politics, but also activists in three areas: as individuals, as churches, and finally, through political action. The real election, he says, is on November 5, a phrase very similar to Shane Claiborne's take in Jesus for President.

He argued that historically, any significant change is rooted in movements, and these movements are driven by great spiritual awakening. Until "religion" impacts society, it's not revival. When the "winds" of public standards and morality and beliefs change around a politician, he will likely follow, to appease the masses.

He talked about Martin Luther King, Jr. and William Wilberforce, among others. He did not speak of Barack Obama or John McCain or Sarah Palin or Joe Biden. There were no endorsements to be found, only the endorsement of a King and a Kingdom.

Speaking to a majority of college students, he exhorted our generation (XY), to clear up the confusing perceptions preying on Christianity, from scammy television evangelists to highly-charged political talking heads who have confused the cross. It was cold water to hear Wallis speak of political possibility, how new issues of life and justice are emerging, why the old system may be breaking apart.

He said the church has often asked its young people (and old alike) for the "edges" of their lives, and that's what they've received in return. All the right words and motions, yet so little action.

But Wallis has also traveled the country and the world, taking the pulse of a new generation that wants to give everything to the One who calls us from the place we were, exhorting us simply, saying, "Come, follow me."

odd jobs

I've seen a lot of weird stuff, including an older woman screaming at Cam in foreign tongues in the middle of a crowded Prague train station. Last week, in the Keweenaw Peninsula (the northernmost tip of the Upper Peninsula), the fellas and I came across an attractive young woman at work.

She was a petite brunette dressed in brown Carhart overalls, t-shirt and rubber boots, chewing tobacco and digging in the back of a utility van, helping her partner hose off a grease bin in the parking lot of a dodgy-looking-but-surprisingly-delicious four-star restaurant at midnight.

Quite standard, really.

courier show: spread the word

love // politics

people in
pairs;
triplets;
together: creating

me: alone
waiting;
or procrastinating

it’s hard to tell

when
you’re
lost

somewhere
between
the wilderness
and the city
is where i rest

yet unrest
has uprooted
this loneliness

this
strong
desire

to know
and be known
to love
and be loved

==

as the wind blows
past these trees
shaking leaves of

green

the breeze of august
will chill september
and reveal majesty

while the day of
labor reminds us
to lay down our arms

and
rest

==

i return to the same woods
where i wept over her
but discovered it was me

memories of gethsemane
where the Savior’s blood
dripped red
with anguish
‘take this cup’
He screamed
inside His soul
but drank it up

anyway

to
simply
save
the
world

==

so for now i find perspective
in the unexpected
words that fall from the
sky and land in letters
that speak of hidden form
like a mirror looks back
and says ‘there’s more’

than
what
we
see

like the unseen
beauty and chemistry
of a triune King
with a big k
unlike the little ones
on the television

spitting chunks of fools’ gold
into the hands of beggars
who wanna rule the world

the return of the courier

Courier's back. After Dan’s overseas summer adventures are closing in, while drummer Andy’s wrists are back in good shape.

Saturday, October 18 from 7-9 p.m.

Dillenbeck’s Coffee
1059 Fulton St W
Grand Rapids, MI 49504

It’s free. It's fall. It’s for you.

dos años

We started our company two years ago today. 730 days have come and gone.

On our first day, we went to Starbucks; I slammed a gigantic venti coffee.

It kept me wide-eyed all night. Enough for some poetry to leak about the pressure and fear I was feeling after taking in all the beauty and adventure of Europe.

It would be a lie to say fear is gone. It feels like a century or an hour has passed.

I’ve been shattered into pieces, reassembled and broken again. I’ve stood tall and bowed low, cried in desperation and smiled in adoration. I’ve asked God to come in, slammed the door, and then asked Him to come in again.

We’ve told good stories, failed on others, fought a lot and laughed a little. We captured a vision flying over Africa and imported it into the U.S. We moved from a tiny room to a big studio in a former ghetto, where redemptive threads abound.

I’ve been poor. I’ve been rich. I’ve made debts. I’ve paid debts. Then I’ve made more debts. I’ve blessed. I’ve cursed. I’ve closed deals. I’ve lost deals. I’ve fought off vultures and pirates who smelled cash and blood.

I’ve found everything meaningless. I’ve found everything meaningful.

the tire story

Many I know, myself included, seem to be lying down in a spiritual valley. This is nothing new, playing dead, seeing only brokenness, forgetting where we left the ointment.

On Sunday, a friend of our neighbors strategically planted his car in front of the driveway exit. I was flying solo to the beach to repent and think and pray and sleep, and his garbage parking job set me off. I swore and stood proudly by my car until he came outside.

“Do you need me to move my car?” he says.

Great observation. I nod. “Thanks.”

I typically execute the signature Austin Powers move to drive out, but his car was blocking the turnaround. In haste, I exited in reverse, cranking my tire into the cement barrier on the passenger side.

My car could be sold on the Taco Bell Value Menu, so I move on.

The car was favoring its right side, which isn’t extremely odd. But it wasn’t good.

No. Flat tire? I pull over. Yes. Flat tire. More swearing.

Thinking through options, I take a quick inventory. Clunky, broken speaker in trunk blocking spare. I disconnect it and move it to the back seat. Bad jack. No money. Dirty trunk. Tire place across the street. Yes, across the street. The same place where they sell large bags of onions and bicycles and treadmills. Brilliant.

I walk over, see the “CASH ONLY” sign, and start the short walk back, defeated.

I’m not a cash man. “Carriere!” I hear a voice. It’s Amy, strategically driving past.

“I have a flat tire,” I yell, pointing to my car in the parking lot across the street, adjacent to the Burger King.

She comes over; I lament, but say little else. Then I ask her if she has money. She has cash. I walk over to the tire guys. I tell them what’s up. They tell me to drive it over. I tell them there’s no air and I don’t want to destroy the tire. I suggest I borrow their jack and bring the tire over myself. They concur.

I jack the car up. I take off the lug nuts. It’s stuck. Really stuck. I start kicking it and swearing. Amy watches. I look up. I kick some more. I put on a shoe so I can kick harder than I could with flip-flops. A couple people in the parking lot next to us watch. I kick.

I walk back over. “It’s stuck,” I say. They say they’ll be over in a minute. I repeat the same sequence as above. More kicking. Twenty minutes goes by. I walk back over. A new guy comes. He says I’m missing a lug and points to the center. I feel stupid.

I drive it across the street.

Turns out I wasn’t as stupid as he thought. All they needed was a large sledge.

They knock it off with ease. They fix the problem and speak Spanish, show me the dreaded disarray of my tire and offer to sell me a new one for $25. I explain that I’m poor and lie and tell them my tire is under warranty. I’m wretched. There’s no warranty.

They charge me $10, and I’m grateful it’s not $70.

I give them Amy’s money, shake hands, and we drive to the freshwater sea.

Until now, I haven’t given it much thought, since it’s embarrassing to recount the string of sins accompanying the whole ordeal. But there was provision and planning and lessons there, despite my shortcomings.

Had my anger not fueled a hasty exit from my driveway, I wouldn’t have sliced the tire nozzle. If I didn’t walk to the tire place at that exact moment, Amy wouldn’t have seen me. If she didn’t have $10, I would’ve likely spent more and swore more.

But the solution was right there, all along, across the street.

Despite my stubbornness and foolishness and trying to fix it on my own, I eventually recognized my situation for what it was, and found help.

And the solution to this isolation and ungratefulness and sin is right there, too, the same place it’s always been, at the intersection of the cross and the empty tomb.

another girl (a song)

another girl
falls through the cracks
and fades away

another dream
comes crashing down
as i awake

another word
of sympathy
falls from a friend

nod and smile
you know this heart
has got the bends

without you here…my love
without you here…my love

all this crashing
of these cymbals
just leaves me dry

while pious words
and broken body
they make me sigh

so fix my heart
to wait on You
and not rely

cause my own
ability
is running dry

without you here…my love
without you here…my love

//friday morning duck-and-cover

the meter maid
hunts lawbreakers
puts a green slip on their hood

while i sit here
and close the blinds
not doing the things i should

you know i’m a salesman
but i don’t wanna
sell you what you don’t need

but let’s tell your story
if it’s worth telling
and if we all agree

i know this friday morning
duck-and-cover
will pass away until another

morning comes
when i just wanna
sleep til saturday

j&k

My Brother Justin married my stunningly beautiful Sister-in-Law Kelsey on Saturday. The ceremony was held in a church we would frequent in the congregational days of our youth, filled with old friends and new family.

Justin laughed out loud mid-ceremony at my Dad’s pastoral officiating, after he made a comment about the music they chose from The Lord of the Rings, (“May the LORD be the Lord of your rings.”) Justin tried to hold back, but failed.

I smiled. All was as it should be.

The music J&K chose for the ceremony was perfect. Clay rocks the piano, and the violinist was equally impressive. We played the Sufjan version of “Come Thou Fount” with a mandolin, banjo, guitar, piano and xylophone, male and female vocals, with an acapella ending with the whole congregation singing.

Adrienne played a solo acoustic jazz-infused version of Blessed Assurance that you’d have to hear to believe. At the reception, my Mother led everyone in “Sunrise, Sunset” in celebration of my Sister and Brother-in-Law’s 5^th anniversary.

A red trolley took the wedding party to the reception site, a retreat center on Rabbit Bay, overlooking seemingly endless Lake Superior. My Mother and Sister and Kelsey went over the top with the planning, and it went off like butter.

In true UP style, we saunaed like Finlanders and jumped into chilly Lake Superior for three days straight. During the post-reception sauna, crowded with 20+ people baking at 200+ degrees, my Dad threw on 4+ ladles of water, causing everyone on the upper deck to assume a vertical fetal position or hit the lower deck, with the heat finally exiling ten people into the lake.

While it was painful for us, it managed to extract the signature wheezing laughter of my Dad, which is always worth the price of admission.

Tiki torches lit up the beach. J&K lit up the cameras.

Now, J&K are likely en-route to Europe, where they’ll spend the next three weeks honeymooning in Germany, Austria and Italy, including a stay at the Cinque Terre.

They are blessed. Congrats, Mr. and Mrs. Carriere.

two verses (of a song)

these reminders
serve to remind me
of time left behind
and what it all could be

but reality
is one step then another
on concrete or sand
through hate or through love

who you know

Here's a cool study on the "Six Degrees from Kevin Bacon." Technology says it's actually seven.

please pray

Please pray for our friend Emily, whose brother Alan has just passed away unexpectedly after being hospitalized for the past number of days. Pray for Emily and the family, including Alan's wife Tiffany and their young 1-year-old son Anderson.

this day

Today I met with a former CEO of a large company, who is now a multimillionaire.

Today I met with a mentally handicap man who vacuumed up sawdust in our basement for a bottle of root beer. In seventeen years wandering the streets, it was the third time someone accepted his offer to do work to occupy his time. It was probably the eighteenth time he asked me in three months.

Tonight I took a bike ride through the woods; it was better than good.

Tonight I watched Green Street Hooligans, and witnessed a chain reaction of violence erupt over the game of futbol.

Tonight I ate grapes and drank wine; wondering how one thing leads to another.

church

Yesterday I went to the beach, one of my favorite places on earth.

There I continued to read The Shack, a novel that is equally disturbing and thought-provoking. There, on the beach, a family with a bunch of teenagers plopped down in the sand next to us. Soon, the family's middle aged friend pulled up a chair and began telling the parents about the church service they had exchanged for Lake Michigan.

"[The pastor] really nailed it," he started, telling them the precise Scripture verses the pastor had covered. "The first sermon was 23 minutes, and the second was 26 minutes."

All these numbers, I thought, triggering memories of the church I grew up in, where the ushers would stand in the back counting heads.

"We had 78 people at the first service, and 118 at..." He went onto critique the brass section, telling his listeners how "on fire" the organ player was, and on-and-on about details.

Yes, forgive me for being judgmental, but when we reduce God and spirituality to meet the expectations of the institution of our own making, we lose. When...

...church is only an hour on Sunday;

...the Holy Spirit only moves on Sunday morning, precisely between 11:21 a.m. and noon;

...worship is restricted to: organs, guitars, electric guitars, pianos, drums, acapella, hymns, old spirituals, contemporary music, etc.

We lose. Others lose. The world loses.

We become spiritual cannibals.

We miss the big picture.

And oftentimes, we don't even try to find it again.

Then, last night, at our postmodern, hip church, we made fun of the exact things I'd overheard the religious man talking about on the beach. We've been having discussions on core values of the church and what it looks like to live out our faith in our city, world, etc., and last night's discussion centered on evangelism: the speakers conjured up memories of tracks, lunatics with hellfire signs at massive public events, door knocking, the Roman's Road, etc.

What's funny is that even at our hip church, they're supposed to report how many people have been "saved" during the past month. (For the record, the pastor replies, "I don't know.")

These discussions have been trademarked with civilized, po-mo heat, and last night I added a counterpoint to something I thought was sketchy, and was ultimately rebutted by a mystical quote and referencing the Scripture verse I'd paraphrased.

I shook my head and whispered under my breath and thought of the Scripture and how right I was and how dangerous the statement had been to a room full of young impressionable people.

And then I realized I don't know who was right, or if we really disagreed at all, or if the issue at hand was situational, or if there's a hard line to follow. There's great pride in all of us.

All around us we see all these various expressions of following Christ, and we must submit to the blend of Spirit and Truth, of seeing some things clearly and others dimly through a mirror.

But when we levitate to one extreme or the other, in this case, the fruit has been indifference or cynicism. The older generation has created a comfortable system to fit God into, which has in turn caused great cynicism to seep into the bones of those who endured the institution.

But now, there's a real danger in my own life and my generation, of never moving past cynicism, of losing hope, of becoming too hip or cool or postmodern to stand for anything out of fear of offending or losing credibility or respect or getting tagged with religious stereotypes.

Last night, the verse in question was I Peter 3:15-16:

“But in your hearts set apart Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect, keeping a clear conscience, so that those who speak maliciously against your good behavior in Christ may be ashamed of their slander.” (I Peter 3:15-16)

What we've been given is Good, so Good, that no matter what "methods" we choose or feel are appropriate, that we learn to live and act as those who have been brought from death to life. And the mysterious, beautiful Triune God who has taken us from death to life, can certainly snatch us from the depths of our indifference and cynicism.

tough times

The last few emails and phone calls I've received from Zim have a common thread of discouragement, which is abnormal. I have permission to post this email from a friend, and ask for prayers for our people there.

I walk for long distances because transport costs are over head, I now survive on a single meal because it has become very expensive to feed oneself, I have to contend with not having because this is Zimbabwe, we are now the laughing stock of the world despised by our neighbors. Zimbabwe has become synonymous to poverty, corruption and a lot of negative things.

Yet in all this I ask where my God is and how long it will take Him before he moves in our defense? I wait and long for that day (before we die) when Gods prophetic word on Zimbabwe will come to pass. I wait for the time when God will repay for the hopeless and defenseless poor citizens of my beloved country. I wait for the days and years when Zimbabwe will be a great nation in the things of Gods, economy, peace and harmony.

Yet till that time comes I go through each day with a heavy heart and longing to go to some country somewhere where I can enjoy even the sunset.

I don’t know what God is saying through this situation because it feels like hell. My friends once told me that it is better the world ends now and go to heaven than experience this hell.

Thanks for your prayer, they give us strength as we are burdened by the life we are going through.

save us from ourselves (a song)

“Give your food to the poor,” she says
As she takes another bite
“Give your money to the LORD,” she says
As she lays another brick

LORD, come quick
To save us from ourselves
Holy Spirit
Change us from the inside out

“Lean not on your feeble minds,” she says
“Just sign here on the doctrine line”
“He came to bring a sword,” she says
“I’ve heard of peace, but it’s time for war”

LORD, come quick
To save us from ourselves
Holy Spirit
Change us from the inside out

We bring words to these offerings
While our lips move, our bodies stand still
“We’ll hide out here til’ the levee breaks
When mountains move and Heaven shakes”

LORD, come quick
To save us from ourselves
Holy Spirit
Change us from the inside out

polarity

Tonight was polarizing.

By accident, I found myself at the party of the merger of a couple innovative companies to form this one. There, blocks from our studio, was a gathering of influential people (many of them in film and media) celebrating a new adventure.

And there, my soul was fed.

The words/feelings/senses trapped in my guts came out, through others’ voices and stories. There I talked to an artist who had already accomplished the task of painting the entire book of Revelation, and was now hard at work studying and sketching Acts. She told bits of her story of coming to Jesus at 21 in the mountains of Switzerland after living with drug dealers in the States, then eventually returning to help found a popular social justice magazine.

There I met a kindred spirit who was a missionary kid in Spain, went to a high-brow college in the U.S. to study something like sounded like rocket science, but ended up with a job placed in his lap that turned him into a writer and director now planning on going to Africa for his first feature film next year.

It was there where affirming words were spoken, Spirit-fed, yet delivered by humans.

Just an hour before, on entering the side door of our studio, a seemingly homeless man perched near our doorway asks for 65 cents. “What do you need it for?” I ask.

“Cigarettes.”

“I don’t really want you buying cigarettes,” I say. “There not good for you.” It’s humorous to entertain the thought that Mr. Cigarette cares what a seemingly “rich” young man thinks.

“Hey man, I didn’t want to lie to you,” he responds. "But I actually need more than that, but I didn't want to ask." I ask him what he needs. "Two dollars," he says.

I reason that honesty counts for something and he’s going to smoke anyways, so I go inside, grab a few bucks, hand it to him and suggest he purchase some food. By this time, another man had gathered, the two going back twenty years or more.

The conversation steers toward the purple bruises spread on the left side of Mr. Cigarette’s face, who is white, mixed with biting commentary from the man I’ll now refer to as #2, who is black.

“They all came after me, they were kicking me in the face,” Mr. Cigarette says, starting to lift up his shirt as a gesture to show the wounds. “But I took one of them,” referring to the beating.

He continues, “Now, I don’t mean to offend anyone,” Mr. Cigarette says, looking at myself and #2, “but three [n-word]…”

“Hey man, don’t say that word,” I say. “That’s not cool.”

#2 echoes my request is less graceful language.

Mr. Cigarette tries to defend his word choice, but the offense has negatively affected his audience.

“Give me a sip of that,” #2 says, as Mr. Cigarette reveals a bottle of 5 O’Clock Vodka hidden underneath his coat.

“This is why he gets his a** kicked,” #2 says. “I’ll teach him a lesson.”

Next, #2 takes a drink, walks to the side of the street, and dumps the vodka onto the red brick road, while Mr. Cigarette watches like a child locked in his baby seat.

“F___ you, man,” is the first line of explicit remarks from Mr. Cigarette. “That’s my booze. F___ you, man. You're not my friend.” I heard Oscar Wilde said something about true friends stabbing us in the front.

“Will you properly of this?” #2 says to me, trying to hand me the bottle.

I decline and weakly try to mediate on some level, but I don’t remember what I said. Talk about awkward. Doing my best to downplay the situation and make peace between the agitated parties, I turn and head toward my office. When I look back, #2 is nearly a block away, yelling that it was good to meet me, Mr. Cigarette sits in a heap stewing over lost booze.

The point of all this isn’t to tell you I gave money to a bum that was probably immediately spent on booze after I left, or that somehow I ended up at a party with important people, to make you think I’m important.

The point, to sound completely like your Bible Camp counselor at a bonfire, is that Jesus really makes a difference. Really. In the confrontation on the street, the spirit present was not that of peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, goodness or self-control, but a spirit of hatred, jealously, judgment, envy and drunkenness.

However, the Spirit of God, so present at the party, has taken what was broken inside all of us at one time, healed us, renewed our minds, and equipped us to take whatever is noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent and praiseworthy, to give a busted world a glimpse and invitation toward beauty.

As Paul suggests in Ephesians 4, “Think about such things.”

the multimedia men

Rapid Growth wrote an in-depth feature, "The Multimedia Men," on our downtown studio, Zimbabwe, and our hopes for the future. Please sign up for our e-newsletter updates at the bottom of our home page if you're interested.

summer to winter (a song)

Heard the summer out calling
Singing, “Winter, come in”
While my eyes keep on falling
Asleep at the wheel

And I’m sick of rejection
So tired of projections
That keep falling short
Leaving my imperfections

And my legs have grown tired
Of walking on a wire
So I reach out to You
A sinking man with the blues

Singing, “Come quick to save me
Cause I’ve fallen in too deep
Need Your oceans of mercy
Cause You promised not to leave”

the world's unhappinest nation?

The BBC reported on a study that found Zimbabwe to be the world's least happy country, while Denmark is the happiest. (The U.S. is #16.)

Zimbabwe, which is gripped by hyperinflation, and has recently seen a controversial presidential election marred by violence, was found to be the least happy nation amongst the countries covered by the survey.

I met a retired, gray-haired, thick-glasses mathematician from Denmark on the flight from Ecuador to Miami in January. He was wildly scribbling away in his notebook, dissecting a complex math problem, while I sketched a story and poetry about who I thought the man was sitting next to me.

Following our writing exercises, we spoke for nearly the entire flight, separating fact from fiction and exchanging email addresses.

Erek is agnostic, pushed away from God following the atrocities of WWII, a common story of many Europeans. He also struggles with the co-habitation of science and spirituality, a spiritual barrier to many highly-educated intellectuals with technically brilliant minds.

However, he was very interested in the story of the Waodani, of murder and forgiveness and restoration, told best through the book I was reading, Through Gates of Splendor. We've since exchanged numerous emails, mainly about the situation in Zim and world policies, issues where he is far more educated than myself.

To tangent, the BBC's study doesn't link money to happiness. Instead, it's "freedom."

"Personal freedom is even more important, and it's freedom in all kinds of ways. Political freedom, like with democracy and freedom of choice."

The study also found that the countries at the bottom of the list all struggle with widespread poverty or authoritarian governments.

It's interesting to note what Jesus said and did about both issues, combating poverty and human authority. But surprisingly, a common thread of the Zimbabweans I know, is that despite the heavy yoke (slavery) the authorities attempt to place on them, they are "free."

"If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed." -Jesus, John 8:36

moving on

We're moving on Saturday, July 5.

Our new place is only 1.2 miles away.

And we'll have a moving truck.

Shout at me if you're interested.

zim at the polls

Zimbabwe is "voting" today.

In a video clip on the BBC, Robert Mugabe, Zim's dictator and sole presidential candidate, talks to journalists after casting his ballot. A reporter asks, "How are you feeling today...?"

"Very fit. Very fit. Very optimistic. Upbeat. And hungry."

Hungry?

Hungry!?

Hungry!!!

This is one of the most backwards statements in history.

A dictator who oppresses his own people in every area of their lives, leaving (not leading) a starving nation to fend for themselves, while he sits in a comfortable castle awaiting death, daily becoming one of the richest people on the continent, casts his vote for his own rigged election, itself fueled by violence and murder and deception, and essentially shouts to the world, "I'm hungry."

Hungry for what?

Hungry for more.

More food.

More money.

More power.

More violence.

More castles.

More mirrors.

More of everything, for him, and anyone else willing to put the deaf-and-blind comfort of a few above the cries and suffering of the multitude.

But it's simply more evil.

And we must pray against evil, even "overcome evil with good." (Romans 12:21) And at times, it seems impossible, futile. "But everything is possible for him who believes," Jesus says in Mark 9:23.

The crafty look on Bob's face in the interview reminds me of the story of The Rich Man and Lazarus from Luke 16:19-31, where the rich man looks past Lazarus, a beggar outside his kingdom who longed to "eat what fell from the rich man's table."

They both die, the rich man parked in Hell, Lazarus in Heaven. From Hell, the rich man catches a vision of Lazarus, and says:

"Father Abraham, have pity on me and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue, because I am in agony in this fire."

Abraham replies that it would be impossible to pass from one state to the next, inferring that turning off the cries of this earth, with its temporary self-indulgence, will reap eternal consequences.

a brother from another mother

A quote from one of my brothers in Zim:

My hope and faith is God for in him I move and have my being. I'm nothing wthout God. So to say I owe him all I have,my life and my strength. The political situation is so bad but our God is greater than all the powers of this world. In Isaiah he says"no any weapon fashioned against you shall prosper". Prices of goods are hiking like hell broke loose.

jesus for president

Last night Barr Dogg and I checked out the Jesus for President tour, featuring Shaine Claiborne, Chris Haw, and a couple guys with banjos, drums and a premier combination of high and low vocals.

They weren't pushing American political agendas, endorsing Obama or McCain or Bush-bashing.

Instead, they're advocating a subversive lifestyle that counteracts all the noise blasting from political podiums. Real change takes place when small groups of people (in this case, Jesus-followers) catch a vision and start impacting the world around them, not waiting for a political system to administer mercy and justice.)

They illustrate how Jesus undermined the whole Roman Empire to become King over all.

They (and the book) examine biblical history and the establishment of empire(s), challenging America and shaking up sleepy people in church pews. I would slaughter their message if I tried to summarize, but it's a timely discussion.

(On a side note, Coldplay's new album is amazing. Strawberry Swing, Lost! and Lovers in Japan / Reign of Love are special.)

one jetta on the rocks, please

It was an exciting morning. On my way to sign up for my first gym membership in two years, I discovered this scene in my parking lot:


Notice the rocks beneath the tires and the orange cone. On my window was a business card from the city Protective Services Officer, which read:

Your car popped out of gear. It is being held in place by rocks. if you need help please call number front.

Thanks.

I've been debating lately whether my bike or car is more unreliable, and after seeing this, the car wins in a landslide. Last week I was musing about the Jetta, and started thinking about all our trials, and how it would be funny to put together a short film about our life together. Then I thought it might be too much like the rental car commercials where the car talks to the owner, so I'm going to have to be a bit more original.

It would be easy to complain about my tattered ride and it's laundry list of misfortunes, but far less enticing knowing I'm among the elite 8 percent of the world's population that actually owns a car, a figure startling enough to keep my complaints minimal. On top of it all, I was able to take a picture of the scene on my Blackberry, which I can use to send email, photos, browse the Internet, call someone in an emergency, access Google maps or contact the tow truck dudes.

In short, I'm blessed, spoiled, fortunate, yet often ungrateful.

Upon further musing, I realized how easily the Jetta could've rolled into another, more expensive car, which would've been a financial disaster, as the Jetta rolls dirty on PLPD. The kindness of the rock-bearing city parking official is duly noted, making more than amends for the recent $20 parking ticket for parking "too close to the curb."

While my mechanic knows my car repair policy, "Only fix anything that prevents the car from physically moving," this issue may be one to look into, even though it's in direct opposition to the policy,* which I just realized leaves out a key transportation element: functioning breaks.

*(For insight into where I may have picked up such a policy, my Dad once bought a huge red pickup truck in Duluth that we drove back to the UP with very limited breaks. By limited, I mean virtually none. It was a brilliant display of driving by my Dad, planning out turns miles in advance, slowing to the proper turning speed or continuing on if traffic presented a conflict. For the record, there are very few stoplights or turns on the trek from Duluth to the UP. Today, my Dad fixes his own cars regularly and is very safe, even having a revelation years back to stop speeding. The red truck was a long time ago.)

deflated

Sad news from Zim yesterday, as the presidential rival pulled out of the run-off election, though the elections are still planned for Friday. One story claimed that dictator RBM said "that only God could remove him from office," and perhaps that should be our prayer.

In talking to a Zim friend on Saturday morning, prior to this announcement, he talked about the escalating violence in the country. The ruling party was knocking on people's doors, ordering them to attend a ruling party rally, or the police would return to beat everyone who missed it.

small is the new big

The Business Review wrote a story on how the film and video industry is impacting West Michigan, including those taking advantage of the new film incentives. She also talked about our company, and how we're approaching the industry differently. You can read it here.

Rapid Growth: LifeStraw

Rapid Growth did a short story on our upcoming project with LifeStraw, a personal water purification tool. You can read the story here.

go see this

Last night I saw Young @ Heart, a documentary that originally aired on the BBC about an elderly (70's, 80's, 90's) choir that takes on the challenge of rock. It really is amazing: hilarious, strange, sad, hopeful, perfect.

(If you're in GR, it's at the cheap theater: Celebration Woodland.)

(To avoid watching terrible movies, visit RottenTomatoes.com for reliable ratings.)

everything in its right place

I’ve been on a maddening house hunt. The intensity is equal to barking at opposing players on the football field.

Our current place? Perfect, but it holds a now vacant room that used to be our “office,” which, unfortunately, still costs money.

The hunt has been exhausting, sifting through endless Craigslist and rental websites daily, as if panning for gold, then rifling off emails and phone messages to strangers, only to attempt to sound intelligent when they call back, “Which place is this again?”

“Oh yeah, that place. How’s the area? What’s the parking? Laundry? Gas bills? When can we meet? Let me check with my roommate.”

We’ve seen a heap of dives, been stood up three times (gosh!) and once told, “Our landlord is the worst landlord ever. He threw away half our stuff. And this area is kinda ghetto, someone tried to steal my friends car and shot at him.”

Great.

Another landlord told me about an exquisite paint job in her glorious apartment; the way she described it sounded like it would cost a fortune. “I think this is going to be a gem,” I confidently told my roommate Barry on the way there, watching his GPS. Turns out, it was an OCD painter who rented the house before us, who allegedly stopped paying rent, went insane and meticulously painted every square inch of the apartment in wild patterns of purple and green, even pink.

As you can imagine, the often-fragile, single male ego clashes with such a color scheme.

However, there’s something about the east side of this city that’s stolen my heart, and I was determined to continue living in it. Two nights ago I was peddling my bike around the eastern neighborhoods at dusk, pen and paper in hand, scribbling down phone numbers and addresses and little notes (“looks abandoned,”) like a doctor penning illegible prescriptions.

And then I saw her.

She was an old mansion, though we would only take a piece of her. She was perfect: first floor, great area, affordable, available, amenitiable (new word).

I scheduled a viewing for yesterday at 4:45.

At 4:25, the owner called. “Sorry, the place has been rented.”

“Oh,” I said. Not much else to say. I’ve drank plenty of rejection.

It left me angry, exhausted, pissed about perceived perseverance without any tangible results, calling out to God for a solution.

“Okay, one more round of Craigslist,” I reason.

And then I saw her: But she was a new “her.”

“Hi, I’m calling about the place in Cherry Hill,” I said. Now an expert at asking the proper questions to avoid monumental disappointments and pink walls, I was walking through it within 20 minutes of the phone call.

And I knew it was finally her. I called Barry.

“I say we rock this one,” I said. Maybe I didn’t deliver the message with the three C’s (calm, cool, collected). It was probably more like, “Hey dude, this place is tight and I’m tired and I think we should rent it.”

Anyways, back to the story.

At 9 p.m., we walked through: Wood floors, tall ceilings, spacey, amentiable, vintage.

“Let’s do it,” Barry says.

The check was written, handshakes were shared, and everything has its right place.

“Nice work,” Barry says.

“It's grace, man,” I reply.

And it is.

Thanks, Everything.

news

Rapid Growth wrote a story on our company move today. Click to read.

zim aid crisis

A picture is worth a thousand words. Read more about the aid crisis on the BBC.