lost

On Saturday I stopped by work to pick up my mountain bike and change clothes in the office.

As I was leaving, my mother called, and we began to talk about wedding planning. I load the bike into the car and drive to the gas station 15 minutes away to fill my bike tires up, still talking to my mother.

Then I realize my wallet is missing.

Internally and externally cursing, my mom is wondering what's going on, and probably where her son learned some of those words.

Back seat? No. Trunk? No. "No. No. No."

I must have left it on the curb. So I tell her, "I've gotta go," and floor it back downtown. (In no way am I blaming this on my mom). My own anger and cursing turns to prayer.

Then I start thinking about how God bailed us out when we accidentally left the side door of the office unlocked for two hours and returned to find the GR police sitting there and nothing missing. Surely mercy for carelessness has run its course, I reason.

So I think of how I'm going to cancel the debit/credit cards and get a new driver's license and how I can buy food for the weekend and if there's honest people left on earth.

(When I left for Europe in 2006, I tagged all my electronics with a note that read: "If lost/stolen, please email aaroncarriere@...")

As many of you know, our office is located in a strip where homelessness and panhandling are prevalent. I drive up and see nothing. Frustration sets in. Then get out of the car, look near the garbage and see my pants and shoes. I'd left them there in a plastic bag with my water bottle; the bag and Nalgene were missing.

But the pants and shoes. Still there. "There's no way the wallet is there," I whisper. Then I pick it up and feel a rectangle. "No way," unbelief still ravaging inside my head. I take out the wallet and rip open the contents, counting cards and blessings.

Upon closer investigation I find the water bottle in the trash can, but whoever found the pants missed the gold. God is good.

I called my mom and told her the news and how I'm wondering how many lives I've got left. As I'm writing and remembering these events, my thought process reminds me of doubting Thomas.

And I've put my hands into the side of the risen Christ.

easter sunday song

Rolled Away
by Aaron

And ‘round the table
Where Judas stood
They all did eat and drink
His flesh and blood

And in the garden there
Where tears turned to blood
“Father, take this cup”
“Take this cup”

With lights of fire
The crowds did come
To take away the Lord
The willing One

To the death they did look
For a crime in His eyes
“Are you the Christ, the One
That’s been prophesied?”

“Oh You will see”
And the times they will come
On the right hand I will sit
with the Mighty One”

Before them He stood
As they made their whips
A crown of thorn and purple robe
And silence from His lips

The brought the Lord
To the place of the skull
Crucified the Lord
And gambled for his clothes

He said, “Oh my God”
“My God, will you forget?”
He said, “Oh my God”
“My God, will you forget?”

As He took His last
The curtain split
The earth it did shake
While the women wept

And when He rolled
The stone away
The angels stood
While Heaven sang

He’s alive
He is risen
He’s alive
He is risen

-Sunday, April 12, 2009

missing her

Emily arranged for her roommate Katie to send me an email with a video message from Emily (recorded prior to going to Zim). I'm a lucky dude, crazy in love, missing her.

After speaking to Em on the phone yesterday prior to the youth conference that the team was safe inside the country, I received word from Craig through Simon this afternoon that Emily gave an amazing talk last night ("Hope in a Godly Marriage") to the Zim youth by candlelight. Keep on praying.

This morning's song:

And in my arms
I will greet you
When you come back down
And in your arms
You will greet me
When you come back down

But I want you to fly
I want you to burn with all your light
Love I want you to fly
I want you to shine with all your light

For your soul’s a garden
Love a river
Spirit running wild
And your laugh’s an angel
Singing for me
Love is here tonight

story on creo

RG ran a story on the audio studio. Check it.

be my wife

Friday Night/Saturday Morning, 1 a.m.:

Tonight, I asked Emily Anne to be my wife.

This writing is saved in a folder titled “Hope,” created shortly after my first date with Electric Emily in September. (The song “Electric Emily” was penned while driving up to the U.P. immediately after our second date. I knew there was something special about her before she even said a word to me).

Tonight, I stopped in at my house to pick up the ring and iron out some last minute details before picking her up.

Opening the ring case, I felt moved to fall to my knees.

There were words, a simple moment of thanks and gratitude to God for this woman and the confirmation of the Spirit on our lives together. With her tireless love, this woman has completely captured my heart.

As usual, I picked her up in the (extraordinarily loud) maroon ’98 Saturn, trying to play it cool, while paranoia of strange acting left me overanalyzing every move. We talked about our days as we drove a mile downtown and left the car in the ramp.

During our half-mile walk to the Grand Rapids Art Museum (GRAM), I kept trying to keep cool, yet knowing internally that the next twenty minutes would change our lives forever.

We arrived, gave our free tickets to the receptionist and stood on an elevator to the third floor. (The hook to bring Emily to the museum was a Rembrandt showing on the life of Christ). While I told her the exhibit was on the third floor, the sign clearly read: “3rd Floor: Permanent collection.”

She’s quick; I think I’m busted.

It was one of those elevator trips you think will never end.

We arrive on the third floor and I begin scanning the ground for people.

Inside my head: “These people have to go. Could I ask them to leave?”

Walking around and furiously looking for plan B, the security guard caught wind I was in the house and moved people out of gallery seven on the other end. Emily and I walked around and ended up standing in front of the freight elevator, clearly marked for employees only.

I pushed the button.

“What are you doing?” Emily asks. “I don’t think we can use that.”

The elevator is taking forever, so I respond, “We do what we want.”

Classic inside joke.

As soon as the freight elevator opens up, I dash inside, uncovering my guitar case under a moving blanket I’d placed there earlier. They told me I only had about 20 seconds to get it before I’d get stuck in the elevator, so I panicked and pull it directly through the legs of the ladder in the way.

Thankfully, as it’s about to close, Emily’s standing in the doorway.

(She always seems to have my back).

I look at her; she knows.

We’ve been planning our wedding since Valentine’s Day, a bit non-traditional, but time is ticking. Surprising her was going to be a challenge, but I think I succeed.

Nerves are kicking in, I don’t know what to say, as we walk in almost silence minus her comment, “What are you doing?” to gallery seven. It seems like a mile.

When we arrive, I look around the room and have her sit on the wooden bench. Fiddling around with the guitar case, shaking, I put it on and start thumbing through the pile of lyric sheets in the bottom of the case.

The first song I sing to her is, “Song for Her,” a song written nearly two years ago. It hadn’t been heard by a soul prior to recording it in the studio this week. It was a song I’d kept for the woman I would marry, written for Emily, as we’ve discovered so many songs have been over the years before we met.

Her tears begin to flow, triggering mine while I’m trying to play guitar and sing. The strap falls off; she helps put it back on during the song. (Again, she’s got my back).

After it’s finished, my knee hits the wooden floor and my left hand goes for my pocket. In a near whisper, I tell her numerous times, “You’ve stolen my heart,” as well as other words difficult to recall in the moment.

At the end, I ask her: “Will you marry me?” as I hold the ring in front of her.

“Yes,” she says.

I try to put it on. The ring is a bit tight. She quips, “Just shove it on there.”

We laugh through tears. It fits. It looks beautiful on her.

Tears flow; we embrace, kiss, love.

It felt as if the museum was still.

It was a sacred moment; reminiscent of the first time we spoke about marriage.

Following this, the next song I played was “Diamonds and Daises,” a new song that came to me after I found the ring. The lyrics read:

When the sun beats down on your finger, love
It reminds me of the light that you shine on me
When the daises smile on your finger, love
It reminds me of the garden that you saved for me

Singing, be my wife
Oh, be my life
Singing, take me in from the storm
And I’ll be your shelter
And I’ll keep you warm
And you’ll be my lover to the end of time

After that song, I played another new one for her called “The One,” written about our first “I love you” inside Tunnel Park, and the first time we talked about marriage on Valentine’s Day.

After the songs ended, people were allowed back into the space. We sat there in awe, soaking in the weight of the event and feeling “like a million bucks,” as Emily said. We embraced and talked and laughed and looked at her ring.

With too much excitement to look at the artwork (we’ll come back another time), we floated out of the museum and into the entryway outside. We asked multiple strangers to take photos of us; they offered congratulations and kindly obliged.

We ate dinner at XO, an Asian place across the street, telling stories of how smooth I wasn’t leading up to the proposal (she knew when I went ring shopping, when I talked to her Dad, etc.) as well as processing through the night.

Before dinner we prayed, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” It was a great time, fun to be out celebrating the next step in our journey.

Next, we walked back to our business downtown, where there’s a great couch and is generally quiet. We called our parents. There were a few additional songs I didn’t get a chance to sing at the museum, so we set up a video camera and retold the engagement story, playing through the songs from the night.

Hopefully, if we’re blessed with kids, they’ll appreciate the video.

The nightcap was a package, wrapped in the brown paper bag with a handwritten note on it. She opened it to reveal a case for a digital converter box, then uncovered the tissue paper to find a CD titled, “Songs for Her.”

It’s a CD recorded in the studio with all the songs I sang for her tonight, three of them written before we met, three after, but all for her.

We’ve seen God’s hand so strongly throughout this process. For me, music has been a vehicle of hope. There have been difficult years and amazing years of singleness, while many prayers by others and myself have been offered up for protection and provision for my future wife.

For Emily and I, it’s been a humbling experience to see all of these prayers answered in unbelievable ways. The strength of the Spirit over this relationship has been simply amazing. The depth of the lyrics written years ago and the relevancy to our situation can only be God.

She is an amazing woman; I’m humbled and honored that she will be my wife.

P.S. The wedding is July 31, 2009 (yes, this year), overlooking Lake Michigan. Here are a couple photos outside the GRAM.

tour creo

give them presence

At least weekly, I receive emails from Zimbabwe that are hard to read. 

Many of them are about serious struggles and financial needs. Emily and I were writing about the great cost of going over to Zimbabwe, that perhaps it would be better to just write a check for the travel expenses instead of traveling thousands of miles to be with them. 

But I was quickly reminded of something our Zim friend Pedzy told me in April. 

"You guys coming here speaks enough, man," he said. "It means so much." 

Presence. 

Yes, that's it. 

Money and relief are still critical, yes, but so is presence.

We can't solve the problems over there, let alone in two weeks. 

But we can offer listening ears, friendships, encouragement, perspective, prayer. For our friends to see there are others who care enough to fly over oceans and continents to be with them, it often means more than a check. 

Email me (aaroncarriere at gmail.com) if you want to help Emily. Or you can make a check out to Kentwood Community Church with "Emily - Zim" in the footnote and send it to: 

Kentwood Community Church

c/o Kim Rankens

1200 60th St SE

Kentwood, MI 49508 

P.S. Come support the 3rd Rock for Zim concert on Friday, April 3rd too! 

rock, bring friends

obama and jesus

A recent poll of American's showed Obama is its number one hero, followed by Jesus.

How sad. It makes me think of Psalm 146, which caught my attention shortly after the election.

Psalm 146

¹ Praise the LORD.
Praise the LORD, O my soul.

² I will praise the LORD all my life;
I will sing praise to my God as long as I live.

³ Do not put your trust in princes,
in mortal men, who cannot save.

⁴ When their spirit departs, they return to the ground;
on that very day their plans come to nothing.

⁵ Blessed is he whose help is the God of Jacob,
whose hope is in the LORD his God,

⁶ the Maker of heaven and earth,
the sea, and everything in them—
the LORD, who remains faithful forever.

⁷ He upholds the cause of the oppressed
and gives food to the hungry.
The LORD sets prisoners free,

⁸ the LORD gives sight to the blind,
the LORD lifts up those who are bowed down,
the LORD loves the righteous.

⁹ The LORD watches over the alien
and sustains the fatherless and the widow,
but he frustrates the ways of the wicked.

¹⁰ The LORD reigns forever,
your God, O Zion, for all generations.
Praise the LORD.

amazing video

mercy (is flowing)

While busy working on the computer this morning, I glance toward the street to see a man unzipping his pants. He then begins urinating on our doorstep.

"Someone's pissing on our door!" I yell to the guys, and begin walking over for a confrontation.

By this time, the man's waving his junk around and is well on his way to watering our doorstep. I push my face up to the window to give him the evil eye, yet he continues, though now somewhat shocked, turning, subsequently spraying urine on our window.

The puddle starts rolling down the sidewalk toward the street.

"Call the cops," the guys say, and my brain freezes.

The guy looks helpless. He's drunk. He's old. He's weathered.

While I stand inside, I pull on the unlocked door toward me to make sure he doesn't open it. We make eye contact and our dance begins. He looks at me like as if he's a small child, yet is well over twice my elder.

He raises his hands in front of his face, folding them together like a child learning how to pray, as if I was preparing to jump through the glass and start rumbling.

It was his plea for mercy.

Public urination lands you a non-coveted spot on the sex offenders list, which can ban you from certain homeless shelters. (A man recently froze to death in Grand Rapids because he was denied a night in a shelter because it was too close to a public school).

"Sorry, I had to go," he says, among other mumblings.

In my anger and disgust, I want him to pay, but all I could muster was to open the door and say, "Don't do that here. Please find another bathroom." He continues his plea and eventually leaves.

Immediately, I fill up a Nalgene bottle from the sink and dump it outside, trying to wash away the pee. Then I head downstairs, fuming, scouring the basement for our red bucket. I find it and pour a cap of bleach in it, filling the rest with water, finally dumping it outside while Tingley holds the door.

With mumbles and disgruntled speech, I verbally vent to the guys and forget about it...until lunch.

"Uh oh, did you use bleach on the sidewalk?" Derek asks.

I look down. My favorite shirt. White spots. Destroyed.

Tonight there's an important party (hypocritically enough, I wore my best clothes), so I drive home to change, all the way, of course, blaming the walk-by pisser.

As I'm crossing the street on the way back, all I can think about is the look on this stranger's face, hands folded, begging for mercy.

And it reminds me of me.

I've done this before. (A story for another day).

There was a time I got drunk as a teenager. I came home, thinking my mother was going to be sleeping, peacefully unaware of her son's antics. After stumbling through the door, I stroll into the computer room, and there she is, watching TV on the couch. Playing it cool, I make small talk, then sign onto AOL and pretend like everything's normal.

She knew. (And FYI, this has since become a favorite story of mine to tell at family gatherings. I'm sure she's thrilled every time she has to relive it.)

So I go to bed, thinking I'm James Bond, reveling in the thought that I'd blown past mother's homeland security on Sunset Drive.

Then the room starts spinning. The puke alarm clock starts ringing.

Tip-toe running to the bathroom, I don't make it. A vomit tsunami rushes out of my inner-most being, tagging the carpet and splashing onto the bathroom floor.

Panicking, I close the door and begin "mopping" with a bath towel.

And then I hear a knock. The dreaded knock.

My drunk heart drops. Busted.

My mother opens the door, and I look up like a wet dog, seeped in my own puke pool.

She looks at me and simply says, "Go to bed."

When I wake up the next morning, I assemble fuzzy memories, hoping it was just a dream, but quickly realizing it was a real nightmare. Confronting me at the kitchen counter, she says, "Aaron, you were pretty drunk last night, weren't you?"

And I have the nerve to lie.

"No," I reply.

"Yes, you were. I could smell you when you walked in," she says.

Amazingly, I have the audacity to lie again, fabricating a story about friends of friends daring me to drink vodka or some booze that made me unknowingly drunk, when the truth is, I set out to bong beers. I was trying to throw randoms under the bus.

But still, my mother cleaned up my mess. She had mercy on me. Why?

Because of her immeasurable love for me. It broke her heart realizing her son drank, and shattered it while mopping up my boozey vomit in the middle of the night.

What my mother felt, and what I caught a taste of this morning, is a glimpse into the depth of God's mercy on us, despite our disobedience and poor choices.

This old street man, with his tattered hands elevated, looked me in the eyes to remind me of the mercy I've been shown: by God and others.

And I think of all the times we've collectively peed on God's doorstep, and the sheer volume of requests where we've stood before the Creator, our hands held out, asking for mercy, not wrath.

"Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment!" (James 2:12-13)

two cents

The neighborhood where we've planted our business growing. It's changing. It used to be the roughest part of downtown. Tomorrow night we'll go to a fancy party where the short film we created is being premiered, and all the who's who of the city will be in attendance.

But yet, the neighborhood remains a mix of the swanky and downtrodden.

Yesterday, we were talking to a guy who owns a music venue on the strip, and we started swapping stories about panhandlers. Naively, when asked for change, I've always thought they really needed to use the bus (though on many occasions, they've walked in a direction opposite of the stop), but this guy lives on a different part of the street, where drugs and sex are the currency.

On a delivery walk this afternoon, warm for February yet rainy, a man stopped me, asking for gas money. He had (what I'm assuming) is crack pipe burns on his lips.

Then there's Rodney, who is mentally challenged but a man of God, who comes in regularly and asks if he can help. He brought our mail to the post office last week in exchange for a few minutes of warmth on our couch.

There's another guy who helped us bring in a chair last week. He openly admitted to being an alcoholic, and asked for a dollar for a beer to go to the liquor store down the street in exchange for his 15 seconds of labor. I told him I didn't want to buy him beer, and he responded by criticizing me, saying, "What? You don't drink?"

I told him I drink occasionally, but it's not adversely affecting the rest of my life.

I'm torn between the Scriptures that often come to mind when I'm faced with these situations. There's times when I have compassion, there's times when I don't. James 2 is a perfect example:

My brothers, as believers in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ, don't show favoritism. Suppose a man comes into your meeting wearing a gold ring and fine clothes, and a poor man in shabby clothes also comes in. If you show special attention to the man wearing fine clothes and say, "Here's a good seat for you," but say to the poor man, "You stand there" or "Sit on the floor by my feet," have you not discriminated among yourselves and become judges with evil thoughts?

Listen, my dear brothers: Has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith and to inherit the kingdom he promised those who love him? But you have insulted the poor. Is it not the rich who are exploiting you? Are they not the ones who are dragging you into court? Are they not the ones who are slandering the noble name of him to whom you belong?

If you really keep the royal law found in Scripture, "Love your neighbor as yourself," you are doing right. But if you show favoritism, you sin and are convicted by the law as lawbreakers. For whoever keeps the whole law and yet stumbles at just one point is guilty of breaking all of it. For he who said, "Do not commit adultery," also said, "Do not murder." If you do not commit adultery but do commit murder, you have become a lawbreaker.

Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment!

Faith and Deeds

What good is it, my brothers, if a man claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save him? Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, "Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed," but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it? In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.

But someone will say, "You have faith; I have deeds."
Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by what I do.

You believe that there is one God. Good! Even the demons believe that—and shudder.

There's also Jesus' comments in Luke 6:29-31, and 31-34 (via The Message):

"To you who are ready for the truth, I say this: Love your enemies. Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst. When someone gives you a hard time, respond with the energies of prayer for that person. If someone slaps you in the face, stand there and take it. If someone grabs your shirt, giftwrap your best coat and make a present of it. If someone takes unfair advantage of you, use the occasion to practice the servant life. No more tit-for-tat stuff. Live generously.

"Here is a simple rule of thumb for behavior: Ask yourself what you want people to do for you; then grab the initiative and do it for them! If you only love the lovable, do you expect a pat on the back? Run-of-the-mill sinners do that. If you only help those who help you, do you expect a medal? Garden-variety sinners do that. If you only give for what you hope to get out of it, do you think that's charity? The stingiest of pawnbrokers does that.

And, finally, there's the admonition in Romans 14:13 to not put any stumbling block in others paths, which is readily applicable when your pocket change may go to crack or booze or prostitutes.

Interestingly enough, it talks about not judging (something I do instantly when I'm asked for change).

"Therefore let us stop passing judgment on one another. Instead, make up your mind not to put any stumbling block or obstacle in the way of a brother or sister."