A Change is Gonna Come

bobby posting:

A few months ago, I came across a statement that went something like this:  if you can’t remember the last time you changed your mind about anything significant, than perhaps you’re not willing to grow.  About a month after I read that little nugget, a group of guys posed this question to me:  how will the way you live your life look different five years from now?  Needless to say, the idea of change has been cycling through me like Lance on a climb.  I had no desire to become some old, crusty curmudgeon, stuck in my ways to the bitter end.  I wanted to grow.  And if you know anything about our God, if you admit to being willing to be stretched, well he answers that kind of prayer.  Gladly.  Certainly.  2011 has since, certainly been a year of growth.  Here’s just one of the changes I believe is coming out of me.  At least, I sure hope it is.

– –

In 2004, I made what I considered to be one of the wisest decisions of my young life.  I decided to move in with three of my best friends into a nice little, apartment right off campus.  The ViaChicago boys all living under the same roof for the first…and last…time.  Four solid Christian men together, constantly pushing each other further down the road to love and servanthood.  Well, that’s what we all desired going into the experiment.  But that year was tough.  We were all going through difficult things in our personal lives and collectively had a hard time managing expectations for this unit living together…as one unit.

The hardest part, though, was managing conflict.  Because we were all “solid Christian men”, we felt the need to constantly correct each other.  We’d sit down and have “serious conversations” and poke and prod for the deeper err beneath the error.  Frankly, I hated it.  And I let it show.  All.  The.  Time.

On a scale of 1-10, my ability at dealing with conflict was somewhere between zero and zero point one.  I hate to admit failure, but I sucked at conflict management.  Terribly.  I’d shut down and roll my eyes and respond with sarcasm.  And that’s when I would actually respond.  Most of the times I’d do my best to avoid the conversations altogether.  I’d dart from conflict like a deer after a rifle shot.  There’s a certain story that about me and a 2-on-2 basketball game and a shove and an f-bomb and me sprinting off into the night…but we don’t need to get into that.

As much as I hated being in the conflict itself, though, I hated even more the aftermath of the moment.  It just ate me alive.  The other three guys would come through the muck and mire with smiles on their muddy, ruddy faces.  They were somehow closer than they’d been before.  There’d be boyish laughter and manly hugs.  Hope would conquer heartache and new life would spring forth like a good rain.  For everyone.  Except me.

I’d sit there with my head tilted and eyes squinted, looking back and forth at these guys with a strange mixture of confusion and disgust.  How could these men enjoy each other’s company right now?  How could things magically be all good again?  How could anyone be for the better after conflict?

Conflict for me simply created more conflict.  It did not create anything of value.  And I couldn’t imagine a world in which anything was different.  I looked at my friends as inauthentic and insincere.  The thought that conflict had crafted them into something stronger, had chipped away and fashioned a faithfulness and fidelity among them was beyond my thought process.  Like a toddler with times tables, the concept was not only foreign, it seemed utterly useless.  Out of my reach.  Until recently.  Really recently, actually.  Like maybe a week ago recently.  A light bulb finally clicked.  Better late than never…

And that’s where we’ll go tomorrow.

ok, if i must…

2 months ago with his new pal

 

swaddled in the hospital. you had to be there.

One BIG Question / vol. 1 / Take 5

Hello! This is Amy Harrison, Bobby’s wife. I’m doing this little intro myself because Bobby is out of town and has no access to the internet, or his phone for that matter, for the next few days. And also because I’m “that kid” who likes to have things done on time, so I wanted to post my answers to this week’s BIG question before this week is out. Bobby actually told me to post on my blog rather than this one. I think he wants to draw some traffic to my stagnant for months and months blog. God bless him. But he’s not here and he was logged into VIA so here I am!

Amy posting (still):

#1 My pictures:  This is number one on my list, no question. For years and years, I’ve known this answer to that question. When I as 7 or 8, my Granny was in a tornado. And by in a tornado, I mean IN a tornado. It literally blew her house away, nothing left but the foundation. I remember going out there with my family after it happened. Some of her stuff was in her yard, some was in the neighbor’s tree, she was in the hospital. Since then, the things she missed most are her photos. She has four children, my dad the oldest, but only a handful of photos to verify their childhoods and memories. It’s just occurred to me that the only pictures I’ve seen of my dad growing up (save a few) are all school or other professional shots. I would love to see my dad hanging out with his buds in the ’60s (I’m picturing Sandlot-style) or dressed up to see Rocky Horror. Or my grandmother as a young woman, stylish no doubt. How many memories would I lose if I didn’t have my pictures to take me back? So, whether it’s Bob’s laptop, a few albums, or my frames around the house, I’ll be going back in.

#2 My wedding rings: I don’t wear much jewelry. Yes, I have been known to wear giant earrings (I have the photos to prove it), but on a day to day basis I’m pretty simple. But, I always wear my wedding rings. Bobby and I have been married for going on 6 years, but we dated for 6 years before that. In those early years, he learned how to bring the romance (woot woot!) and he learned that I had/have a severe fascination with stars. So, when it came time to really show me that he knew me, and loved me, and wanted to be with me, he designed a ring with a diamond constellation, my constellation. I’ve worn that ring proudly (along with my wedding band) since the day he proposed.  Now, you may be wondering, “if you love it so much and you never take it off, why do you have to go back in to save it?”. To answer that requires one more statement of my husband’s insight, creativity, and romance: for our 5th anniversary (the wooden anniversary), Bobby had rings made of Black Ironwood from Africa. It’s hard for me to spell out all of the significance, but it’s simple, natural, African, sturdy, faith like a tree, and most of all it’s ours. We’re wearing these for our 5th year. After September, I’d be going back in for my wooden ring.

#3 Bowser: It was many years before I knew that Bowser was something evil in Marioland. To me, this name is simply comfort, steadfastness, acceptance, fuzziness. My teddy bear. After the traumatic loss of my very first teddy bear (Barney, if you’re curious), Bowser came to me at the tender age of 4. For the next 17 years, I don’t remember a night without him. I’m sure it happened. Maybe even often, but I don’t remember them. My arm under his arms and that’s that. Yes, I took my fair amount of criticism. I haven’t forgotten that a certain member of VIA said he had no eyes and threw him across the floor (you know who you are!). To be fair, we were in college. And he didn’t know Bowser had a soul. Alas, not unlike Toy Story, there came a day when my arms were under someone else’s arms and Bowser’s job was done. Now he tells his story to the newer stuffed animals in Abe’s room. And every now and then, I hear him chuckle as Abe nibbles on his well-worn nose. (Ok, I got a little out of control there at the end, but you get it: I’d save Bowser!)

One BIG Question/vol. 1/House on Fire/Take #3

Zach Posting:

This has been an exceedingly hard post for me to write. Besides my #1 choice, there really isn’t anything I would need to save in a fire. Looking down at my #1 pick you will see that it is depressing in its own light. I would love to say that this is due to my own evolution above materialism, but that isn’t it at all. I love stuff. In fact, my two brooks brothers suits were actual contenders. I think what I cherish most is memories, but I rarely see memories through things. Memories only seem real to me when recounting them with friends, reliving them together. Enough happenstance… to the task at hand.

1/ My Computer

I warned you that it was depressing. I need to give some clarification though. It is not the actual machine, it is all of the files and data. First, my computer has all of my law school files on it. We are talking about hundreds maybe even thousands of hours of work lost. It is so bad that I had a recurring nightmare during my first law school finals week that someone tried to mug me for my computer. In the dream, I always decided to try and fight the guy off, but let’s be honest, I am not a fighter. Black eye and no notes for a law school final…at least I wasn’t in my underwear.

Picking a computer is also slightly cheating because it includes all of my photographs and music. All of Bobby’s famous annual mixed CDs are stored on that piece of metal. The jazz CDs that I listened to when first learning to play the saxophone. All the photographs from my trip through Europe before law school, the family vacation in Mexico (Is that my mom doing a tequilla shot?), etc.

2/ Saxophone

Even though I never play the damn thing, it is still a reminder of who I was. It reminds me of my carefree days where I did not care about ‘changing the world,’ but simply wanted to live and have fun. Sounds great now that I think about it. Back then, my saxophone was an escape. The routine of scales and exercises served to turn off my overactive brain and to just be still. The classical music reminded me of the beauty in practicing towards perfection. The jazz enabled me to let go. If I held on to the chords or the progressions than I would get lost. If I just allowed myself to listen to the music then I could communicate emotion and thought that I could not express or understand if I tried. The samba music a symbol of love & passion for life. Clearly I need to start playing again

3/ My Bible

Got you. You were all thinking this was some pat Christianese answer. I don’t care about the actual book though it has been there for some very tough times. I can buy a new bible for $15 at the local bookstore. My bible is just where I keep the few old photographs that I don’t have on my computer. (1) a picture of me at age four kneeling in front of my grandfather’s footstool and learning how to play poker (he ended up stealing my allowance this way until I was 15). My grandfather, by the way, is the one that taught me to be an obnoxious winner by singing the same song-“bringing in the sheaves”-every time he won a large hand. (2) A picture of my sister and I making thanksgiving pie. IE me peeling apples, and my sister rolling dough. (3) A picture of my first and only attempt to surf. Luckily it is a picture of me on the beach carrying a surf board, and not the countless pictures my Mom probably has of me eating sand. I was not very good. (4) A picture of my first set of campers as a counselor at camp Sambica. I, and 12 1st grade boys, are giving free tickets to the gun show.

 

Perhaps I am more sentimental than I thought.

Climbing Trees on Hamlin Street

bobby posting:

I just finished up watching a movie about the life and love of John Keats, one of the great Romantic poets.  Perhaps the greatest.  The movie, Bright Star, was a period piece filled with sappy dialogue, frilly clothes, and looks of longing.  Nonetheless, I found myself really enjoying the slow pace.  The beautiful cinematography.  And the poetry.  Spoken, off an on, all throughout the film.  You see, I used to greatly define myself as a poet.  Poet first.  Writer second.  The tide has turned greatly over the past several years.  In fact, I can’t remember the last time I even wrote a poem.  But I can remember the last poem I wrote that I really enjoyed.

Adam had written several poems.  He got the itch and was beginning to finally, deeply scratch.  In fact, he was in the process of fully investing and dedicating himself to the craft.  Creative Writing classes and graduate classes were in the discussion, potentially in the works.  He knew I’d written poetry all thru high school and that it was something I greatly valued.  Adam asked me to read his poetry and get back to him.

While sitting in class one day, I wrote this response.  Of course, it was a poem.  Enjoy.

Climbing Trees on Hamlin Street

Your poems are tight.
Carefully constructed creations,
Cannons fired with the supreme knowledge
Of definitions and commas.

While your rhyme pattern
Has the jingle-jangle-jitter
Of a three-piece garage band,
Or a man walking with a top hat, a limp and a cane,
Your victories lie in your words.

Bit pieces that bite.
Marks on readers hearts that they happily share
With the reckless joy of a boy and his battle scars
[Left arm, 2 inches, in the shape of a J (upper case, of course)
from a stick fight with Timothy ;
Right ankle, a semi-circle, circumference: 1.7 inches,
pet dog incorrectly named Precious; we had to get rid of her]

Let me take that rhyme, or lack thereof,
And show me a painting
(but let it be all circles, perpendicular lines, and symbolism)
Hear me a song
(but let it skip on the record player like a girl learning to dance,
standing on her father’s feet but slipping every off beat)

Yes. Let me take those words
Those architectural masterpieces:
Hamlin’s Trees,
Jack’s Beanstalk,
Heaven’s Ladder.

Prayer’s role in finding the perfect spouse

Wilco – “Lookin’ For A Love” (Neil Young cover)

Zach Posting:

I am a Christian who attempts to allow God to influence, guide or even control all of my major life decisions. The hardest of these to give over to him has been family. Especially when it comes to dating, and the hope of someday getting married and starting my own family. I will leave children, and how to let God lead me as a father for another day, and a wiser author.

Far too many books have been written on Christian dating, courtship, marriage, sex, and all the combinations of the above. So far, none of them seem like a real answer on finding the balance between trusting God, listening for his guidance, and feeling free to follow your own heart. The entire topic is too broad, so today, I focus only on the concept of prayer. What role should prayer play in my decision of who to date, who to marry?

Some say that God is love, and all that matters is whether you love the person. IE if you get that tingly feeling than go for it. This theory leaves the definition of love to poets, movies, and occasionally, scholars.

Others advocate the one simple iron-clad rule: they just have to be a Christian. The only catch, you have to figure out what it means to be a Christian.

Takes us to theory three. Only rule: God must be their number one priority.

Finally, a couple must both love God, and have the same purpose/mission for life.

Now come the prayer theories:

Unromantic Approach: Pray about the qualities/characteristics you should look for in a spouse. Make a checklist. Grade them. What? She scored an 87/100!!! Let’s go ring shopping.

Romantic Approach: Pray for God to point out a single person. God gives you the target? Go in barrels blazing.

Person by Person: Trust the judgment of your friends, mentors, or online dating service. Once you have that gold-star recommendation. Pray to see if that person is a good fit, and go for it.

Smack on the back of the head: Don’t worry about figuring out the right person through prayer. Rely on the instincts God has given you, and trust that he will smack you upside the back of your head if you are going for the wrong person.

All of these theories have benefits. All of them, of course, come with some amazing story that led to a 50 year marriage filled with love, blessings, and adventure. All of them also have crazy stories of heartbreak and destruction. So I leave it to the audience of Via Chicago…What is the answer?

Lovebirds… Send us your winning strategy.

Heartbroken… Tell us which strategies to ban for all eternity

Single and looking? – Give us some market research on what is working now.

Chicago Blizzard of 2011

Zach Posting:

This is partially a response to Bobby’s post on the Siberia Winter. Normally, I would yell at Bobby for ever complaining about a 62 degree day in the middle of winter. I am one of the few that has never grown accustomed to Chicago winters. I simply have to escape for a week each winter. It is necessary for survival.

On the other hand, I absolutely loved the Blizzard of 2011. First, I got a break from an unending stream of work. Classes were canceled and I had no choice, but to stay at home and rest. Instead I had a wonderful low key night with friends playing Monopoly. I felt like a child celebrating his first snow day.

The next day is what Chicagoans always fear. The terrible commutes, the dirty snow, hours of shoveling etc. This day, however, was different. I woke up and grabbed the shovel. The cold air in my lungs mixed with the heat of sweat as I shoveled the walk felt wonderful. It was my first form of exercise in weeks.

An hour later my roommate Matt came out and we spent the next couple hours shoveling side by side in silence. It was very peaceful. More than that, I felt a large sense of community. Families all down the street grabbed their shovels and worked side by side. An elderly woman on cross country skis briefly stopped to talk about the weather and what to do about cars. A couple of girls from down the street even stopped to have me take their picture. Something about the storm drew people together.

This morning, however, I woke up to the brutal reality. The grey snow. Ice attaching my car’s tires to the street. And the fear that someone will take the parking spot that took me 3+ hours to dig out. The parking spot fiasco has creating a huge stir in Chicago to the point where Mayor Daily issued a statement that this year people are allowed to call “dibs” on spots they have shoveled out with lawn chairs and trash cans. I can only hope that my laundry basket will be enough.

I guess the kumbaya moment can only last so long.

Movie of the Year

Zach Writing:

Before I begin this blatant propaganda for The Fighter to win movie of the year I must make a few concessions: I am a huge Christian Bale fan (but who isn’t), and have only had time to see 5 movies in the entire last year. That being said, The Fighter is a must see.

This movie opened up my eyes to an entire new Genre of movies. I have always hated documentary films. What is the point? I go to movies to escape the real world, not to dive into it. Plus, I generally find them quite boring. Now, The Fighter isn’t a traditional documentary. It had actors rather than real people and certainly wasn’t directed by Michael Moore. Nevertheless, it had the same feel and style. The Fighter, however, had all of the elements that I love in a movie: Incredible character development, complex relationships, amazing plot (who doesn’t love the traditional Rocky Balboa story line), and the ability to make you laugh in order to enable you to cry.

The real beauty of the movie, however, was in its status as a sports movie. I am not a boxer (minus my one round during Monday Night Manhood with a man whose nickname is Joystick James- a story for another time). I know nothing about boxing other than you want to hit the other guy more then he hits you. Maybe it is this lack of knowledge or that I wasn’t born with the innate desire to fight, but I have never really become enmeshed in a boxing movie. I like them, but it has never come to the point where I am so entrenched that I was following every move.  In The Fighter, however, I was glued to the screen.

I noticed my hands and arms moving in mock punches as if I could control the screen and would somehow single handedly control the outcome of the movie. I cared deeply about how it ended. After all, isn’t the point of a movie to create that human connection between the viewer and its characters? To make us as viewers understand the world through another’s eyes? A beautiful movie worth the eye gauging $10 a ticket that has made me an exclusively red box movie goer.

Authentic, Sincere, Real Worship

bobby posting:

As a youth leader, and sometimes worship leader, I’m always on the lookout for songs that bring folks into the presence of God in sincere and thoughtful ways.  I have a slight aversion (read:  disdain) to ridiculously cheesy Christian music.  I’m sure most of you are with me.   But even more, I have a hard time singing worship songs that seem to have been written in some sort of cliche-filled rhyming machine.  Worship can and should be real.  It should be filled with authenticity.  Powerful, poignant, passionate praise.  Reflective, reactive, (even) remorseful repentance.

One of my best friends recently asked me what my favorite Christian rock album of all time was.  I was stooped and silent.  I didn’t have one.  He then just rephrased the question to what my favorite Christian album was of all time.  This allowed me to walk down the road of worship.  You see, I’ve heard Chris Tomlin’s albums.  But I’ve also heard Chris Tomlin lead worship.  To me, they are about as different of experiences as you could possibly imagine.  The man is an incredible “lead worshipper”, but I have a really hard time making it through the other stuff.  With the door to worship opened, I give you a few artists and albums and songs that have really taught me more about worship than just about anything else.  Hope they come to your rescue as well:

Anthony Skinner – Forever and a Day

This is a put-it-on-and-listen-to-it-all-the-way-thru kind of album.  There’s rarely a time where I just put on a track or two.  If so, my go-to’s are numbers 9 & 11 (always a crowd favorite).  Several of these songs have made it thru the ministries that I’ve been a part of over the years.  Quite honestly, if you know me, you probably know some of this album already.  I discovered it on a rare chance in college and have been living with it ever since.  It’s honest and beautiful.  But the thing I love most about it is this raw, communal feeling you have while it’s on.  You won’t just be listening, you’ll be singing and having a worship experience as well.  It’s just contagious.  And that same exact spirit brings me to the aptly titled album below…

Phil Wickham – Singalong

First thing I loved about Singalong?  It was free.  And no, I’m don’t mean free-for-me-because-someone-burned-it-for-me free.  I mean Phil Wickham literally put out this live worship album for free on his website.  I downloaded it one morning and was glued to it for the next several months.  Literally.  Old hymns, new worship songs, people really singing along loud and full of faith.  If you haven’t heard it yet, let me burn you a copy.  It’s gotten me thru at least half-a-dozen roadtrips.  Day or night, sad or glad, this thing is sure-to-God good.  Not convinced?  Give it a listen here. And yes, he rocks a vest and a Euro mullet.

John Mark McMillan

Listened to KLOVE recently?  Yep.  Me neither.  But have you been in church any time in the past year or two?  Then chances are you’ve heard the song this guy’s first known for.  McMillan wrote How He Loves a while back, though it’s really just caught fire relatively recently.  I’m sure the song would’ve caught my attention the first time I blindly heard it at church or on the radio.  I hope so.  But I didn’t have that experience.  I was sitting quietly at my laptop when one of my best friends passed a youtube link to me of this worship leader balling his eyes out while telling the origins of a song he’d written.  I was broken and breath taken.

McMillan wrote the song following the death of a dear friend who, during a church meeting, prayed out loud, “If it would shake the youth of a nation, I will give my life today.” McMillan was awakened in the middle of the same night by a phone call; the friend had been killed in a car crash.  The first time I led this song with our students, it certainly rocked them.  We were at our fall camp the first time we sang it together.  God’s love poured thru in a mighty, magnificent way as we shook the old, metal roof with our voices lifted high and loud.

The song’s recently been covered by just about every major Christian artist and is impossible to miss.  But I’m telling you, hearing how the song came about from the writer himself changes everything.  It leaves a deep impression on you that’s hard to shake and urges you to listen to these words with stronger clarity.  You begin to realize that it doesn’t sound like every other worship song.  The words you’re singing are arranged differently.  If you allow yourself to get there, you’ll feel more than normal feel.  Heck, for some of us, we may feel while worshiping for the first time in a long time.

One of our students recently gave me McMillan’s new album, which is certainly solid.  Heck, I may have finally found an answer for “my favorite Christian rock album”.  I’m posting a couple of his videos below.  The second is a song called Death in His Grave off of that new album.  It’s probably the next song you’ll be hearing from me a lot.  In fact, you may end up getting tired off of it here in a year or two.  McMillan describes it as his attempt at writing a hymn.  I loved hearing him say that because the first time I heard the song I began googling the song title to find the original hymn.  There wasn’t one.  It’s all his.  So, if you have time, watch it.  It’s great.

But if you only h ave time to watch one, the first video is what I’d push on to you.  In may ways, it wraps up everything I’ve written above about worship here into one little snapshot.  Enjoy.

The World Cup Stole My Heart

Zach Posting:

I did not grow up watching or playing soccer. I have tried to get into soccer before since many of my closest friends are fanatics. I normally find it quite boring. I would watch intently for 20 minutes and nothing would happen: no shots, no goals, no cards. At some point, someone would call my name from the kitchen and as soon as I turned my head the one and only goal of the match would be scored. It was maddening.

Still, I felt compelled to join the spirit of the World Cup and try once again to be a fan. After all, I was in Europe where entire countries stop working to watch their teams play. I saw my first live match when I went to Rotterdam to watch a preliminary match between Holland and Ghana. I’m not sure whether it was watching it live or the intense roar of the crowd, but I was mesmerized. I could not take my eyes off of the field.

A couple of weeks later, I watched my first world cup match in a bar when Mexico played France. I loved the interplay between the different fans. “Mex-i-co!” and “Allez-le-bleu!” rang out back and forth through the bar like a never-ending echo.  I did not discover, however, that I was a real fan until I snuck out of work early to catch the second half of the final USA match against Algeria. I had given up all hope when Landon Donovan scored a injury-time winner to put the USA into the Round of 16. I found myself screaming in excitement alone in my room.

As I sat screaming in excitement, I wondered why the sport had never picked up popularity in the states. Throughout the world it is a source of national pride, yet who has more pride than us red-blooded Americans? I think we need to get our act together, raise a generation of soccer studs, and put out the next dream team.