blog a day in review

First of all, I'd like to point out something that's been bugging me for a while now:

It occurred to me about three days into my lenten blogging experiment that calling it "a blog a day" makes no sense - it's a post a day on the same blog. I don't want to go back and change it now, but the English minor side of me will always cringe when I read that phrase.

Anyway, blogs are tricky, because when scrolling through, the posts appear backwards. Unless you're checking in every day, it's virtually impossible to easily read one in chronological order. Therefore, I offer my lenten posts with a list of what I wrote for easier access.

Here's the forty posts, from Ash Wednesday to Black Saturday, with the main topic and title:

1) introducing the fast (a blog a day for lent)

2) nicknames (fire ant bites)

3) Facebook (facebook-stalking people you knew in elementary school)

4) Scott Pilgrim Gets It Together by Bryan Lee O'Malley (getting it together)

5) celebrity sightings (normal here vs normal there; or, a lesson from batman)

6) In-n-Out Burger (why is it called in-n-out when the lines are so long)

7) spirituality (if all my posts are lame, then none of my posts are lame)

8) Austin Johnson (the muse from bowie)

9) my songs (#1) - awkward parties (on the wall at the junior high dance)

10) dentist appointments (deep cleaning)

11) hymns (good old fashioned hymns)

12) earthquakes (the big one; or, a choice between living and pancakes)

13) Lance Berkman (why lance berkman will always be a houston astro) 

14) my songs (#2) - "The Dead" by James Joyce (would you walk away from me)

15) 1943 copper penny (a conversation with an american 1943 copper small cent)

16) Diplomacy (diplomacy; or, how to have an enjoyable day with your friends and almost lose them in one fell swoop)

17) caffeine addiction (hello, we are those people whose orders still psychologically traumatize former baristas years later)

18) teaching English (the abcs of teaching oral english)

19) Andrew Johnson's impeachment (peachy keen)

20) Audio Lessonover? by delirious? (take me away - ruminations on audio lessonover?)

21) wanting to quit a fast (phoning it in)

22) my songs (#3) - Calvinism (in which andy, perhaps unwisely, declares a side in the predestination debate)

23) Once Upon a Time (you say you want a resolution)

24) the Robert F. Kennedy assassination site (walk and gawk)

25) Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (because the world needs yet another blog post about the ninja turtles)

26) greeting cards (words that strangers put in our mouths)

27) Revelation (revelation, not revelations)

28) Funzone Freddy (welcome to the funzone)

29) Trayvon Martin (trayvon)

30) my songs (#4) - the 2005 NLCS (feelings of despair wrought by a ninth inning home run in game 5 of the 2005 national league championship series)
31) Unicru test (why introverts don't get job interviews)
32) Allie the guinea pig (allie: a eulogy for a guinea pig)
33) Breckenridge, Colorado (those wild and crazy colorado nights)
34) the 110 Freeway (my first time on the 110 freeway; or, i see death fast approaching in my rear view mirror)
35) Communion (a failure to communi[on]cate)
36) Funzone Freddy (again) (welcome to the funzone [#2])
37) youth ministry (why i shouldn't be a youth pastor; or, why i should be a youth pastor)
38) Maundy Thursday (thursday maundy thursday)
39) The Seven Last Words of Jesus (stare into the void)
40) my songs (#5) - the Prophet Jeremiah (in spite of all cruel odds)


Incidentally, I love statistics. Perhaps that's one reason I'm such an avid baseball fan - no other sport features such copious and rigorous keeping of records. (I doubt sabermetrics would ever have developed first in football or basketball.) So I was intrigued to see what I would discover if I looked at the stats behind my blog a day experiment. Here's the quick overview:

- 40 posts
- 28,496 total words
- 712.4 average words per post
- longest post: take me away - ruminations on audio lessonover? (#20) - 1,309 words
- shortest post: in spite of all cruel odds (#40) - 315 words

If I'm not mistaken (and I may be), that's roughly equivalent to a 95 page research paper (assuming 300 words per page).

I'll admit here that a few posts were actually composed in part before my lenten posting experiment. #3 and #20 were unfinished posts I finally fleshed out, and #30 was adapted from part of a chapter for an unfinished book I was working on several years ago. (Of course, #39 was the homily I gave at a Good Friday service, as I mentioned in the post.)

I am surprised at the extremes in terms of word count. Apparently I had more to say about delirious? than Trayvon Martin, introversion, or any biblical topic. Granted, I included several wordy quotes from band members in that post, so that ramped up the word count. I am also surprised that the very last post was the shortest, but most of the posts where I shared songs were brief by design.

As I look back, I am also aware of many typos and grammatical errors in my posts. I want to go back and fix them all, but I'll try to refrain, simply because of the nature of the practice. The whole point of posting consistently during Lent was to present my ideas and thoughts unpolished, and I think going back and correcting every error would undermine that purpose.


So, what next for this blog?

I've enjoyed sharing random stories and memories, in addition to occasional responses to media and current events. I'm going to shoot for an informal goal of a post per week, but I won't be too rigid about it. My wife has been gracious with me on the nights when she's been getting ready for bed and I've been frantically typing away, trying to finish my daily post. I think she'll appreciate not being put through any more of that.

in spite of all cruel odds

I feel pretty bad for the prophet Jeremiah. Christians cite the call of Jeremiah often because it sounds so poetic and meaningful: "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you..." The only problem is that Jeremiah's life pretty much sucked; by the time we're twenty chapters into the book, he's cursing God and wishing he'd never have been born. This is a prophet of the Lord speaking.

The Christian life is hard. It's not the easy thing many of us are taught it is when we're children. I think what makes it so complicated is that it's hard for reasons we don't expect. You might hear warnings about persecution or having people mock your beliefs, but unfortunately, in my experience, I've gotten that a lot more of that from fellow Christians than from non-believers or adherents of other faiths. When I think about Jeremiah, I realize that if I'm really following God, I may be walking down a very lonely road.

Perhaps Black Saturday (that being today, the awkward in-between after Good Friday and before Easter Sunday) is the biggest sign of that: the son of God doesn't come as a conquering hero, but as a common man who ends up killed. Who would have written that script?

To end my lenten posts, I'm sharing one more of my songs. It's pretty long, but this is actually the abbreviated version (iMovie wouldn't let me make a file longer than ten minutes). I was heavily inspired both by the story of Jeremiah and by my favorite theology book: No Handle on the Cross by Kosuke Koyama. Koyama argues that we try to make the cross easy to carry, attaching a handle to it so we can carry it like a briefcase. That's not the lifestyle Jesus models at all. But in the end, God remains faithful, even when it seems like we've been forsaken.

stare into the void

Today is Good Friday, the darkest day in the Christian calendar. Tonight my church is having a joint service with another local body in which we will be remembering the Seven Last Words of Jesus, the seven sayings attributed to Jesus on the cross in the four gospels. I have been asked to speak about the last of the seven sayings, which comes from Luke 23:46: "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit."

I'm going to share with you the short reflection on "The Word of Reunion" (as it is sometimes called) that I will be giving tonight. (**Thus: Spoilers ahead if you're coming tonight!**) I am honored  to be part of the Good Friday gathering, as this marks one of the most important, contradictory, and confusing aspects of the life of Jesus: his death. It's easy to talk about the resurrection, since it's all about triumph and happiness and final victory. It's harder to really sit with the bleakness of Good Friday and be humbled by the strange and powerful love of a God who reaches out to us.

***

When I was a child, I was taught a simple blessing to say before every meal. Without fail, every time we ate, we would bow our heads, fold our hands, and pray, "God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food. By his hands we are fed, thank you God for daily bread. A-men." And, of course, the "A-men" had to be said with a sing-song inflection.

It's easy as an adult to look back on that and think, "That's kid stuff." As we get older, we can brush off those childhood rituals as if they have no place in a mature person's life. However, I thank God for those foundational customs I learned as a child. I don't care how "mature" or "intellectual" you become, the truth found in memorizing these prayers and reciting familiar verses like John 3:16 or Psalm 23 remains truth - and often deep, foundational truth that really matters.

In Luke we find the seventh of the Jesus's seven sayings on the cross, and it's one of two in which Jesus quotes from a Psalm. (The other is the fourth word.) Here, Jesus recalls Psalm 31. It's a psalm attributed to King David when he was fleeing for his life, oppressed and scared. I'll go ahead and recite the first five verses:

"In you, Lord, I have taken refuge; let me never be put to shame; deliver me in your righteousness. Turn your ear to me; come quickly to my rescue; be my rock of refuge, a strong fortress to save me. Since you are my rock and my fortress, for the sake of your name lead and guide me. Keep me free from the trap that is set for me, for you are my refuge." And here's the money verse: "Into your hands I commit my spirit; deliver me, Lord, my faithful God."

You may not have noticed that Jesus on the cross adds one very important word here: "Father." "Father, into your hands, I commit my spirit." Jesus isn't crying out to some distant deity or some spiritual idea that he doesn't really know; he reaches out to God the Father, a very personal, intimate relationship. And perhaps the most important thing about Psalm 31 is that, according to some scholars, it was a prayer sort of like that dinner blessing I learned as a child. Jewish mothers would teach their children the words of this psalm: "Into your hands I commit my spirit." In times of sadness or uncertainty, Jewish children were taught to say these words.

So we see here Jesus, at his most vulnerable, at his weakest, at his loneliest, at the point of his death, and he goes back a prayer he may well have learned as a young Jewish boy. These aren't theologically profound words, these aren't the great words of a scholar or a rabbi or a political figure. This is an expression of the truth Jesus has known since he was a child - that God does not abandon, that God is a refuge and a rock and a fortress: today we might say a bunker or a storm shelter. God is the one to whom we run when we have no more strength and no idea where to go next.

Luke also tells us that the curtain in the Jewish temple was ripped in two at the time of Jesus's death. That curtain was the symbol of a divide - only the priests could enter, for beyond that boundary was the presence of God. It was kind of like the velvet rope at an awards ceremony with security standing by - beyond this was forbidden territory. At Jesus' death, the curtain falls - God is accesible to all. Jesus, as he dies, commits himself to the will of the God who does not let his followers slip through his fingers.

As we go into the dark night of Friday, not yet entering the light of resurrection, let us stare into the void and defiantly but confidently say with the faith of a child, "Father, into your hands, we commit our spirits."

thursday maundy thursday

When I first learned about Maundy Thursday, I think I had the same reaction many uninformed Baptists do: "Monday Thursday? That doesn't make any sense." I have since learned the proper spelling and pronunciation, and have learned more about the holiday (or, rather, holy-day). Now Maundy Thursday has become one of my favorite days in the liturgical calendar.

Two years ago, my church decided to celebrate this day by hosting a scaled-back Christian version of a Seder meal. I was an intern at the church and was tasked with putting together the event, along with some members of my small group. The only problem was that, while I had heard of the Seder and had conversations with people who had participated in one, I myself had never taken part in one. We ending up piecing together a meal passed on several different versions we found online. In the end, it wasn't so much a historically or culturally accurate approximation of the Jewish festival, but a patchwork ritual event somewhere between Passover, Communion, and just hanging out. In other words, I think it turned out pretty well.

I remember putting together the script and being kind of scandalized by what these different churches had done to the original Jewish version. In a traditional Seder meal, a wine cup is left for Elijah. In the Seder we practiced, there comes this part, where the presider (in this case, myself) takes Elijah's cup and says these words:

"I have taken Elijah’s cup because we no longer wait for Elijah. We celebrate in joy today not only because Elijah has come, but because Messiah has also come!"

This part of our Christian ceremony honestly bugged me. I try to be sensitive to other religious traditions, and there is a long history of Jews having their culture and history manipulated by Christians. I didn't want to contribute.

However, this brought home to me some of the scandal of Jesus's message. It's easy to forget that Jesus wouldn't have been executed if he had been this nice, cheery guy that everybody liked. He was a provocative, polarizing figure that made people (especially people with power) uncomfortable. His disciples must've gotten pretty antsy when he started telling them to eat his body and drink his blood. I never appreciated that until I went through a Christian Seder.

At the end of the day, though, Maundy Thursday teaches me about community. We gathered together that Thursday night around a couple of tables in our pastor's home and joined in eating and drinking as we remembered the story of our faith. One couple brought their child, and as we passed around a basin to wash our hands, the little boy (maybe two years at the time) reached in and rubbed his hands in the water. His mother later commented that she started crying as she watched her son, since this was one of the first times her child actively participated in a church ritual.

I am thankful for the remembrance of Maundy Thursday and the heart of communion. My prayer is for believers to find unity in the scandalous story of Jesus.

why i shouldn't be a youth pastor; or, why i should be a youth pastor

I once read a job description for a youth pastor position which specified  that applicants should have "an athletic background." I read that and thought to myself, "I suppose I need not apply." It made me sort of angry, but then I thought, why shouldn't a church want an athletic youth pastor? Isn't the youth pastor supposed to sort of be the jock of the church staff?

I remember that I first felt a call to ministry when I was in high school. I knew that I felt God was calling me to honor him with my career, but I had no idea what that looked like. As I thought about it, though, there were two ministry careers I had no desire to pursue:

1) Worship Director - mostly because I do music only casually and had neither the passion nor the skills to step into a musical lead role

2) Youth Director - for reasons below:

Youth ministry seemed like something that could never work for me - I felt like it was a bad fit for me, and I was a bad fit for it. Even as a high schooler I didn't particularly enjoy going to Youth Night every Wednesday night at the church gym - I went because I felt I should, but on the nights when everybody played basketball or volleyball I just felt awkward. This wasn't what I liked to do, I wasn't good at it, and I just felt like I didn't fit. So when I looked into doing ministry, I thought, "Put me behind a pulpit, put in an office, even put me in another country - just don't put me in youth ministry!"

Low and behold, one faithful day I was sitting in Panera Bread typing away on my computer when Jonathan Tarman, an acquaintance of mine from Fuller, walked by. Full disclosure: At first I ignored him. I wasn't trying to be rude, I was just focused on what I was doing and didn't want to be distracted by small talk. (This is a fairly common occurrence at that Panera - while studying at Fuller, I probably saw people I knew from school there nine times out of ten.)

Jon saw me anyway. He waved and made it over to where I was sitting. I sighed and thought, "Well, I guess I'm not getting out of this one."

After a few moments of chit-chat, Jon said, "Hey, a friend of mine told me that you're looking for a job." This was true, so I nodded. Jon said, "Well, I'm the youth director at a church down in Torrance, but I'm going to be leaving in a few months and the church needs to find my replacement. I know you worked with Filipinos last summer, and the youth group is mostly Filipino. Would you be interested in applying?"

I perked up at this piece of news - not at the word "youth director," but the word "job." At this point I'd been looking for a while with no leads, so anything was welcome. I did have experience working in a Filipino setting, and I'd be able to use my Cross-Cultural Studies degree. I told Jon I'd like to hear more and e-mailed him my résumé later that week.

As I went forward with the application process, I had a nagging doubt in the back of my mind. The doubt was this: I'm not the youth minister type. I didn't take any classes on youth ministry, and had very little experience doing it. But more than that, I just came circling back to this thought: I'm not that guy. I'm not the guy with the soul patch and the backwards baseball cap who has a ton of hilarious stories from college. I'm not the guy who talks to everyone about everything and gets to know all the intimate and exciting details of everyone's life. I just didn't feel like I fit the mold.

All that being said, I did feel called to look into this opportunity. And it turns out that I actually got the job.

Since then, I've learned that in not being that guy, I have other strengths to offer. It turns out that youth really appreciate spiritual practices such as prayer stations, something few of those guys might consider.   It also turns out that when you let kids have a conversation about points of faith and what it means to be the church, God works in them and they draw closer to him and each other - so apparently I don't just have to preach at them. It also turns out that I know enough silly games and diversions to keep the kids entertained... so maybe I'm like that guy a little bit.

My point isn't to bash the stereotypical youth pastor - my point is to not bash myself. God calls all kinds to different works, and some churches need people who break the mold. I'm grateful that the young people of Torrance First UMC are teaching me how to use gifts I never knew I had. I'm grateful that they open my eyes to the wideness of God's purpose for my life. I hope I make a difference for them as well.

welcome to the funzone (#2)

In my former post, Theophilus, I told you about the time when I was a big yellow dog called Funzone Freddy. I was drafted into the position unexpectedly, forced by the hand of fate.

As it happens, my Funzone antics were well-received, and I was asked to don the sweaty, hot costume again on a few different occasions. One such time came just before Easter of 2010, at the school my church had adopted.

This story is going to take a somewhat shocking turn, so I want to spell out the moral right now: Respect people wearing full-body costumes. They are very vulnerable and uncomfortable and may resort to drastic measures in the name of self-preservation.

OK? I want you to keep that lesson in mind.

Anyway, our church was planning a large-scale party for the kids of the elementary school on Easter Sunday, complete with singing, dancing, an Easter egg hunt, and so on. The most buzz-worthy event of the day, however, was that we would be having a drawing for a free Nintendo Wii.

In order to drum up interest, Pastor Rodney asked me to join him in visiting the classrooms at the school and telling the children about the Wii giveaway. I would be appearing not as myself, however, but as Funzone Freddy.

So Rodney and I got to the school and I donned the yellow costume. He then led me from classroom to classroom, sharing with the kids the news of Easter extravaganza. The response was near-unanimous across ages and grades – gasps of wonder and awe as the children saw me enter, then Rodney would announce the Wii drawing and the kids would erupt into cheers, applause, and top-of-their-little-lungs shrieking as they jumped up and down.

After an hour or two of this, we had made our way through the whole school and were trying to walk back to where I could remove my Funzone disguise and return to my street identity. On the way, we stumbled upon a rowdy group of kids on recess. Most of them were fifth grade boys, but for some reason a three or four year old was in their midst as well. (As I remember the story, this detail doesn’t seem to make much sense, but the toddler was there.)

Now, fifth grade boys aren’t as easily won over by mascots. They do like big animals, but more in the way that they like piñatas – they want to see how much abuse they can inflict before the character collapses.

Somehow I got separated from Rodney, who, in addition to being my guide, had sort of been my bodyguard. The next thing I knew, the fifth graders had surrounded me, and they pulled on my tail, punched my ribs, and tugged at my big dog-nose. “Hey, who is that inside there?” they yelled. “Hey, does this hurt?” one boy screamed as he tried to rip off Funzone’s head. I considered fighting back but didn’t want the news to get around that the church’s dog mascot had punched an eleven-year-old in the face.

In the midst of the chaos, the four-year-old somehow got into the midst of things and just wanted to touch Freddy. I looked down at the little guy and noticed that in spite of the madness, the older boys graders were being protective of him. So, I resorted to a last-ditch doomsday plan.

I reached down and grabbed the little toddler and hugged him. I held him close to me and he giggled. And as long as I held him in front of me, the fifth graders wouldn’t touch me. They tried to push the baby away, but I just pulled him back. The little one was my only hope.

Finally Rodney found me and dispelled the fifth grade mob, and whisked me to the supply room where I changed back into my regular clothes.

And that’s the story of when I used a four-year-old baby as a human shield for my own protection against a mob of fifth grade boys.

a failure to communi(on)cate

My sophomore year of college I spent a semester studying abroad in Malaysia. While there, I became involved with a Christian student fellowship, attending worship meetings and becoming connected with local churches through the friends I made. Two American friends of mine were also spending the semester in Malaysia and most Sundays we went to church together, but one Sunday they were out of town and I went to church with a few Malaysian friends instead.

Now, to say that I stood out is a bit of an understatement. While I was at the school with two other white Americans, both of them were girls, and while the college had numerous international students from Africa, the Middle East, and other parts of Asia, the three of us were the only white students. This made me the only white male on the campus, and one of very few in the city. I'm also fairly tall, especially when compared to most Malaysians, so when walking to classes I would make eye contact with male African students over the heads of everybody else.

Anyway, I went to this church one Sunday morning, and was the only non-Asian in attendance. Before the service started a deacon at the church introduced himself to me; he was a transplant from the Philippines, so we talked a bit about being foreigners. Also, the sermon that day was delivered by a visiting pastor from yet another country.

It was Communion Sunday, and after the guest speaker's sermon, the pastor got up to prepare for the distribution of the bread and juice. He spoke about how God's message is for people from every nation and culture. He then invited the guest speaker to help serve communion, as well as the Filipino deacon.

The pastor then said, "Oh, and we have another guest, from the US. He's going to help serve communion as well!"

Everyone turned and looked at me, and he gestured for me to come up. To say that I felt awkward as I stood and slowly walked toward the front of the church is a bit of an understatement.

Many traditions have strict restrictions on who can serve communion. At my current church I regularly help distribute the elements (in fact, I did so yesterday), but I am paid staff and serve in a ministering capacity. At my home church, the deacons serve the elements to the congregation. I had never before, and have never since, been recruited to help serve communion as a lay person, and certainly never off the cuff.

I had very mixed emotions as I helped pass the baskets of bread to the people in the pews. I felt a hint of resentment at being singled out, but strangely I also felt honored, validated even. As I reflected, I liked that someone could be called out of the pews to help initiate one of the central rituals of the Christian faith. I liked the acknowledgment of diversity in the Kingdom of God, and wondered what this would have looked like in an American church with visitors from another country. Would we be as welcoming and trusting of believers from somewhere else?

After church, I went out with a group from the church for lunch, and we sat for a few hours, talking and laughing. It felt like everything Communion should be - it felt like home among strangers in a far away place.

my first time on the 110 freeway; or, i see death fast approaching in my rear view mirror

When I first moved out to the West Coast, I did not have the stereotypical Los Angeles experience. I lived in Pasadena and was walking distance to my school, my job, my church, the grocery store, various coffee shops, and most of my friends' apartments. I stayed in the area and rarely drove anywhere, seldom driving on the freeways.

One day a friend of mine asked if I could pick him up at LAX. Pasadena is a good twenty-five or so miles northeast of the airport, and though I had passed through there on multiple layovers I had never made the drive down; in fact, I had never really driven south of Pasadena at all. But I agreed to give my friend a ride, and make the sojourn down the 110 Freeway to pick him around 10:00 at night.

Now, the 110 is a pretty ridiculous road. North of downtown it is the Arroyo Seco Parkway, the United States' oldest freeway, and it hasn't really been updated in my lifetime. The roads and sharp and curvy, cut into a mountainside with no shoulders and very tight lanes. This doesn't faze most LA drivers, however, as people regularly zoom along the curves at ninety miles an hour.

Even worse, I hadn't realized when I agreed to pick up my friend that it would be raining that evening. Now, I feel confident in my ability to drive in the rain. I've driven in severe weather in Texas on more than one occasion, and rain in LA tends to be light (and this shower was no exception). What I don't have confidence in is the average Angelino's ability to drive in the rain. When it's sprinkling, LA natives either completely freak out and drive erratically, or they make no adjustments to their speed or stopping distance whatsoever, leading to great potential for skidding and hydroplaning. Add in the typical Angelino's penchant for aggressive driving and the tendency for California roads to develop numerous potholes after a shower, and I feel legitimately afraid to get behind the wheel when the roads are wet in SoCal.

So I had to drive down the 110 Freeway for the first time, at night, in the rain. Fun times.

I headed south and got onto the 110 - there's a southbound road called Arroyo that simply turns into the freeway past an intersection and suddenly you're in a 55-mile-an-hour going around a sharp curve. This was my first time, so I was unprepared. I was in the left lane, quickly trying to accelerate while maintaining control on the wet road, and cars start zooming around me to the right and a large truck revs right up onto my bumper. I desperately get over in the middle lane as soon as I can, and then I feel like I'm in a nightmare - headlights are zooming around me, dulled by the mist and road spray, and I'm struggling to keep up with the mysterious turns and curves. 

The drive was a frantic blur of mist and headlights. My heart was beating as I swerved around each bend, trying desperately to find a happy medium between a speed where I wouldn't spin out and a speed where I wouldn't get rear-ended. At some point I was out of the curves and in the midst of skyscrapers, but the cars and trucks kept zooming around me. I have no idea how I found the 105 Freeway and made my exit, but soon I was at LAX in a mob of cars, all trying to get to the curb.

I crept up to the pick-up zone and helped my friend load his bags. My heart was racing and I was sweating. He asked, "Are you OK, man?" I silently nodded and wiped my forehead with my hand. Great, now I have to drive back up through that madness, I thought in despair.

Now I live in the South Bay area and I've become quite familiar with the 110 Freeway. I've spent some time commuting both north-to-south and south-to-north on the freeway, and I'm probably one of those idiots who zooms by too quickly by now. But I always remember the time when the 110 was a mysterious monster, a beast to be feared. 

those wild and crazy colorado nights

Back in 2002, I was a junior in high school, and my church youth group took a trip to Breckenridge, Colorado for a Spring Break ski trip. My school friend Brad came along, and at the week's begin we got on a chartered bus bright and early and rode nonstop until we reached the Rocky Mountains.

As with any youth function, we were supposed to stay true to some supervisory regulations - check in with adults before going anywhere, don't go anywhere without a group, don't leave the hotel at night, and so on. One evening toward the end of the trip, after a long day of skiing, I mentioned to Brad that I had seen a shirt at a gift shop earlier that week and wanted to buy it. After some discussion, we decided to head into town and look for it. It was like 8:30 at night and we weren't supposed to leave, especially without a chaperone. We discreetly left our hotel and boarded the shuttle into town anyway.

As we road into Breckenridge I felt like a fugitive from the law. Here I was - the model kid, the one who always got called on to pray - openly defying authority. The rush of adrenaline was intoxicating.

We got into town and perused the various souvenir shops. Finally we found the t-shirt I desired, and I claimed it as my own. Brad and I walked through the crowds by the bars and restaurants, two wayward high schoolers in a mass of twenty- and thirty-somethings. I felt so mature.

After we'd had our share of the revelry (which really just consisted of us walking up and down the sidewalks and looking at three or four souvenir stores), we caught the bus back to our hotel, eager to sneak back in. The ride seemed to drag on forever, though, and I began to grow worried. Had we caught the wrong bus? Would we end up somewhere far from our destination? Would we have to call our youth minister to come give us a ride? We joked about our plight, but inwardly I was growing scared.

We ended up passing the time more quickly when some half-drunk guy came onto the bus and started chatting with us. He noted our ski passes hanging from lanyards around our necks. "Come on, guys," he hissed, "You don't have to wear those. They make you stand out, man. You gotta get real about the skiing!"

"Oh really?" Brad asked.

"Yeah." The guy snorted and raised his hand. "Imma give you two pieces of advice." He held up one finger. "First of all, don't wear those things. They just brand you as a tourist."

Brad and I nodded and said, "OK." We made eye contact and knew we had the same thought: Well, buddy, we ARE tourists. 

The guy raised two fingers. "Second, if you really want to get good at skiing, you should just take a couple years off and do nothing but ski. Really, man, it's the only way to get good. You're both smart guys, your brains will still be there."

Simultaneously, we said, "Yeah, then we can be like you!" We laughed at ourselves. The guy nodded wisely, convinced he had been a prophetic presence in our lives. About that time we finally recognized our hotel, so we politely said our goodbyes and jumped off the bus.

It was around 11:00 by now. As we walked back into the hotel lobby, my youth minister was walking in. We froze. He looked at us inquisitively. "Where have you two been?" he asked.

Brad and I looked at one another. I took a breathe and said, "Well, I wanted to buy a shirt, so we went into town-"

The youth minister held up his hand. He said, "Stop. I don't want to hear about it." He then walked off on his way, leaving us standing there.


The first moral of the story is this: My high school rebellions were not very exciting.

The second moral of the story is this: When authority figures think you're "the good kid," you can get away with murder.

allie: a eulogy for a guinea pig

Last December, my wife and I adopted two guinea pigs from a rescue shelter.

I've never really had a connection to a pet before. I had severe allergies as a kid so I never had a dog or a cat. I did have a couple of pet lizards, but you can only bond so much with reptiles in a terrarium.

We decided to get guinea pigs almost as a whim. We were planning on getting a dog, but our landlady nixed the idea. We discussed other possibilities, and somehow came upon the idea of piggies - big and cuddly enough for some level of companionship, but not high enough maintenance that our landlady would freak. We did some research and came across the LA Guinea Pig Rescue in Chatsworth, and went to see the piggies available for adoption.

The first piggie we chose was a five year old named Allie, and the second was a one-and-a-half year old named Ludwig (whom we renamed Luna since she's a girl). 

Allie was far and away the more docile of the two. When we try to pick up Luna, she kicks and squeaks and runs, while Allie would squirm but stay quiet. I think Allie may have been a cat in a former life - she loved to sit in someone's lap and be pet, closing her eyes and making a happy rumbling noise. She also shed like crazy and had a tendency to pee on people's legs, but nobody's perfect.

Allie was a comforting presence. When we let her out of the cage, she would putter around and make a little curious noise - "putt putt putt putt." While Luna would be a burst of lightning squeaking and running back and forth, Allie would take her time and look around inquisitively.

With Allie and Luna, I began to understand for the first time the connection many people share with their pets. I hear others talk about how much they love their dog or their cat and it honestly just used to confuse me. "They're just animals," I'd silently think to myself, trying to be empathetic. Since I've become an adopted-guinea-pig-father, I get it now.

Allie had been kind of lethargic for the last few days, and yesterday evening she began having trouble walking. We tried to give her a carrot, and she meekly pecked at it then put down her head. We put her in a box and sped down to an exotic animal hospital in Torrance, but she died before we were even out of Inglewood. It's scary how quickly it happened.

I never thought I'd cry over a rodent, but I had some tears for Allie last night. We only had her for less than four months, but she left an impression and we'll certainly miss her.

Late last night my wife and I went out with a couple of friends with pets of their own who have met our guinea pigs. They consoled us over a meal at a Japanese restaurant, and it was nice to have someone who understood that even though Allie was "just a guinea pig," it hurt to lose her. Now I'm writing this as Luna, the younger piggie, runs around the floor next to me. Here's hoping we have more time to spend with her.

why introverts don't get job interviews

When I returned to California after my Toronto practicum in 2009, I started applying to just about any job opening I could find. Many of these were retail ventures, and many of them only accepted online applications. And the vast majority of these online applications featured a standardized test called the Unicru Test, a series of statements that the applicants ranks "Strongly Disagree," "Disagree," "No Opinion," "Agree," or "Strongly Agree."

Apparently the way Unicru works is that once you take the test, your results will be sorted into one of three piles. The Green pile goes to management to look through résumés and decide who to call for interviews; the Yellow pile goes to management and may get looked through if a insufficient number of Greens are hired or interviewed; and the Red pile does not go on to management for review.

I’m a good worker. I’ve worked at a coffee shop, a shoe store, and two hardware stores, and I’ve excelled at every one. But if I had taken a Unicru test to apply at any of these places, I probably wouldn’t have even been called in for an interview.

Why? Because I’m an introvert, and apparently, in the eyes of the Kronos company, introverts can’t be good workers.

The vast majority of Unicru statements are infuriating. Some of them simply lack context. Take, for example, “Your family and friends approve of what you do.” I have some friends whose families definitely don’t approve of their lifestyles, but it’s because of differences in morals, passions, religion, politics, or so on – not because my friends make bad decisions. Also consider, “You would rather not get involved in other people’s problems.” For me, I disagree if you’re talking about making sure my friends are doing well and being available for them when they are coping with bad situations, while I wholeheartedly agree if you’re talking about having to listen to the crazy lady next to you on the train ramble on about her landlord; I have no idea which one Unicru means. Unfortunately, you have no way to explain your answer.

Others seem to set some unrealistic standard. Consider “You have no big regrets about your past” or “You look back and feel bad about things you’ve done.” I would argue that any normal person who’s had enough life experience and common sense would have some regrets about things, but apparently the “correct” answer to both of these is, “Strongly Disagree.”

But the items that really frustrate me are the ones geared to weed out the introverts.

The following items should all be “Strongly Agree”:

- It is fun to go to events with big crowds.

- You chat with people you don't know.

- You like to be in the middle of a big crowd

- You like to talk a lot.

- You love to be with people.

- You love to listen to people talk about themselves.

The following items should all be “Strongly Disagree”:

- You are a fairly private person.

- You are unsure of what to say when you meet someone.

- You are unsure of yourself with new people.

- You do not like small talk.

- You do not like to meet new people.

- You like to be alone.

For me and many other introverts, however, the first six would all be “No” and the last six would all be “Yes.” That’s twelve wrong answers right there, so we’re all well on our way to the Red pile.

I think Unicru is dangerous for several reasons, but one is that it confuses an extrovert lifestyle with an extrovert role. I understand the logic behind their methodology: hire extroverted people and they'll be natural fits for a customer service position. However, when you put me in a capacity where it’s my job to interact with people, I do it. I readily go up to customers and ask them about their projects and what they need; in real life, I’d almost never talk to someone I don’t know in line at the store or waiting for the bus stop. Unicru doesn’t even allow for this possibility, however; either you’re an extrovert and you’re qualified, or you’re an introvert and you’re not. 

I thought about this in light of a BBC article by Vanessa Barford that I read this week, called "Do we really give introverts a hard time?" The article argues that most managers, professors, and other authority figures believe extroverts almost always make better employees, students, and - dare I say it? - people than introverts. 

I remember one class at Fuller where our professor asked us to fill out an anonymous survey indicating what learning methods work best for us - reading, class discussion, group projects, whatever. On my list I added that often just listening to a good lecture and thinking about it works for me - not that the other methods aren't valuable, but that's one of several that helps. I personally get burned out in some group discussions because it often turns into the same five people chasing rabbit trails and I'd just end up playing Bubble Spinner.

The professor went over the results of the survey in his next lecture. He singled out that some anonymous person (or perhaps people? maybe I'm not crazy?) mentioned "listening" as a learning method. He shook his head dismissively. "No, that doesn't work," he said. "You have to talk."

With all do respect, I believe that yes, talking is essential, but so is listening, and we live in a culture that almost unilaterally prizes one over the other. 

I am respected at my retail job as an exceptional employee. I made consistant good marks and learned a great deal in university and seminary despite rarely speaking up during lecture. My extrovert friends, please - don't try to turn your introvert friends into one of you. We're fine the way we are. Trust us.

feelings of despair wrought by a ninth inning home run in game five of the 2005 national league championship series

The Astros lead the 2005 National League Championship Series 3-1. If they win this game, they shall reach the World Series for the first time in their forty-four year existence. Minute Maid Park is filled beyond capacity, literally shaking with anticipation.

The Astros are down 2-1 when Lance Berkman hits a three run home run in the bottom of the seventh inning. Suddenly the Astros are leading 4-2, and soon the game goes into the ninth inning. Brad Lidge, who has been an elite (and arguably the singular best) closer that season, comes in to finish the game. The entire crowd stands and roars. Lidge records two quick outs. Everyone in the stadium knows the Astros are moments away from their first World Series.

I watch this on television alone in my dorm room at college. With no Astros fans to help me cheer, I have Instant Messenger open on my computer, where I am dialoguing with my sister and my mother. Baseball means family to me, and this moment is no exception. We have all been waiting for this for years. The moment has come, and I am linked with my family through electric currents and wires to share in the victory.

With two outs, David Eckstein of the Cardinals hits a single.

The Astros still need only one out to go to their first World Series. The single is an inconvenience, but no matter – Lidge can get that final out.

Next, Jim Edmonds walks, putting runners at first and second.


This is trouble. The next batter is Albert Pujols, one of the greatest hitters in the majors. The crowd remains excited, but a noticeable shift in tone occurs. The fans grow uneasy, myself included even 300 miles away. This is not going as according to plan. My sister, my mother, and I maintain our optimism, although doubt has crept into our thoughts for the first time.

George and Barbara Bush sit behind home plate, in the stadium’s seats of honor. Both have been standing for some time, loudly cheering. Nolan Ryan stands a few seats over. His hands are in his pockets, feigning casual ambivalence, but he has a grin that shows joy waiting to burst out of him. Parents that have waited their whole lives for their Astros to reach the World Series stand, holding their children.

The stadium shakes with the hopes of thousands of baseball fans. The anticipation will burst at any moment. Why can Lidge not just put away that final batter?

The crowd holds it collective breath. Come on, boys. Do not get scared. Just get that last out. You can do it.

Albert Pujols steps into the batter’s box.

Lidge throws his pitch: ball one. No, Lidge, no, the crowd thinks.

Pujols is human. Pujols can be retired. This is “Lights Out Lidge” pitching. He struck out the side in his inning at the All Star Game that year.

Lidge throws his pitch: ball two.

The Astros are the team of destiny. Andy Pettitte and Roger Clemens returned home from New York to help us. This may be the last chance for Bagwell and Biggio to play in the Series.

This is for a generation of Houston baseball fans who have never seen their team in a World Series. This can show the world that, yes, the Astros can win, they can avoid the choke, they can emerge triumphant at the end of the day.

Come on, Lidge. Please just don't hang your slider.

Brad Lidge throws his pitch: slider.

Albert Pujols swings his bat and makes ferocious contact, sending the ball flying.

If the retractable roof at Minute Maid Park had been open, the ball would have cleared the left field wall and bounced onto Crawford Street in Downtown Houston.

It is the most monstrous home run I have ever seen in my life.

The Astros are suddenly losing 5-4 in the ninth inning.

Moments before, the stadium had been filled with the thunderous sound of the forty-plus years of expectation being poured out into cheers, the frustrations and disappointments of season after futile season trampled under joy and delight. I think Pujols later remarked that the loudest sound he heard as he ran around the bases was his own two feet hitting the dirt.

The camera replays video of Andy Pettitte in the dugout. As soon as Pujols made contact, Pettitte’s eyes grew wide as he followed the trajectory of the ball. His mouth dropped open, slowly spelling the words, “Oh… my… God…”

The camera then pans to Nolan Ryan. He has tears in his eyes. This is the pitcher who, when Robin Ventura charged him on the mound, grabbed his assailant and repeatedly punched him in the head, and then stayed in the game. He has tears in his eyes.

The camera surveys the entire stadium. It is somber, like a funeral – no, scratch that, everyone is too stunned, to shocked to be somber. Everyone is numb. It takes about ten minutes for almost fifty thousand Astro fans to realize that they need to start breathing again or they will suffocate.

I cannot fall asleep after watching that sickening game.

The next day, I read an article by Bill Simmons on the ESPN web site. He nails the feelings of despair in my heart and the hearts of Astros fans everywhere. Speaking of disastrous sports losses, he writes, “When you get punched in the stomach by a sporting event – I mean, truly walloped – you're never quite the same afterward… You never truly have peace. The strangest things end up triggering painful memories, the stuff you thought had been buried long ago."

I am pleased that the national media is on the Astros’ side for once. However, this is poor consolation. While it seems no one outside of St. Louis wants to see a Cardinals comeback, it also seems that no one anywhere expects anything else to happen.

Some time later, I do what many have done after suffering heartbreak: I write a song about it.

trayvon

The shooting of Trayvon Martin in Florida has certainly kicked up a firestorm of controversy. It's bringing up issues of race, property rights, gun control, murder laws, and race (yeah, I said it twice; in fact, I'll say it three times: race). The controversy has reminded somewhat of the Joe Horn controversy from 2007, which happened in my hometown. The situations are extremely different (Horn shot two men robbing a house while George Zimmerman shot an unarmed teenager), but share the core similarity of a convergence of property and gun laws in a powder keg of racial and ethnic tension.

President Obama recently weighed in on the controversy for the first time, and the money quote used by many websites in their headlines was, "If I had a son, he would look like Trayvon." I was kind of frustrated that this was the only thing it seems most Americans heard from Obama's statement, since the president's words were more well-rounded than that short soundbite.

The soundbite is important, however, and there's a reason it has stuck as quote ringing in everyone's ears. It struck a chord with me, since if I have a son one day, he may look like Trayvon as well.

I am Caucasian; my wife is African-American. Yes, if we have kids they'll be biracial, but the way race is socialized in the US, most people who see my kids will think, "They're black." So when you have a case where an unarmed African-American boy is murdered walking down a street for "looking suspicious," I automatically think, "There's no way I'd want to have a family there." This isn't some abstract concept for me, it's a matter of life and death for my kids. I don't want them in a community where their skin color will automatically mark them as inferior or suspect in the eyes of their neighbors.

Now, it appears that many Americans, mostly Anglos, have dismissed the race angle of this case as overblown political wrangling. The real issue, in their minds, is the meaning of self-defense and justice. This doesn't mean these people support Martin's shooter, but they'd instead argue that the only injustice is that the shooter killed an unarmed child and wasn't arrested. In their minds, to "bring race into it" just causes a distraction.

I think this is because white Americans have the choice to ignore racial politics if they so desire. As a white man, I can choose to look only at the case as shooter and victim and "look past race." However, for many African-Americans and other minorities, race is the heart of the issue at hand. This is because if I go walking through the neighborhood where Martin died, I don't have to worry about someone shooting me because I'm wearing a hoodie. On the other hand, it's impossible for a person of color to walk through that area and not have that fear pop into his or her head.

"But wait! That's not true! There are lots of neighborhoods out there where whites ARE the minority! Lots of white people encounter situations where they feel discriminated against, just like minorities! You can't say that whites don't deal with that!"

Well, OK then, I see your point. I've lived in more than one place where I, as a white person, was statistically in the minority: I grew up in Pasadena, Texas, a predominantly Latino suburb of Houston, and attended a predominantly Latino high school; I currently live in Inglewood, California, a predominantly African-American suburb of Los Angeles. I have walked down streets where I feared something bad might happen to me simply because of my skin color. I have experienced incidents of racism against me.

But I suggest to you that these incidents I have experienced were just that: incidents. The system isn't stacked against me.

When I interview for a job I don't have to worry about whether I'll be denied the job because of my race, or if I'm hired that people will question my credentials. When I sat in lectures at my university and seminary I didn't have to worry that my perspective and my history weren't going to be acknowledged. I have a very distinct memory of walking down an ill-lit street in Pasadena, California one night and passing a cop car parked on the curb; as I walked by and the police officers ignored me, I thought, "Man, that might have played out differently if I was black or Latino."

I recall reading a book called Divided by Faith: Evangelical Religion and the Problem of Race in America. The main point made by authors Michael Emerson and Christian Smith that sticks with me is this: When a white person talks of racism, he or she usually means special instances of racial discrimination. When a person of color talks of racism, he or she usually means the overriding structure of society. Emerson and Smith give a powerful analogy:

"If a building is on the verge of collapse due to an inadequate design, improving the quality of the bricks without improving the design is not a solution. Evangelicals, for all their recent energy directed at dealing with race problems, are attempting to improve the bricks, even having bricks better cemented to other bricks, but they are not doing anything about the faulty structural design. If their focus continues to be only on making better bricks, their expenditure of energy will largely be in vain." (p. 130)

If we look at incidents like the death of Trayvon Martin and respond by simply calling for better background checks for gun owners or a change to castle doctrine laws, we've missed the point entirely. Everyone I know who could have kids that look like Trayvon knows what's at stake here. My hope is those whose kids don't look like Trayvon can get a vision for what's at stake as well.

I'll say one last thing: I resisted writing a post about this because so much has already been written and said that I didn't feel I had anything to add. After a conversation about the controversy with my wife yesterday, I realized that people need to keep talking about it and discussing it across social media if anything's ever going to change. This is a dialogue that needs to continue, so this is my small piece of it.

welcome to the funzone

During the Christmas season of 2008, I was part of a young church plant in Pasadena, California. We had adopted an elementary school and were planning a holiday party for a third grade class for which we had been sponsoring a Mentoring Through the Arts program. The party was set to be an elaborate production, culminating in giving each of the kids a new bike.

Now, our church had a mascot. His name is Funzone Freddy, and he is a giant yellow dog with his tongue perpetually hanging out of his mouth.

Funzone Freddy had made appearances at various events, and he was set to make a cameo at the Christmas shindig. A few different guys had taken to role, and I think at this party one of my roommates was set to don the yellow suit.

I showed up kind of early to help set up for the party. My experience with these kinds of things is that often several unexpected loose ends pop up near zero hour, so I told Alison, our kids ministry leader, and Rodney, our pastor, that I was available to do anything they needed. I came ready to blow up balloons, set up tables, make last minute runs to the grocery store, and so on.

Then, Alison received word that the man who had been tabbed to be Funzone Freddy was not going to be able to make it. Kids were already starting to trickle in with their parents. She and Rodney turned to me. I remembered my promise, sighed, and nodded.

I had never worn a mascot costume before. Let me tell you: The suit itself isn't so bad, save for the scratchy fur that funnels all heat directly in. (If you're ever lost in a snowstorm with nothing but a mascot costume, put it on - it was greatly decrease your odds of getting hypothermia.) The killer, though, is the mask. It has the same heat effect as the suit times two, plus it limits your range of vision so that anything below your nose is invisible - a limitation rendered especially brutal when you're interacting with children under four feet tall.

Anyway, as Alison was introducing the activities to the kids and having them sing songs, I was suiting up with the aid of a couple of church members. As the kids sang "Jingle Bells," I entered from the back dressed as Funzone Freddy, and the kids erupted into a raucous chorus of cheers.

I helped the band and Alison lead Christmas carols with the kids, waving my arms wildly and dancing around like a maniac. I then had the honor of helping Rodney introduce the bicycle giveaway, and had kids screaming and jumping and rushing up to hug me. In short, I was a rock star.

As the kids shuffled out of the room, I was whisked to the back by three or four people, who ripped off my mask, fanned me with papers, thrust bottle waters into both of my hands, and kept asking, "Are you OK? Are you too hot? Are you fine?" I nodded and smiled, my face beat red and my sweaty hair plastered to my forehead.

I then went out in my plain clothes and walked amongst the children. None of them had any idea who this random guy was. I felt a little sad, to be honest, but I had done my job, even if it was more than I anticipated. Who was this shy, quiet man at the party? He was just Clark Kent, taking pictures for The Daily Planet.

revelation, not revelations

As part of my youth director responsibilities, I teach Sunday School for the youth group at my church. Last Sunday we began a study of the book of Revelation, in response to the desires of some of my kids. I haven't done an in-depth book-focused study with my kids yet, so this is going to be something new.

I took a class on the book of Revelation my senior year of undergrad. It was a theology elective with Dr. Allen, a professor who likes to point out how we're all heretical on one point or another. And for this class, we had to write two major papers. However, rather than writing the papers, I and four friends instead filmed two video projects.

Our first project was called Philadelphia, Ephesus, and Laodecia [sic]: The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, and it featured us interpreting three of Paul's seven letters to churches literally in pun-filled ways. (Ex: "I will write on each of them the name of my God and the name of his city" - I write the phrases on Josh's arms and belly with a big marker.) Our second project was called The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and did what it says on the tin - we saddled up makeshift stick-horses and rode them around the campus "killing" people.

I'm going to go ahead and admit something here because we already have our degrees and Dr. Allen can't dock my grade now - we didn't really do much research for these projects. I don't mean to say that we didn't read anything or learn anything about the concepts therein. I just mean that we put a lot more effort into filming and editing and coming up with ridiculous scenarios than, say, doing the actual academic research and reflection that our classmates were. While other students were reading journal articles, we were doing this:

We put the videos up on YouTube, although the Four Horsemen are now incomplete because one (and, mysteriously, only one) was flagged for copyright infringement (music) and blocked. This really wouldn't bother me except that the computer on which these videos were saved crashed and I didn't have the files backed up. Thus, Part 2 may sadly be lost to history. (Part 1 is still going strong, with an inexplicable 3,026 views as of the last tally.)

I've wondered to myself if these videos were an academic waste of time, if we somehow "cheated" the system by getting away without writing anything. However, we were able to rally a diverse cross-section of the Howard Payne campus to participate in these things, even recruiting an entire class to pelt each other with paper balls with the professor's blessing. (Sadly, this amazing scene is in the blocked video.) We engaged with the subject matter in a new and different way, making it our own. We got our friends to actually discuss and think about the book of Revelation without getting hung up on tangental arguments about the Rapture or other topics.

And in the end, isn't that what learning is all about?

Finally, I'm going to show my kids part of the first video before our discussion this Sunday. You can't say the video isn't useful if it can be used as a teaching aid.

words that strangers put in our mouths

I was perusing a book store in San Pedro when I saw a rack of greeting cards. This wasn't anything unusual, so I gave it little thought until I noticed this one:

I thought for sure that I was a joke. I opened it up and the inside message simply said, "You're in my thoughts and prayers." Completely straight. I was baffled.

I then began looking through the other cards on the rack.

OUTSIDE:

INSIDE:

"It won't be the same this year, or next year, or the one after that because you aren't here."

OUTSIDE:

INSIDE:

"Birthdays come and birthdays go. But you're still not here. I miss you."

And so on. It was pretty depressing.

Turns out the cards are made by a company called Three Squares Greetings, "For Those Who Can't Come Home."™ At first I thought the whole concept was ridiculous. If I had friend that got arrested, I don't think I would send him or her a greeting card about it.

As I reflected, however, I appreciated the concept more. There's something artificial about greeting cards in general. There's a scene in the film (500) Days of Summer where Tom, our protagonist who works at a greeting card company, has a meltdown at his job. He's mostly venting in the wake of a brutal break-up, but in the process he delivers a scathing critique of the card industry in general: "Why do people buy these things? It's not because people want to say how they feel, people buy cards because they can't say how they feel or they're afraid to. We provide the service that lets them off the hook. [...] People should be able to say how they feel, how they really feel, not, you know, some words that some stranger put in their mouth."

It was interesting to flip through the cards for inmates because they were pretty honest - disappointment, guilt, regret, hope, stubborn devotion, worry, and so on printed out and ready to be sealed in envelopes. Families and friends of those in prison must often feel like they have no allies, like no one else could understand or empathize with their position. These cards prove otherwise.

So, I'm not totally convinced that a card saying "Sorry about the arrest" is the best way to show concern for an incarcerated loved one, but then a card saying "Happy Birthday" or "Thank You" can be a cop-out just as easily. You can't blame Three Square Greetings for trying to meet a need.

And at any rate, these cards make a lot more sense than the cards for pets I once saw at Vroman's, so that's something else to consider, I suppose.