The New Place

So as I've said, we just bought our first house. We've been renting until now, and we decided it was time. So here are some pictures.


(Note the authentic rural-Missouri washing-machine-on-the-front-porch look.)

This stairway was what really sold the house - I love the woodwork.






It was built in 1910 - we're thinking of having a centennial party for the house in three years. Three bedrooms (which aren't pictured here because that's where all the junk is currently stashed) and two bathrooms. We'll be scraping off wallpaper and painting the walls soon.

It has a rock-walled basement that is very low-ceilinged and dungeonesque - I'm planning to film my first horror movie in it.

Y'all come see us now, ok?

Oh, and One More Thing...

Mil Millington has just sent out a new entry on his mailing list. My vacation now has reading material!

If you aren't familiar with his work, you seriously need to check it out. Especially if you enjoy the very finest in snarky Brit humor, a la Douglas Adams without the sci-fi.

Finals Week, But More So

In college, finals week was the crunch time. All the semester papers came due, and there was cramming on a grand scale. I actually relished finals week. I performed pretty well under that kind of pressure. I did some of my best work on very little sleep.

For the past month, my life has been an extended finals week. Finals week isn't as much fun when it keeps stretching out for two, then three weeks, then a month or more. Many of you can sympathize, I know. Sometimes I still perform well under the pressure. But when the pressure is over such an extended period of time, it starts to wear on the soul a bit.

The past three weeks have been a pressure cooker. Last week on Monday and Tuesday I planned five weeks' worth of lessons for Wednesday night youth groups, closed on a house on Wednesday afternoon (I still plan to post pictures and a writeup of the new house, but I haven't received permission from Cindy to photograph the interior yet - too many things still to put away), did Wednesday night youth groups (we're in full swing now with the high school and junior high separate), packed and moved on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, did a planning meeting Sunday afternoon, and preached Sunday night (on my birthday). This week has been one solid mass of video editing (a promo video for our Christian school), youth group planning, staff and volunteer meetings, video editing, unpacking, and video editing.

You may omit reading the previous tedious paragraph if you wish (now that you've already read it - hee!) and substitute the following: I'm a bit pressured. My brain is a bit fried. So this afternoon I'm quitting my job.


... for a few hours. (Did I have anyone going for a moment there?) I'm writing this blog entry, and then I'm going to go outside. I will breathe the fresh (albeit slightly allergenic) air of early harvest season in southwest Missouri. I will walk aimlessly. I will go home and find something nice to do for Cindy.

And then this evening Chad and I will be back at it, editing video like Enron execs editing financial records.

As of right now, I'm officially on vacation... until about 7 pm. Postcard, anyone?

On Religious Conservatism and My Own Silliness

Last week, I attended the annual Ministers' Conference of the Churches of God (Holiness). Most readers of this blog will know what that is. Those who don't will invariably first ask, "Why is the 'Holiness' in parentheses?" Well, it's a long story, and a convoluted one. But my favorite short version of the story is that there were two churches in one town called the Church of God. One was known for the integrity and uprightness of its members. The church paid its bills. The other church was known for continually being in arrears on all manner of financial obligations, among other problems. The church that paid bills wanted to avoid being confused with the one that did not. Therefore, they attached the parenthetical word to the end of their name, and the tradition spread. According to my best sources this story isn't very accurate, but it's my favorite. I've never been one to let a little thing like accuracy or truth stand in the way of a good story.

Being raised in a Church of God (Holiness) church was a very good experience for me on the whole. The Gregory Hills COGH in Kansas City was the place I attended for the first twenty three years of my life straight. I was fortunate enough to have great pastors, and there were no ugly church splits or other church tragedies until shortly before I left.

The COGH has a tradition of very careful conservatism in matters of doctrine, and also in matters of external appearance like clothing, hair, makeup, and jewelry. Until very recently, pastors in the Churches of God (Holiness) who wore wedding rings were frowned on severely. If they wore shorts or even short-sleeved shirts, they were risking censure. If their wives cut their hair (even a trim) or wore pants (instead of skirts and dresses) or jewelry of any kind, they generally weren't kicked out (the governmental structure of the movement makes such a disciplinary move quite difficult). But such a pastor would be marginalized and never elected to any position of influence.

When I was small, I'm sure my parents tried to teach me the Scriptural principles behind these rules. I know they must have told me that part of the reason we followed the rules was that modesty was very important. They probably told me that we followed some of the rules just out of respect for others in our church. But as a kid I never listened very well, and when you're a kid everything is pretty black and white. When a lady from our church who babysat me occasionally started cutting her hair and wearing pants occasionally, I cried because I thought she was going to go to hell.

Many of my generation appreciate very much the conservatism in matters of doctrine, but not so much the "dress code." A good number of my generation can't even see the good in the doctrine because the dress code is so irksome to them. I think this is a shame, but I see where they're coming from.

When I was in high school, I realized something. The rules against jewelry and against women cutting their hair came from a few passages in I Timothy and I Peter. I Timothy 2:9 - "I also want women to dress modestly, with decency and propriety, not with braided hair or gold or pearls or expensive clothes..." I Peter 3:3 - "Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes." The injunction against women cutting their hair comes from a somewhat convoluted interpretation of I Corinthians 11:3-15. Look it up if you're curious, but you'll be confused unless you come from the same background I do. So what was the realization I came to in high school? Did you notice that in the two verses I quoted above, there was a phrase about braided hair? Yet in our churches, the most conservative families let their daughters run around with braided hair. Hmmm... And sometimes it was elaborate, crazy braiding. The inconsistency will at once appear to the alert reader. And the inconsistencies didn't end there. They were everywhere. And as a cynical high school student with an inflated sense of my own intelligence and importance, I began to raise a stink about it, just like so many before me and after me have done.

Since then I've gotten a bit of perspective. I realize that ten years from now, I will probably again have an entirely different view of all this, but this is where I am right now. I've realized that no matter the religious tradition - "conservative" or otherwise - there is this tension of the establishment versus the coming-of-age. And this is a universal issue that occurs not just in religious circles, but in life in general. It's part of being human.

I've also realized that the tendency to turn personal preference and tradition into a sacred dogma is universal as well.

There are many versions of the story of the young woman who cooked her first beef roast and nervously served it to her mother. Her mother complimented the dish, to the daughter's relief. "Oh, mom," she gushed, "I'm so glad it came out right. I even remembered to cut off the ends before I put it in the pan, just like you always did."

The mother looked confused for a minute "Honey," said the mother, "that was because our roasting pan was too small - I cut off the ends to make it fit."

That's our natural tendency - even teenagers do it. There's a new drama teacher at the public high school here in El Dorado, and I've heard some of the teens - in particular one whose first year in drama was last year, commenting on how "Mr. Wells always did it THIS way." (Mr. Wells is the previous teacher.) And recently one of the college students who graduated from our youth group two years ago returned and visited youth group. He was disturbed by how we were doing things differently now, and grieved that we didn't have a youth center now. He said commiseratingly, "I hope things get back to the way they were soon." He didn't realize that we now have a youth group that in most ways is as strong as any we had when he was in high school. It was different, and traditions (even traditions only a year or two old) die very hard.

I'm guilty of this myself. If someone proposes an idea for a new way to do something, I'm quick to jump in and explain that "this is how we've done this before." If they fail to see the superiority of the current procedures, I'm often a bit miffed.

So I suppose I understand a bit better now why some of the COGH traditions continue, even though I confess I don't see much justification for them. It is true that many of the early COGH people were some of the most completely dedicated and devoted followers of Christ I've ever heard or read about. And many of those who are even now careful to maintain the old standards are some of the nicest people you'll ever meet.

I guess my conclusion from all this is that I need to be a bit less impatient with people who adhere to standards that at first seem a bit ridiculous to me. It's sometimes difficult to know how to be respectful without being hypocritical, though. And I get into these ridiculous moral dilemmas that shouldn't even be an issue.

For example, when Cindy and I serve as team sponsors at Harmony Hill Youth Camp (the COGH camp), we take off our wedding rings because they ask us to do so, and we're happy to comply. However, when I was at the Minister's Conference last week, I wasn't quite sure what to do. Several of those present still think wedding rings are unscriptural, and would probably be somewhat offended by my wearing one at such a conference. So I took off my wedding ring for the duration. I know most of you reading this are shaking your heads in disbelief. "THAT'S your moral dilemma???" you shriek. "You obviously haven't dealt with much in the moral dilemma line, then. What's wrong with you?" you continue disgustedly. "It doesn't even remotely matter!"

I know, I know. In fact, I think I was probably being a bit hypocritical and perhaps just trying to overcome a bit of a perceived prejudice against me in that group. I'm not analyzing anyone else's motives for such things, but I think mine were not quite in the right place.

My perception of the ministers present at the conference is that some of them see me as the personification of all that is wrong with the younger ministers of the COGH. Some of them think I've singlehandedly ushered the youth of our churches into condoning and even enjoying "worldly" contemporary music. This is a misconception. It also gives me far too much credit. But I think that my perception of the general opinion of me at the conference intimidated me. I did something silly and weak in an attempt to compensate. And what's more, I spent a lot of time and energy stewing about it, when almost every day I talk to teenagers whose moral dilemmas are very real and on much more important things than this.

Why I felt the need to vent about this here in this blog I'm not sure. An urge to confess, perhaps.

In more cheerful news, Cindy and I just bought our first house (we've been renting until now). We closed yesterday. We're moving this weekend. My next post will be a more cheerful writeup of said house. With pictures. Anybody want to volunteer your panel truck?

Musings of a Wannabe Rock Star, One Year Later

This entry won't be particularly deep, entertaining, or funny. Just some stuff I've been thinking about.

This month marks one year since the members of the band Uncommonsense parted ways (amicably), and the only time we've all been together since was for Jonathan's wedding. I wrote about this briefly just after it happened here. From the outside, it was the same story that happens to the vast majority of the bands out there. Band forms, band breaks up. Band replaces personnel. Band plays some gigs. Band breaks up. Band re-forms with a few personnel changes and perhaps a new name. Band finally gels a bit and gets some momentum going. Band breaks up. Band re-forms again. This time it really seems to work, and band buys a van and a trailer full of gear and hits the road. Band plays all over the country, to large crowds occasionally, but more often to tiny crowds in cramped venues. Band records a solid project, footing the bill themselves. Band sees some major label interest, but nothing definite. Band signs to an indie label of dubious parentage. Band tours some more, building a fan base. Then the band comes to that critical point where they either have to quit their day jobs and take a huge gamble on this thing, or do something else. Band decides to go their separate ways.

From the outside, that's what happened to us. We did all the above things. We played in churches, at camps and retreats, at summer music festivals, in coffeehouses, in Kemper Arena once, and even in bars and clubs. (I've prayed with several drunk guys, unsure whether they would remember it the next day.) A very common story. In our case, the uncommon (hee!) part of the story was what was less visible.

One less-visible thing was the bond, musically and personally, that the members of Uncommonsense had. Musically, we were very tight. We made lots of musical mistakes, but we had a feel for each other on stage that is hard to find. We could glance at each other and change the plan on the fly. We listened to each other and played as a band, not as a collection of would-be soloists. Personally, we were real friends. We were accountable to each other. We shared our lives. We fought at times, like brothers do. But we were friends.

The other thing that was less visible was the set of goals the band had. A disclaimer here: we were, of course, trying to make money with this band. Some bands claim that they're not trying to do that. They're either lying or already have a vast store of wealth. Or they only last a month. You have to make enough money to keep going. We made enough, just barely. All of that money went back into keeping the band going - it wasn't a financially profitable venture at all. But making money wasn't the main goal. Chris (the bass player and my best friend) and I felt that we accomplished two very important goals with Uncommonsense.

The first was that we were successful in serving youth pastors across the country. When we decided to call it quits, we got several really nice e-mails from youth pastors saying how much they appreciated what we had done.

The second was that we played until the guys who had no backup plan (Jonathan and Grant and Victor) had a good shot at making it on their own. Jonathan will make (and is making) a living playing the drums - in fact he would probably be doing just that whether or not he had ever been in Uncommonsense. The boy can play. Grant came to the band as a decently good rhythm guitarist, and became an artist and a gifted worship leader (those are two very different things, in case you didn't know that). He's doing well on his own too. Victor can flat out sing. He can do rock, soul, R&B, or whatever. He'll make his living doing music as well. The rest of us had backup plans. Lance (the previous drummer) is a plumber, and plays drums for his church. Chris is a very successful realtor, and leads worship in the same church worship band. I'm a youth minister in El Dorado Springs.

Now here's the kicker and the whole reason for this post: I have to confess that sometimes when I'm playing music with the youth group band here in El Dorado Springs, I'm still a wannabe rock star. It's embarrassing to admit - I'm almost thirty years old and I'm still stuck on that. I know that my current job really does more to contribute to the lives of students than any band does. I'm aware of how fortunate I am to have the privilege of serving at this church. It isn't a perfect church - not by a long shot - but by God's grace we've so far been free of most of the church-splitting conflicts and moral deficits in leadership that have plagued many churches. I love my job. But in some sense there's a part of me that still wants to be a fighter pilot or captain of a frigate in the British Navy in Lord Nelson's day or a Navy Seal or Aragorn. That same part of me still wants to be a rock star.

I know the reason I still want to do/be all those things is that God has "set eternity in our hearts." We're made to yearn for the epic of His making creation right again. And this yearning makes us desire something larger than the humdrum. I think my problem is that sometimes I don't realize the epic nature of the struggle that is cleverly disguised in the humdrum. As one who spends my days ostensibly ministering to and discipling teenagers through the impossibilities of adolescence, I know that God is calling me to take some risks I hesitate to take. It's easy to run a snappy-looking youth ministry program. I've sort of figured out how to get students to show up in decent numbers and have a good time while they're there. I can run a program that looks good to the parents and the church board - solid numbers, "good kids," and the like. But the risks come when I try to lead these students to be more than "good kids," when I try to reach the "bad kids," and when I abandon the easy route of snappy programming for the much more difficult route of dependence on God's leading and focusing on connecting students with people who will pour their lives into those students and ultimately connecting those students with a God who won't be content with leaving them the way they are. I truly believe that doing this takes much more courage than standing on a stage in front of thousands. I also believe it's more difficult. Playing music to entertain a crowd or even to move them to action is difficult, but making a long-term difference in someone's life is excruciating. If someone in the crowd doesn't like what you're doing, there are hundreds or thousands of others in the crowd who are easier to please. Even if the whole crowd boos, there are other crowds. But living in relationship with someone, risking that they will reject that relationship (and perhaps even reject their faith) is a different matter entirely. Ever wonder why so many performers - even Christian performers - have messed-up relationships? Part of it is that the relationship with the crowd is so much easier, and it's tempting to substitute that easier relationship for the harder work of an ongoing personal relationship. I know that my work as a youth minister is ultimately going to make a much bigger difference in the lives of these students than the boys from Pillar or Relient K or Grits or even Fallout Boy or Green Day or the Black Eyed Peas will. (Nothing against those bands - fine musicians all.) I'm a big admirer of Bono from U2. I know it's cliche right now for youth pastors to be Bono fans... I'm still a fan. Bono (and other musicians who have used their various platforms to speak out on issues political or otherwise) has taken a lot of criticism from all points of the political and religious compass for his outspoken stance on gun control, poverty, and other issues. Again, this is so cliche it almost makes me ill to write it, but the reason I admire Bono is that he hasn't backed off from the controversy and he's actually brought about a great amount of cooperation from unlikely partners in trying to solve some of the world's problems. But here's the thing - I have an opportunity to impact the lives of these students in a way that even Bono never can.

So even though in some ways I'm still a wannabe rock star, I'm realizing that the rock star, the fighter pilot, the frigate captain, the mysterious ranger fighting for the realm of which he is heir to the throne - all those aspirations were placed in my heart for a really really good reason. I pray that God will give me the grace to live up to that Reason.

I welcome your thoughts.

High on Water

It has long been a semi-secret dream of mine to climb the water tower near my church in El Dorado Springs.

Well, allegedly, recently some individual (who may or may not be an acquaintance of mine) may or may not have supposedly climbed (or not) said alleged water tower.

And here are some alleged pictures.





Let no one follow this foolish young (or old) man's (or woman's) alleged example. Especially not wearing flip-flops! But it was a mighty fine view of the sunset. Supposedly.

Tonka Tick Madness!

I've written here before of a great little overnight backpack not far from my home. It's a state park called Ha Ha Tonka, and there's a seven-mile loop trail that's got some great scenery and crazy rock formations. Well, my dad and I went and hiked said trail on Fathers' Day weekend. It was a great time with my dad, and I was really glad we did it. That said, it was also ritickulous! I've never seen so many ticks in my life! I had some DEET repellent cream that I was smearing on myself, but when we were hiking I would look down every few minutes and there would be upwards of 20 or 30 ticks on EACH pant leg. I'd brush them off, only to be retickulated a few steps further on. I think it's intickative of the move away from widespread DDT spraying in America. (Not that I'm convinced DDT was a good thing, mind you - it apparently almost wiped out some predatory birds. Don't tell me that's a bunch of bosh, either, because according to the best research I can come up with that issue is far from settled.)

Anyway, the ticks. I read somewhere that a pair of guinea fowl will clear two acres of ticks almost completely within one year. I'm considering buying some. The ticks were so bad on this trip that I don't have any enlightening photos to accompany this post - I was too busy brushing off ticks to take pics. (Oy - this post is really overdoing the lame wordplay.) I still have lots of itchy bites on my legs, too.

But I was glad my dad did that hike with me. It was fun despite the crazy ticks, and we had a good talk on lots of issues.

Right now my dad and mom are in Yosemite, so recently vacated by Dwain, and before that, by Pastor Joe and family. My mom and dad rode an Amtrak train to California and rented a car for the drive up to Yosemite. They like this Amtrak traveling stuff - I'm pretty jealous myself.

My Mature Little Sisters

Okay, this one is about my family. If you don't care, don't read it.

I'm the oldest of three siblings. I have two little sisters, and we're each separated by about two-and-a-half years. Lynette is the older of the sisters, and Karen is the younger.

Growing up, I always had to be better than both of them at everything. I of course would regularly beat them up just to prove I could. I would always outdo them in whatever they were doing, and laugh scornfully to rub it in. Unfortunately for me, though, I was the sibling with the, uh... laid back... approach to life. When you're on top of the heap, you tend to lose your edge, after all.

I had zero attention span. I was oh-so-fashionably ADD. After a while this had a telling effect on my quest for superiority in everything. Lynette learned to read well early, and taught Karen all she knew. Karen began reading Nancy Drew books... at age four. I did well in school for the most part (although my report cards all talk about my problems with "lack of focus" and "daydreaming"). My sisters did better. We all loved music and took piano lessons. We all enjoyed acting and drama. By high school, my sister Lynette was better than me at acting. By the time I started college, both sisters passed me up in their piano skills. I decided to switch my area of specialty to synthesizers, since I didn't have the chops to out-play either of them on the keys.

Karen eventually became the best pianist our side of I-70 (she recently charmed a piano store owner out of a really nice grand piano for much less than it was worth, just because she can play Debussy like Pujols can play baseball).

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Lynette eventually got a scholarship for theater and now teaches the subject at Shawnee Mission South High School, a job she accepted to the great consternation of many top-flight acting schools, Broadway producers, and film agents who were stalking her day and night and demanding she sign fat contracts. Watching her run a rehearsal is better than the special features on any DVD you can name - the lady knows her stuff.

I? I became a six-year college student who couldn't settle on a major and eventually got a bachelor's degree in youth ministry so I could hang out with hyper teenagers whose attention spans were compatible with my own.

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A couple of years ago Lynette married a strapping, hirsute fellow named Joel. He's a theater guy too, besides being a swell fishing, camping, and video gaming buddy.

Last year Karen married a strapping, hirsute ninja named Brandon. He's a preacher, ninja, and a fine backpacking companion.

Both of my sisters are better than me at most things.

Both of my sisters' husbands could snap me like a twig.

But I can still program a synthesized sound from the waveform up, or take a sample of a cow mooing and turn it into Beethoven's Fifth. Let's see them do THAT. Oh, and whereas both of my sisters had to condescend and marry somewhat below their station, I married Cindy. If you think a thermonuclear detonation creates heat, you should see this lady walk into a room.

Okay, enough of this mushy talk about my sisters. I've got to be able to keep my supper down, after all. Speaking of supper, y'all should try my fajitas...

Comfortable Discomforts

So earlier this month, I added Great Smoky Mountains National Park to my list. To the best of my recollection that makes ten national parks, not including various national forests, national monuments, national historic sites, etc. I'd really like to see all of them before I die. I know there are amazing natural wonders outside the boundaries of national parks, but you're pretty much guaranteed to see some cool stuff when you go to one. The Department of the Interior at least got that part right.


My favorite park is, and probably always will be, Yosemite. But Great Smoky Mountains National Park was great too (Hee!). The reason I went was that my friend Travis Sayler and I organized a four-day backpacking trip for several of our young COGH minister colleagues.

There ended up being five of us once all the riffraff chickened out after hearing the daily mileage figures. Meh - lightweights. ...And I have to admit we chickened out too after the first day. We cut a significant chunk of the mileage off our original plan. The trails in GSMNP are for serious. Our highest altitude of the trip was just a bit over 6,000 feet, which isn't much, considering. So I must admit I underestimated the difficulty. After all, I've hiked "fourteeners" in Colorado and done okay. I even did Half Dome in Yosemite, one of the toughest (but most rewarding) day hikes you'll ever meet. But even though Great Smokies never gets very high, there just aren't many level places on those trails. That, and I seriously over-packed. Hey, I'm an eagle scout. "Be prepared," right? I was prepared for a tsunami or a blizzard. But I was hauling close to fifty pounds on my back. No problem, right? Well, as I said, there are no level places on those trails. One day we gained over 3,000 feet in about three or four miles, then lost 1,500 feet of that again in the next mile or so. Ascents like that are tough. Descents are, too. They take a different kind of toll on the body, but descents aren't as easy as you'd think when you're hauling a heavy load, especially on narrow, rough, steep trails with dangerous washed-out places and not a lot to stop you if you start falling down the mountainside.

But even though I'm whining, I must confess I loved it. One day I was hauling up a tough grade on a trail appropriately named the "Sweat Heifer." I was feeling the weight in my pack pretty intensely. A mosquito landed on my leg and began his snack. I started to smack him, but then said, "Drink all you want, buddy - that's a drop of blood I don't have to haul up this hill." I had my teeth gritted, my lungs on fire, my legs burning, sweating more than the trail's namesake, my stronger (and more lightly packed) companions out of sight far ahead of me, and I just started giggling. Delirium? Probably. But also, I was surrounded by relentless beauty. I was... not at my desk. I was pushing through the pain and I knew I wouldn't quit. I was having frank discussions with God on all manner of topics. There was almost a comfortable feeling that came over me when I looked at the distant views, the mossy rocks on the trail, the freshly green hillsides around me.

The nights were the best. Two of the four nights, we stayed in Appalachian Trail shelters. Shelters on the AT are unique backpacking experiences. They're made of rock, logs, and tin roofs. There are several wooden racks that everyone sleeps in. It's completely random whether you'll have the shelter to yourself or share it with twenty strangers.

One night, we five young ministers shared the Peck's Corner shelter with two or three atheists,
a hippie universalist, a Native American who was reading Screwtape Letters, and a Scottish agnostic. That evening we all sat around while some burned incense, tobacco, or marijuana (I only burned part of my supper - for reals), discussing the world and God and matters of faith. The full moon rose just after sunset and we discussed evolution vs. creation. We talked shop on various methods of packing, the best trail foods, and how to save weight. (Did you know that through-hikers on the AT sometimes cut the handles off their toothbrushes to save those few fractions of an ounce?) We talked politics. And we went to bed with no one angry and no one being argumentative. (Contact highs? Perhaps. ...Just kidding. The marijuana use was covert and at a respectable distance from the shelter.)

One of the atheists even told us he was glad there were Christians out there like us - Christians who didn't view people like him as the enemy. And for all you Christians reading this, they aren't! So much of the time we use battlefield rhetoric in some potentially dangerous ways. There's a "culture war" or the Left is "making war on Christians" or any number of others. When we talk like that about people, those people tend to get a bit nervous, and understandably so. We have to remember our battle is NOT against flesh and blood. Write that down - it will be on the final.

So that night I slept on an upper rack above a Native American who turned out to be a world-champion snorer. The Scottish fellow was no slouch, either. Again, though, I loved it. I fell asleep grinning, an odd comfortable feeling coming over me.


Oh, I love my REI Half Dome two-man backpacking tent. It's light, easy to set up, well-ventilated, dry as a bone in torrential downpour, and they thought of everything. Two of the nights on the trip I shared this tent with my friend Kevin Askew. If you're looking for a great two-man tent, get this one. (REI, if you want to talk paid endorsements, I'm listening!)

Since I'm talking gear, I also recommend Merrell boots and Smartwool socks. I had no idea what a difference merino wool socks made for your feet. And no, they don't make your feet hot and itchy. Buy Smartwool and enter a brave new world of foot comfort! The Merrells are highly recommended as well. Brandon Speak (my brother-in-law) and I were the only two on the trip who had them, and we were the only two who had little or no blistering on our feet. Randy J. Bland, another friend who did the trip, had his feet in shredded, bloody agony after the first two days. I loaned him a pair of Smartwools, and he said the next day was relatively pain-free. Also, Smartwools don't stink nearly as bad as cotton or synthetics. Again, Merrell and Smartwool, if you're looking to pay someone for endorsements, I promise to do a nice writeup in my blog.

Out On A Limb

This is a great video that features the Skit Guys, my favorite acting duo of the moment. It won the Southwest Airlines "Wanna Get Away?" commercial contest.

Church Signs Continue to Shock, Awe

The latest entry in the "World's Worst Church Sign" Contest has it all: vagueness, failed attempts at clever irony, insider churchy language, and simple awfulness.

This one has a story attached, even. The sign read, "When eagles are silent, parrots will squawk." I saw it, thought it over, and chuckled a bit. I told Cindy about it, and she, always trying to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, said she thought the intent was good. We decided it meant that if the noble, good, and true folks don't speak up, then the gaudy, noisy, and rude will rule the day. But... wow. Then Cindy happened to mention the sign to a coworker in a conversation about noisy birds outside classroom windows or some such. The coworker acted a little offended that Cindy would mention it in such an offhand fashion, saying she thought it was an important reminder that we need to be silent and listen for God to speak in our lives. When Cindy told me this, my reaction was a hearty guffaw. So God is the squawking parrot? I love this town.

A Tree-Hugging Granola-Faced Pansy Boy

So I grew up going to a Christian school (a very good school, too) in Midwestern Suburbia. Our state representative, state senator, US representative, US senators, governor, and the rest were typically Republican. My teachers in school taught a very conservative political outlook on life, fueled by doses of Rush Limbaugh and Michael Reagan.

I'm still fairly conservative politically. I find the abortion issue tough to sidestep, and I still weigh that issue very heavily in my consideration of candidates to vote for. I'm still registered as a Republican voter. But there's an insidious streak of liberalism in me, and for this I place the blame squarely on my dad.

Readers who know my dad will doubtless be shocked by this wild accusation. Dwight Purtle teaching liberal politics to his son??? Lemme 'splain you how come.

It started with the family vacations. Unlike most Baby Boomer uber-capitalists, my parents didn't buy us enormous piles of plastic junk for Christmas every year. We got stuff, and it was good stuff. But some of my friends got a lot more stuff. One year when I was about ten and my sisters were about eight and six or so, I noticed the disparity between my friend's stack of Christmas loot and my own. I broached the subject with my dad, and he looked thoughtful for a bit. Then he told me that my friend Steve's* parents spent half the year every year paying off Christmas. They were apparently proud of it. He told me that wasn't the way we did things.

Then he asked me where Steve had gone for vacation that summer. I told him I thought they went to Branson for the weekend. "And where did we go?"

We'd gone to California. Two full weeks away. Granddad's house and Sequoia and Yosemite National Parks in the Sierra Nevadas. We did this at least every other year. I loved that trip, even though it usually meant a road trip of three days out and three days back in an 80-something Oldsmobile sedan with my two sisters and me in the back seat fighting most of the time. Sequoia National Park is home of the world's largest living thing: the "General Sherman" tree, a Giant Sequoia redwood. There are also lots of great mountain hiking trails and scenery.

Yosemite National Park was, and still is, simply my favorite place. I've mentioned it before in this blog. Granite monoliths almost a mile high, some of the tallest waterfalls in the world, and relentless beauty everywhere.

On these trips, my dad taught us wilderness ethics. Littering was a crime deserving severe punishment. We were to leave campsites "better than we found them," picking up not only our trash, but the trash the previous people had left as well. "Don't feed crackers and food to the squirrels," he said. "Our food isn't good for them." We were not to get too close to wildlife, even though other people would surround a deer or bear with their cameras clicking excitedly. We were not allowed to pick wildflowers. "Leave them so everyone else can see them too." We stayed on the trail: we didn't want to damage the plants or erode the soil. We kept our voices low, and saw more wildlife than many of the other hikers. We went to ranger talks in the evenings and paid attention when they told us how to "leave no trace" when we hiked and camped. We listened as they told us how people had damaged many of the pristine wilderness areas, and how we could help restore those areas by following certain guidelines. We decried the debacle of Hetch Hetchy Reservoir.

Another major contributing factor to my liberalism for which I blame my dad is National Public Radio. The NPR member station in Kansas City is KCUR, and I've probably listened to more programming on that station than any other in my lifetime, with the possible exception of a Christian station in Kansas City called KLJC. My dad would also tune in the nearest NPR station wherever we were on the road. Besides promoting all kinds of obscure underground jazz, world music, and new age artists, NPR has a decidedly leftward-leaning slant on the news, especially on environmental issues.

And then we started to recycle. We started taking in aluminum cans long before it was fashionable. We got a "recycle bin" at home just like the rest of the neighborhood, but we actually did it conscientiously. We would cut the labels off tin cans and pop bottles, cut the little plastic rings off the tops by where the lids screwed on, and we recycled everything we could recycle - by the book. We turned off lights and tried to conserve water (this was mostly because it made good fiscal sense, it's true, but we did it). We lowered the thermostat in the winter and raised it in the summer. We got energy-efficient windows and light bulbs.

And finally, we took National Geographic magazine for my entire life. I still read it cover to cover every month. Do you know they have some of the finest photographers in the world on staff?

So let me make my confession. I am what some of my teachers at the Christian school might have termed a "tree-hugging, granola-faced pansy boy." When it comes to environmental issues and the whole "greenhouse gas," "carbon footprint," and even the dreaded "global warming" thing, I'm as left as the side of the road the Brits drive on. I like nature to stay natural. I like trees. I like people who pick up their trash. I like fair-trade shade-grown coffee and organic farming. I like clothing companies who don't exploit the environment or employ child labor in other countries. I support local farming. I like fuel-efficient, low-emissions cars. When my wife gets a cup of coffee to go, she saves the cup and reuses it at least once. I'm learning to follow her example.

Let me make clear that I'm still skeptical about various environmental organizations. I read a news story about an Earth Day celebration in Dallas a few years ago that left a lot of litter all over the place. I think a lot of environmentalist wackos are precisely that: wackos. And I still believe God created this whole world, despite reading and hearing all the evolutionism in National Geographic and on NPR. And it's precisely because I believe that God created this world that I think it's worth taking care of. He gave us that job, remember? We're to have dominion over it, but we're not to wreck it with our trash.

Now go pick up some litter. And recycle that soda can.



*Not his real name. Mysterious, eh?