Coming soon to a theater near you.

I'm a movie fan. More importantly, I'm a story fan. I think some of those best told using film and video are of the handheld, viral, down and dirty variety. Someone captures footage with their phone or camcorder. It may look like a bunch of really big squares when you blow it up bigger than a thumbnail, but it tells a great story. However...

There is something intriguing, mysterious, elusive about the big screen. And if you live in MN, the opportunity to be part of or touch the outer hem of the garment of a Hollywood film doesn't come along too often. And sometimes you just have to make it happen.

Nicole, our new Video Guru for the comm. team at the EFCA, got an inside tip that the Coen brothers were shooting their upcoming film A Serious Man, somewhere in Bloomington. So, I called Nick, he picked us up and we were off to find Joel and Ethan and their 'low-budget' crew filming a 1960's scene of growing up in St. Louis Park. It took us about 35 minutes, weaving in and out of side streets, but we finally found it-6 blocks from the office. It was like driving into another era: several blocks of 1960's cars lining the street, windows all made to look pristine on every house, lawns way too green for September in MN and the presence of other hunters like us. The block was available to drive or walk through because they weren't shooting anything (it was raining earlier in the day so we assume they either shot another scene or otherwise). 

Brushes with fame are always fun--but it's still the story that matters. 

A must post pic

Mary and I officially celebrated all of the NEW in our lives by going
to St. Paul last night and dining outdoor at La Grolla, a quaint
little Italian ristorante (thanks Sara and Bobby!) We ate outside,
minutes after this sheet of rain pummeled the square block of its
size. The pic was taken with Mary's phone. We're (I) really becoming
tech geeks. Or more appropriately, I'm turning Mary into a tech geek.

A new era

Really this is just a test to see if I can post a blog from my iPhone. If
so, yay! Either way I'm coming back online after trying to drink in
the tsunami of a new job/position/chapter. Looking forward to this new
series...

Just amending to this...it worked. I can now post blogs while sitting on a plane or waiting in line for coffee or sitting under a tree in a park. It's not yet my MO to do so, but anticipating more of an on-the-go lifestyle, I'm pretty sure it will come in handy. And if I never post another blog from my iPhone, I can rest easy knowing that I can. 

Limited Imagination

Last night I watched In the Shadow of the Moon. If you haven't seen it, you need to. I remember wanting to see it when it came out and then my Dad wrote a review on it and I took it as a nudge to see it. Not only was it a history lesson, but a spectacular testament to dreaming. How far can we go? What is our potential? I came across this quote by C.S. Lewis the other day in a book I'm reading. It's worth a few moments of reflection...

Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures fooling about with drink, sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.

 -Weight of Glory and Other Literary Addresses

Erasure of Digital Rain

Nobody will contest that recent technology has impacted much of how we live and work. The way we preserve our memories and traditions has also changed dramatically and to me there's a depth of sadness to it all. 

Most of us remember growing up looking at photo albums with pictures falling off pages, yellowed and bent. The pages themselves were often discolored and torn from being handled by so many hands. I remember sitting on the couch with my Mom and Dad, the gigantic green photo album trying desperately to hold the hundreds of memories documented on Kodak paper-the kind with the texture that made the record-scratching sound if you ran your fingernails over it (which is probably why so many pictures turned yellow!) It was an experience to not only thumb through the memories, but to sit and listen to the stories behind each capture. 

And I can still sense the anticipation of taking undeveloped film to get processed. After German camp and prom and baseball games and our spring break trip to Chicago-they couldn't develop fast enough! And the wait made the memory sweeter because I put so much time and effort into preserving it. 

Holding a photo in your hand, cradling the edges, delicately sliding it into a plastic sheet-this all requires the work that is part of the memory process. To care for and nurture these memories  further embeds them into our story as does taking them back out, flipping through the pages and re-telling the narrative behind the shot to others. Taking out my laptop and showing someone my iPhoto collection just isn't the same as sitting down and telling the intimate stories of paper pictures.

The other day I took a picture of a pencil tree to go on Craigslist. I didn't need the picture after I uploaded it to my computer so I deleted it. When you choose to delete on our particular camera, digital rain starts from the top of the view screen and covers over the photo until it is gone. Just like that. With the click of a button. Erased. 

The way we preserve memories has changed and I wonder how much we're missing by deleting them so fast. I have a hard enough time remembering last week and now need to be more deliberate about getting photos printed and sticking them in albums. I suppose it's about trying harder to live life in the slow lane, about trying to keep the visuals connected to experiences and being faithful to share our stories together in community. It's more about holding onto what is both good and significant about the past--like thumbing through a yellowed, battle-tested photo album.

It's Normal, I Told Myself

Winter and spring in Minnesota are different in just about every way. Sometime around April, before the air stays warm after sundown, a flurry of interest centers around a ritual known to make grown men cry, dogs to drool more than usual and women to tread softly. It causes a stir on the social calendar. From winter we roll right into the Season of the Grill. 

For those of us on KP, it's a cherished time. Tin foil around broccoli, tin foil around salmon and tin foil around potatoes means scant dishwashing. For those who savor the grilled taste, it's season o' plenty. And for some, it's a way of life. 

Like for Bob, our next door neighbor. I met him for the first time this past week, but already knew more about him than I let on. He likes to grill. Not the easy knob-twist-gas-grill-type. He's hardcore-lets the charcoal reach a good white hot before searing carne. And we're not talking once a week. We're not even talking once a day. On numerous occasions in the past month or so my nostrils have flared for the unmistakable aroma...at breakfast, lunch and then dinner. No kidding. You go, Bob. Grill on. Carry on the tradition of the Season of the Grill.

A Moment's Notice

I make it my business to notice moments. I do a pretty good job of identifying them and recognizing the uniqueness of myriad different ones I encounter, but do a mediocre job of recounting and recording them-there should always be more time to write (sigh). Here's one I couldn't resist. 

You've been there before. That little sandwich shop, sometime mid-afternoon, long after the lunch rush and well before the dinner crowd. You step inside, smell fresh bread and walk to the abandoned register. There's no music playing for ambience, not one other customer and no one to make my sandwich. 

The guy eventually shows up to smile out of duty and take my order. Simple. Until it comes time for payment. I flash my credit card and see an ever-so-slight dilation of his pupils, the way your eyes expand in minimal surprise. He's been here before. I can tell he's scared. Cash would have been far easier.

He swipes the card and waits for it to do its thing. Clearly the machine is using dial-up technology. We wait for two full minutes.

The moment ensues: here we are, two grown men, perhaps nothing in common, perhaps everything-we'll never know. I look to my right, pretending to care about the decor of the place as he looks left, out the window, to notice any change since the last customer. Silence. We both tire and he looks right to check on the ham and salami and turkey in the hopper while I look left, pretending to care about the ingredients of Sun chips. He looks down at the credit card machine as if willing it to crank out that (expletive) receipt and I look down as if willing it to do anything at all. 

We start the routine all over, desperately searching for an object to focus on. We both look left and right and back again and as though a choreographed production is born of this moment, I begin tapping my foot to the silence. 

 

Mandate '08

Sounds like the strategy out of a political camp. A bit misleading. But then so it is with most politics. In actuality, Mandate '08 was a jaunt with Chad down to the Metrodome to watch the hometown boys take on the Bahston Red Sox. 

Last night's bottom of the 9th nail-biter felt more like the division playoffs than an early May regular season game. Now, I wouldn't normally blog about a baseball game, but the whole experience was just so satisfying I couldn't resist. 

Chad and I get to enjoy Mandates (spell it however you may) every once in a while-an evening out, just the guys, wives and children at home. We eat fatty, greasy foods, talk mainly about guy things and in last night's case, watched a great baseball game. 

Boof gave up an early lead and then Rincon came in and everybody in the dome started sweating. For good reason. Rincon blew the lead and we thought we'd see another heartbreaking loss that was well within our grasp. Down 6-5 in the bottom of the 9th, the Twins rallied behind a Delmon Young single and a Carlos Gomez walk (the guy really is amazing to watch). Mike Lamb blooped one into left field off the usually impenetrable Papelbon to win it in dramatic fashion. I haven't seen so many people stay to the end in a long while and the post-win buzz truly felt division-clinching. 

It was a great shared experience. I'm thankful for those kinds of nights. Thanks Chad. Here's looking forward to Mandate '08 II. 

All in a Day's Work

If I were a thrill-seeker, I'd be hard-pressed to top last week's experience. As many of you know, I've been fortunate enough to do a lot of work in the past couple of years for a Global 500 company and have been fortunate enough to meet a lot of great people and work on some creative video projects. I'd have to say that last week, however, takes the cake. 

A few weeks back we were in Atlanta shooting a few interviews for aforementioned company's project on going green. While there, we met a woman who works with their community relationships-namely their giving back to the community. A lot of their efforts center around donating to educational programs and she mentioned that she needed some footage re-shot at the National Teacher of the Year award ceremony and asked, almost in passing, if we would be able to be there for it. We said yes, and when she told us it was at the White House and the President would be presenting the award, we could only answer calmly and collected, "Sure." 

Next thing we know we're calling The Guy with our social security info, state of residence, etc. A day later the budget was confirmed and we booked our plane tickets. 

I'll skip the mundane details of getting there and even arriving the morning of the event (it was pretty wild telling the cab driver we needed to go to the East Entrance of the WH). Once through security (kind of like airport security only they had already done background checks on us), we were in. We were escorted by no fewer than 4 people in the 100 yards it took to walk to the Rose Garden. After setting up our gear, we were again escorted to the area the press hangs out in-a room past another security gate that held about 20 small workspaces. The walk to the Press Briefing room (the one you see on TV) wouldn't have been complete without brushing past Helen Thomas, a White House press fixture. 

We found ourselves waiting for 20 minutes in the seats of the Press Briefing room with all the other media folks-the ones from CNN and AP and such. They were laughing and joking around and talking about poker. We were awestruck and wishing we had brought a camera in. 

The press was called back out to the Rose Garden once all the guests had been seated and the ceremony promptly began. An official-sounding voice came over the PA system and began introducing each of the 50 Teacher of the Year candidates, one at a time, like they were graduates walking across the stage-only they were walking out of the Oval Office, down past the familiar Rose Garden podium and to their seats. 

Once they had all been introduced, there was a long pause. It was probably a last minute security check before the main event, the Moment. From the time we stepped onto the WH grounds, the electricity and buzz was more than evident. It was hard to imagine the security detail present as the seconds ticked down. 

And then came the announcement: "Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States, accompanied by the Secretary of Education Margaret Spellings and the Teacher of the Year, Michael Geisen. It was a once-in-a-lifetime moment. I now stood, holding my own video camera (not camera 1, mind you, but my own camera) 50 feet from arguably the most powerful man on the planet. It was awesome. 

The President talked for a bit, then Michael and then it wrapped when the President thanked all in attendance for coming and walked back from whence he came into his Oval Office. 

It's hard to put into words an experience like this. With all of the pomp and circumstance, the adrenaline of being in one of the most sensitive spots on earth, I realized the privilege it was to experience these short, glowing moments. And in reality (as is the reality for so many who cover the White House press) it was simply another day at the office. 

To see the footage from the event (not our footage, but identical) click here. 

Confidence

It’s what I have in the Minnesota Twins that they’ll both delight and break my heart a little this year. Confidence. It’s what I have in the sun-that it will set this evening and rise again tomorrow. Confidence. It’s what I have in this world-that it will continue to change despite my objections. Confidence. The older, wiser sister of assumption. It blooms with repetition. And I’m trying to reconcile the awesome power we have to give it away. 

Truly I believe there isn’t anything I can’t do. I don’t say it out of arrogance, but from learned behavior. Sure, the childhood dreams of playing pro baseball are gone with back injuries and reality. Going to space isn’t on the radar. And becoming a surgeon at this point would only hinder my real dreams. But within the realm of physical, spiritual and mental reason, I think I can do anything I put my mind, heart and focus into. 

 It started with my Mom and Dad always telling me I could do it. I had room to try things out. Piano and swimming lessons, trombone, baseball, hockey, writing, church plays, being a good older brother, selling greeting cards door-to-door-I tried them all. A few I dropped like a hot potato and some defined, in part, much of my first eighteen years of life. And some I’m just now embracing as gifts and talents (does eating doughnuts count as a talent?) I’m humbled and grateful that I have parents who have always believed the best in me-sure, they realized I can be an idiot, but they believed and urged something more. Regardless of my success or failure, I always got a hug and loving listening ear that told me to keep going-you are talented, worthy, beloved. And I believe that, as the road less traveled, has made all the difference. 

I know I’m in the minority to have parents who gave me the freedom to succeed and fail. I can feel my heart tearing when I see a parent with a little boy or girl yelling or cutting their impressionable mind with insecure and demeaning words. Sentences that often start with “You’ll never...” 

We have the deep capacity to love just as we have the deep capacity to hate and incapacitate. We’re creatures of habit. And if someone tells me I can do it-over and over and over-I just might believe it. May it be said of us that we gave others the permission, in the context of love and grace, to explore all that we might have been created to do. 

Try Toy

This is going to be a haphazard attempt at bringing random thoughts into a single meaning. I already know it's not going to work. 

Instead, I'll lazily string together randomness and try to pluck a common string at the end. First, welcome Maria (Mary's Mom) and Michelle (Mary's sister) to Minneapolis. Great to have you. Thanks for bringing the sun. A few new readers stopped by this week and asked politely if this blog is about things I think about. Yes, it is. I just read a snappy little article on Writer's Digest (dotcom) about TMIS (Too Many Ideas Syndrome). I have it. A plethora of, myriad (will someone please create a universal rule for this word) ideas float through my head and so few of them make it out. The ones that end up here are a smattering short enough to keep the average [now] reader's attention span of 1:56. A friend recently told me that a question we need to ask ourselves every single day of our lives (I'm sorry, I know I completely omitted an entire context of conversation leading up to and following that poignant nugget of a question) is Who Am I? We answer the question by what we believe and far more importantly, how we act on those beliefs; what we do with our time, what we think about, what we fear, what we find great joy in. And of course, how we sign off on e-mails. I sign mine with Peace. Have for many years now. And when I'm getting out of an e-mail and do so too fast, I end up typing my name as Try or Toy. I think I've alway caught it (yes, I re-read every single e-mail I ever write before sending and have even been known to send a follow-up e-mail to clarify a word or misspelling-and yes, I am aware that this is somewhat neurotic behavior.) So I catch myself assuring e-mail recipients that it is I, Troy, sending this message-not a toy, not willing you to try Troy or try anything for that matter. And while I'm redefining who I am with each sent message, asking myself what peace really means, I'm all the while asking a question for the ages-If I try a Troy toy, will Troy toy with my try? 

See, failed attempt. Thankfully, it was free to post. 

For Joan and Joe

The heat was blazing, especially for what is known to Minnesotans as "early fall." As we waited in the forever-long line of anxious autos, the orange-vested parking attendant was visibly amused. Laughing. It was rumored he was heard whispering stanzas from Dante's Inferno. At least that was the word from the binocular-toting passenger in the backseat. We inched our way forward, toward the Mecca of tradition.

When at long last we turned the corner, the orange vest now directly in front of us, hope faded as he shooed his powerful flag to his right. 'Unforeseen circumstances' and 'unearthly peril' didn't cross our minds. We were simply another pawn in his diabolical game. As we four-wheeled it through the overgrown brush, nearly plucking off costumed sojourners en route to our parking spot amidst the sea of dusty SUV's and Ford Fiestas, the anticipation grew. 

Thoughts of overgrown turkey legs (and legless turkey institutions scattered in their wake across the Heartland) and high entertainment filled our imaginations. Until we started trekking toward aforementioned city on the hill. 

We traversed with others along dusty roads, down gorges, over the river and through the woods, down long dusty roads, through marshes, down long dusty roads and alas! the sight was finally heavy upon us...a small speck of castle in the distance...or was it mere illusion? Another 45 minutes, past hundreds, nay, thousands of empty parking spaces, dirty booger encrusted kleenex overflowing our pockets, eyes burning from the floating dirt...and we had reached the grand entrance. 

Welcome to the annual Minnesota Renaissance Festival.

And it was only then we started getting haggled.  

A click and a smile.

Counting clicks. It's the web 2.0 method of voting. None of this ancient calling in for American Idol or actually having to go somewhere and cast a ballot. No, you can vote anything into popularity by the simple click of a mouse. 

I learned this firsthand. Today. Sort of. 

If you have checked your e-mail in the last month or so, you've gotten a few messages that I've been posting things-the internet equivalent of using one of those ancient thumb tacks-to a website. I'm adding content in the true vein of the 'User Generated Content' that so aptly describes much of what is online. People all over the world post things-videos, comments, music, podcasts-to websites available to anyone with an internet connection. 

In the past months I/we have posted a Christmas video, a little video we/I affectionately called Tabbersacci and then a cool little spot that Nick and I entered into an online ad contest for Nestle's 100 Grand candy bar. 

Anyway, as these items are posted from all over the world, people also from all over the world can view or read or listen to them. Most websites have counters that tabulate how many clicks or views (I'm speaking in YouTube lingo here) a particular post has received. For example, if you and I click on Tabbersacci, a little label under the title shows that the video has been watched twice. Pretty simple.

 

I've noticed lately that some of the lesser-known posts (videos especially) that really are not well produced or 'made' have a ton of hits. Now, call me a skeptic, but I know for a fact that 7,000 people have not watched a three year old from Hackensack ride their trike down the driveway. Ah, but the users are not dumb (they did have to get their video to the site, now didn't they?) They know the power of the click. A click here, a click there. Everywhere and everyone a click click. Before you know it, this little kid is a YouTube rockstar with thousands of hits. 

Now there is a phenomenon called 'viral' out there. It means that when a video is interesting or captivates the masses, it gets passed around. Kind of like the flu-that I avoided this year because of my flu shot. As videos are passed along-most of the really good ones are usually funny-it becomes like the flu, lots of people get it. 

And so I decided to experiment-with Tabbersacci. If you go to my YouTube homepage (here), it shows that Tabbersacci has been viewed 284 times. Not really so. Because I took 5 minutes earlier in the day and then another 4 minutes just a bit ago, I was able to boost the number of views by 42. And it takes YouTube a few hours to update the counting. I'm just one person. I know there are others like me. And there are far more out there who want to be just a little bit of a rock star. They're the ones who send out e-mails desperate for views. And then sit at the computer for hours just clicking away becoming more and more popular with each push on the mouse. 

Crazy isn't it? Now if you send Tabbersacci to ten of your friends and ask politely for them to send it to ten of their friends...

Powers that Be

I believe in a higher power. I believe that this same higher power creatively cast the stars into being and uniquely made each one of us. I believe this same power came as a man and paradoxically lived as both human and God on one of these very floating planets he spun into space. I believe there's a really big picture that we only slightly comprehend and that there are forces we can't see waging war all around us every moment of every day. I know-one of them lives in our washing machine. And for that matter, in my car's radio, my iPod when I'm on an airplane and most computers. 

When we got married, Mary and I painstakingly went through the process of dividing up the chores around the house. Some of them just made sense-like me taking out the garbage, and Mary doing the cooking (because she's really good at it and enjoys it)-and others we had to test the waters on to see what worked. As for the laundry, that decision was made from day one. Mary has very particular ways of washing clothes (bless her heart) that should prolong the life of each article by at least 40 years, so we're in good shape there. I, naturally, have been delegated the task of folding. 

Most folding times are accompanied by the TV to distract from the monotony of socks and t-shirts that seem to multiply like loaves and fish. With the distraction, I'm not always watching for details, rather just trying to get the job done. It so happened a few months back, must have been during a commercial, that I noticed a strange phenomenon with some of my shirts. I know for a fact that when I added them to the dirty clothes pile, they were properly outside-in (the way they should look when worn). I also know for a fact that when it came to folding, I found them inside-out. Hmm. I started mapping the patterns (flowcharts, spreadsheets, pie charts) and found that in random fashion, my shirts were turning themselves inside-out between the time they left my body and the time I folded them as clean items. I've watched it for months now and can't find any logical pattern for what is going on between the invisible forces and our laundry. 

No, it's not the end of the world-and as I've talked to other folders, I have heard similar experiences-and they have survived. 

Even so, as the man who experienced life as both human and deity, perhaps the greatest paradox-we are a collection who live at once amidst the mystery of possessed washing machines and the vast questions of life and eternity. We (I) tend to make really big deals out of situations that in the big picture really don't mean much. And therein lies the other side of the creator's coin: he has the capacity to engage us both in the menial mundanes of daily life and the eternal question of what really happens when we die. Sometimes I think those washing machine demons only hope to distract us from reaching further, digging deeper-while we look silly wearing our shirts inside-out. 

Life is full of paradox-statements or propositions that seem self-contradictory or absurd but in reality expresses a possible truth. Often we can't wrap our minds around the seeming polar opposites of paradox. Like that God could be a man, too. That omniscient forces could also inhabit our appliances. That we are capable of so much love and so much hate. These are the questions that lead to more questions...like what is the deal with deer crossing signs? 

Hero

There are few people in my life I would call a hero*. The term is thrown around loosely and usually involves super powers or supernatural abilities. This guy possesses neither (to my knowledge) but has the character traits that, in my book, qualify him as being a bonafide star.
*(n. a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities.)

The man is at the top of his game and got there via a faith-filled approach to his life, family and work-a life of integrity and honor-treating people with respect, grace and care. A division I athlete at the University of Minnesota, he took his outstanding work ethic into his professional life and made excellence his forte. A humble man, never yelling or using foul language to make his point-rather leading by example, he is respected by peers and those who have had the good fortune of being under his tutelage. His family and friends have the utmost reverence for him as he is a man of his word and strong leadership.

Yes, my Dad is one of my greatest heroes and I am grateful to be his son. Thanks Dad, you are one of an ever-decreasing number who exemplify what it means to be a man.

And the other guy in the picture just happens to be Tony Dungy. I think he won the Super Bowl or something last year.

Lunch Lady Land

For some reason, the other day, a memory hit me. Not a frightening one or a particularly significant one, but a memory nonetheless. I think it was because I've been watching my friend Chad work day and night on a project (he's the new product developer for an educational software company) that seems to have no end. It's a software that basically allows parents/guardians to add money to their child's 'lunch account' at school. By using a credit card, a parent can easily add credit so their child can eat lunch at school.

My memory was the one with Mrs. Hess (or Juanita Ernst, can't remember whom) and her lunch ticket cart. Every week this woman would take her media cart and roll it from room to room and offer wee kids the chance to purchase lunch tickets. At so young an age, I can still remember whose parents had the most money. Our teacher would let us line up at the front of the class, pull a wadded up check from our little pockets and approach the ticket cart. As we fumbled our little hands to hold out the money, in return we received a number of tickets (the same ones used for drawings, wound around a big roll) corresponding to how much was written on the check-I think at that time lunches were like $.90. I still remember some of the kids walking away proudly with a stack of tickets folded on top of themselves-a virtual smorgasbord promising peanut butter sandwiches and mushed turkey and gravy on potatoes. Others returned to their desks with enough for the week. And still others-with one or two goldenrod tickets that held the hope of mere days worth of lunches. I now wonder about the kids who never visited the cart.

It's funny how at such a young age we were subjected to the scrutinizing eyes of our classmates. Who came away with the most tickets? Who remained at their desks, averting their eyes onto a list of spelling words or math problems?

I don't think it's ironic that Chad and his wife, Liz, share a compassion for the people, the wee kids who never get to buy a lunch ticket, never have their 'account' full. They started a non-profit organization, Project Foodstock (watch the video here) to ensure that every kid gets to eat not only while at school, but at dinner time, every day. It's the contribution, not only on the clock, but in their free time, of friends like the Caswell's, who bring action to their convictions.

Days Like This

When you wake up to bright, sunny skies in Minnesota in February, you don't need to have lived here too long to realize you're being duped. Such is the case today. There's not a cloud in the sky, branches swaying a little, maybe I should take Tabby for a walk? In 3 minutes we'd both be frozen solid. It was -15 with a -40 wind chill as we headed out the door to church. Reminds me of what now feels like 4 months ago-a Caribbean cruise.

Enjoy the pictures. They never do the experience justice. What you can't see in the pictures are all the open time slots, the lack of schedule, not having to rent a car or take out my wallet all week. In marriage there are lots of things to learn. Very few you grasp off the bat-most take wading through the differences in wiring many, many times. For some reason, we got our vacation philosophy set year two. (Just writing about vacation ignites some ideas to blog the question, 'what is vacation?' and who in the world deserves it?) Anyway, we have been very fortunate to take a yearly holiday and (spending consciously) we see them as an opportunity to get our batteries recharged, to connect, to rest. And as far as I'm concerned, I would never have to change that philosophy!

We talk about a European 'vacation,' or a 'vacation' to the mountains to go hiking and sightseeing. Sounds like a lot of work. For now, we're perfectly content to pull up a chair, read a book, close our eyes and do nothing for a good week.

Pictured (L to R): Mary and I in front of some Norwegian viking symbol aboard the Norwegian Sun. Troy taking shot at arm's length. Mary looking out over Roatan, Honduras. Troy with Atlantis over his shoulder. At the port in Nassau, Bahamas. And, oops, how did a picture of the Nassau Starbucks get in here?

Signs

I saw an intimidating sign today. I was driving north on 35W and noticed a big orange construction truck blocking the entrance to an off ramp. Several garbage-can-looking objects were sitting in the bed of the truck, blocking it's rear window. I was almost past the truck when I took another glance back and saw a sign the cans were hiding. It read:

Stay Back. Stay Alive.

To read this on the back of a construction truck as an individual who spends a fair amount of his time putting words and moving pictures to relay experiences, I found it all at once amusing.

I saw visions of small soldiers guarding the rear view mirror with mini shovels, heard the "Mr. Big Voice" movie trailer guy warning in his stern way, saw 2 people fencing, John Travolta dancing to a new rendition of his song and a scene straight out of Camelot.

I think I would have written the sign: Please do not get too close to this moving vehicle since your very livelihood is at stake in this matter. Thank you for your cooperation. -Management. But I suppose it's true-in the world of words, less is more.

Good Blogging

I just read a blog about blogging. When you read books or articles by writers, for writers, you will come across plenty of similar encouragement: read and write. Read a lot so that you can get a feel for others' voices. Because, after all, much of writing is about finding and developing your own written 'voice.' The second general encouragement you get is to write, write and write. It's like anything-you have to practice to get better. Even Stephen King says so. I can't name most rules of the English language, meaning I can't tell you when you get wrapped up in a dangling participle or expound about modifiers. I think I can eye a sentence and, for the most part, manipulate it so that it sounds like it was freed of a dangling participle and that no modifiers are imposing. But that is some crazy God-given talent that I still don't really understand.

Like Mary can throw numbers around all day, do it well and be energized by it, I am more and more eager to read and write, read and write. I got the bug bad about 5 years ago and watched it fizzle a bit in the past 2 years because of my career change. But there is something so liberating about sitting down and allowing the words to jump through my fingers. Those few aha moments when I can articulate something exactly the way it is in my core are worth every keyboard strike. Sometimes they turn into one long run-on sentence (I lied, I know a few grammar rules)...and sometimes they just work.

So, back to this blog about blogging (after reading it I realized I broke most of the rules). Great little article and I've been encouraged more than a few times by the practicality of Writer's Digest. Check out the article here (20 Tips for Good Blogging). Enjoy and happy blogging!

Minimum Speed Limit

In the words of Tom Cochrane, Life is a Highway. (Beware, by clicking this link, the song will be in your head for days.) So, let's say, for the sake of argument, that life really is like a highway. It's a worthy comparison and one that I've spent some time thinking about this morning in relation to who I am.

I seem to have spoken/written a vocational description into being when I added 'storyteller' to my business card almost 2 years ago-ooh, call it providence. I get a cute, warm, fuzzy picture of a bunch of kids squirming around in a semi-circle in the library of Neill Elementary school when I first think of storytellers. But after letting this image go and embracing the term in its timelessness, I sense a great responsibility to try and fill the shoes of this role. I could, of course, scrap the stacks of business cards for a sharper descriptor, but wouldn't that be boring?

So, life is a highway and I often find myself in the slow lane, turtling along at 40 mph. There are lots of cars on the road and with every rotation of every tire, each car/person is experiencing another little patch of life it hadn't the moment before. And with cars speeding along at 65 mph, and every rotation bringing new encounters, smells, words, thoughts, it's hard to imagine how much life we experience in one short trip down the highway. It's time-consuming enough to digest our side of the story at 40 mph, but imagine the speedsters flitting from one destination to the next at 70+.

While turtling along at 40 (this doesn't mean I'm an underachiever or slacker as I've also come to appreciate), the rushing of traffic is to my mind's ear and eye an onslaught of small graces, conversations, major life events, menial tasks, elation-the gamut. It's the trip to Chicago this past week to celebrate the life of Mary's Grandmother and everything those 2 days brought with it: reuniting with extended family (and for me in-laws), laughter, tears, a passing of the torch, seeing again our vulnerable lives in the reflection of eternity, trying to bridge relational gaps, and of course the 15 hours in the car which is another story altogether). Each of these pieces can be transcribed and crafted into a worthy narrative that holds a nugget or ten within. Instead, I'm forced to pick and choose which I have time for and the others will have to settle with being tossed in the back seat alongside empty doughnut bags and Starbucks cups.

I'm reading Improving Your Storytelling by Doug Lipman (and had you told me I'd be doing so 10 years ago I would have laughed and taken you off of my Christmas card list). It's a great tool to help develop your aural storytelling skills. Yes, you are a storyteller, too. We do it all the time when we share stories around the dinner table, tell a spouse about our day, recount embarrassing moments at a party. It's just that with life whizzing by, we have to develop an eye and ear for those stories that we need to communicate-those with teaching moments, truth and common ground for the human experience. It's why we're drawn to novels and movies, because we find our stories in those of others.

The speed limit in our society seems to increase all the time and it shows no signs of slowing down. This is not to say we just stop the car. But maybe it means picking a few of our stories, honing them and putting them in our back pockets for use in the right situation. Master them, tell them in different ways to different 'audiences' and enjoy being a conduit for God's creativity and voice. Telling stories is a gift-to the teller and the receiver.

So, go on! Tell your stories, pass the tradition, open lines of communication, break down walls.

You don't need a business card.