This day will be the best day I've ever had. It will be different than any other. It will prove to be full of adventures that are as unique as the moments that, together, make it complete. I'll meet with people and communicate thoughts and ideas. Feel the power of emotion. See through the eyes of another. Welcome the presence of a familiar face with a smile. Shake hands with a stranger. Feel the heat of the Texas sun on my cheek. (Yes, we have our own sun here.) Listen to my daughter tell a story and laugh (a genuine laugh) in response. Watch my son perform a trick I've seen many times before. I'll tell him I'm proud of him and that he's really getting good at that. I'll look for the right moment to reach over and take my wife's hand for just a few seconds. We'll exchange a glance and a grin and go on with the day. I'll probably drink a Dr. Pepper or sweet tea on the back porch as the sun sets. Life is an excellent gift.

I've just returned from two whirlwind days in LA. A land where extreme wealth lives in dischordant harmony with extreme poverty. Where else on earth can you see an Aston Martin, a man eating out of a trashcan, a 350 lb bald guy in need of a back wax wearing a speedo with suspenders, a 140.00 pair of underwear at Versace, a stoned hippie playing a violin without strings, a 29 dollar salad, and Roger Ebert kneeling by a star in front of a Chinese theater, all in one day? A tall man with a flowing white beard wearing Gandalf's hat and cloak stood out front and posed time and time again with Asian tourists who coaxed him to say, "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" for a few dollars. Beverly Hills was over the top. Hollywood was a dive. Venice Beach? It's the gathering place for more cheap sunglasses and wasted talent than you ever knew existed. There is no middle class. You're either spending 50,000 a month on a condo or living in a gutter, but there's not a blue collar in sight. So what's the point of this travelog? I don't know. I really don't know. I saw houses in Malibu that were in the process of sliding off foundations that were built on a cliffs mostly made of sand. I saw the coolest car in the world, followed closely by a dozen others just like it. I saw valets running like deer in hunting season while a short old man with tall blonde escort gave an aggrivated glance at a watch worth more than my annual income. I saw the same look of frustration on the face of a guy leaning over the garbage who was pouring the backwash out of multiple coke cans into a single styrofoam cup to make a custom beverage. We used to call it a suicide when I was a little kid at the Sizzler.
So why do they both get frustrated? Shouldn't one or the other be content? First glance would say the rich man would be content and the beggar not. But this was not the case. Each man was frustrated with his existence for each one could recognize the limitations of his own sense of control. This, I believe, is the quest of every man. To gain as much control as possible. The problem is that we never have quite enough. One day you can't afford a beverage, the next day the valet won't get your Mercedes fast enough. When will we learn that our hunger for control will never be satisfied?
On the other side of the control coin are the strung out artists or thong wearing perverts who parade their 'individual' attitude before the world as a way to, in effect, celebrate the false freedom that comes from a perceived loss of control. They exercise extreme antics to dare the giver of control (whoever that may be) to come and take it back already. The beauty of Christian liberty is that revelation that we're not in control. Rather Jesus Christ is. Our subsequent actions are simply our response to His unlimited ability to shape things according to His plan and pleasure. We trust that it's for our good, and that being the case, it seems like a no brainer to allow Him to take his rightful place as Lord of our lives. But dogone it if that isn't hard to do. Cmon, you know it's true.
So what do Gandalf, psycho speedo, Roger Ebert, custom beverage bum, Rolex daddy, and all of us have in common? We're all fighting for the same thing. To gain control or to lose control. Oh the things you can learn in LA.

The tragedy of travelling is that I'm the only one who can see through my eyes. Today I took a drive up the alpine loop east of Orem, Utah through Provo canyon and up to Sundance. Weaving through a forest of birch trees, the three hundredth hairpin turn pulls the curtain of white bark and yellow leaves back to reveal a line of snow covered peaks that jut out of the ground, stabbing the sky. The clouds bend and flex to move through the canyons and around the peaks. The air is a crisp 51 degrees, perfect for rolling the window down to listen to the sound of the mountain stream which makes a great addition to Coldplay's 'speed of sound' which happens to be on the radio. Alone, I park the car and shut off the engine. Standing outside you swear you can hear the mountain. I pray. I don't bow my head. It seems more appropriate to lift my eyes. There is no appropriate human response to such a sight. Wow just doesn't cut it. What appropriate human response is there to the wonder of the majesty of God? "In Him we live..." Your life is worship. "...and move..." Your actions are worship. "...and have our being." Your very existence is worship. Once you get this revelation, you too will lament the tragedy of the fact that nobody else can see through your eyes. Grace and Peace today.

I spent the evening visiting my good friend, Nate Robinson, in amazing downtown Chicago. Home of da bulls, da bears, and ever merciful coach Ditka. Nate had parked and stood out on the corner guiding me in one block at a time. I finally turned on Ontario St and saw Nate two blocks away. Dressed for business, owning the corner, in a crowd, and smiling that million dollar grin that makes you smile back whether you want to or not. Know how long it's been since I've seen Nate? Too long.
If you ever drive downtown Chicago, you'll swear that someone is shooting a movie and just yelled action right before you drove directly into the scene. Only nobody says "Cut" and you continue to drive down Michigan Ave gawking at the sights and listening to the thickness of the sound trapped and bouncing off the buildings with noplace to go but into your ears. It's an onslaught of sights, sound, smells. A literal sensory tsunami. Around the corner from the Apple store with it's brushed aluminum and glowing plexiglass stairs, in stark contrast to the industrial clean room that is Mac Mecca, is a pizza joint known as Pizzaria Due. No less cool, this place embodies old Chicago. It is the Apple store of the 30's and the deep dish is the ingesible ipod. Simply put, there is no equal. It's the best pizza in town. Agnes, the waitress, told me so. I believe her though. She looks like she's carried a few pies in her day and, though past her prime, is still passionate about pizza. Nate and I ordered the deep dish with the works and she sucked wind through pursed lips, like people do when they see a Rembrandt for the first time. Why do I believe her? Because after all those years of watching people ingest slice after slice, she still finds passion in the appetitie of others. I find passion in the appetite of Nate for the things of God. It certainly helps my perspective. You want to get excited about what matters most again? Get around those who are and let them give your jaded perspective a shot of clarity and health. If Agnes can stay passionate about pizza, I can stay passionate about Jesus Christ. Amen

I'm in cheese land today aka Wisconsin. Actually it's one of my favorite states and not because I really like those processed cheese slices, cheese whiz, mozzarella sticks, or Velveeta on macaroni either. It's for the green. Not green as in old cheese, money, or envy. Green as in when you fly into Wisconsin the ground looks like a quilt of deep green. Speaking of cheese though... I remember when I was in Oregon some time ago and saw a sign on the side of the Tillamook cheese factory that read, "Come watch our cheese age". Sounded about as exciting as a game of twister in a nursing home. Nevertheless I learned that Tillamook cheese has to age for 60 days to get the definitive cheddar taste that everyone knows so well. I wondered if you can speed up the process a little and found that, while you can add artificial flavoring to deceive the general populous, true cheddar only comes with time. The key though is not only in the ingredients but also in the environment. If cheese is aged in a proper environment it will only improve with time. If, however, it's left to the elements, it molds and rots.
We're all aging. What we are becoming depends not only on that which is within us, but the environment we are in. I wonder what I am becoming? I feel a bit moldy sometimes. Occasionally sharp cheddar. Sometimes processed American. Either way, I can control my ingredients. I can be set apart from things that would defile me and I can ask God to fill me with His Spirit. I can also control my environment. I can choose to go where and be around whom I choose and while I hope to affect my environment wherever I am, I have found that it also has an effect on me too. I'll leave with two questions to ponder. Has your environment had an effect on who you have become? If so, how? And finally, do you like how you're aging? If not, it may be time to change up some ingredients and/or change the environment.