Scent is an amazing memory trigger. I got off the plane in Seattle/Tacoma and met with the unique odor of the northwest. A couple of deep breaths later and the pictures in my mind started rolling. My mom grew up around here where my grandfather was a bivocational pastor/oyster schucker and my great grandfather ran a large greenhouse in Tacoma, Pearsall Florists. They lived in a house at the bottom of McKinley Hill and the greenhouse stretched up the hill from there. A dirt road ran from cousin Ken's house at the top of the hill, past the Holiness campground, and down to the greenhouse. I would wake up early, fish around for some change, and head out the door barefoot through the field, stepping on slugs all the way (they have a corner market on the slug population here) to the railroad tracks. I would return a short time later with a pocket full of flattened pennies. I still can taste grandma's traditional breakfast of cornflakes and heavy cream with a side of thick bacon. Blackberry preserves and deserts were a constant since the house was surrounded and nearly overtaken with blackberry bushes. Dad would go out with a huge bowl and come back with scratched up arms, a massive smile, and a haul of the biggest blackberries you've ever seen. Evenings would be spent watching Flipper while grandpa sat in his easy chair. Today, the greenhouse is gone, grandpa's house leveled to make way for a subdivision, and the field of slugs has been replaced by a road. I stood there yesterday and realized that it would forever be impossible to go back there again. But I had to smile when I noticed that back in the corner of this new neighborhood, there were some thick wild blackberry bushes that would never die. It's amazing how things come and go and are remembered by some and forgotten by most. This post may be fascinating to me and two other people, but it's what's on my mind today, and at this point in my life, memories like this mean a lot.

I’m heading out of the blessed journey through this epistemilogical creature known as vocational ministry. Plainly put, I resigned as pastor of Calvary Worship Center. I came to CWC in 1993, fresh out of college with a pregnant wife and the promise of a volunteer position as a children’s minister in a church with few children. I was hoping to get into youth (teen) ministry but here, I was going to have to deal with people a bit smaller to start with. We were ready to give birth to some dreams (as well as a child) and we were excited beyond words. The fact that we were going to be able to devote our lives to nurture a Christlike nature in those kids as well as ourselves was a gift from God. We moved into the converted garage of some wonderful people in the hill country and I got a job at Mr. Gatti’s making 4.75 an hour. The church had an ambitious 30 something pastor, Randy Feldschau, who preached to 40 like he was preaching to 4,000. He was an amazing communicator. Rounding out the staff was, minister of evangelism, Tom Winslow. A tall ‘seasoned’ man with snow white hair and the friendliest eyes God ever made. Our first youth service happened more than 6 months after we first arrived. Six of the kids in children’s church were going into middle school in the fall of 94 which meant that we now had our youth group. Audrey, Melissa, Justin, Amy, Ashley, and DJ made up the very first youth service. Courtney, Josh, Joe, and many other characters would come along over the years. There were dozens of young people who came and went and I can say with confidence that every one of them made a lasting impression on me to the extent that I could write an entertaining blog entry about each one. I was honored to be a part of their lives and count that season as a personal high point. In July of 1998, Pastor Feldschau resigned. I assumed the role in November of that year. Since then, we have seen this church through weddings and funerals, an all consuming construction project, economic famine and feast, staff additions and subtractions, and various ministerial projects. People have asked me some pointed and sentimental questions in the past few days, forcing me to recall things I have long forgotten. All those dreams that we had of an idealistic sacrificial existence that would display God’s love to the hurting, demonstrate His power to the broken, and teach His ways to the learning, have all but disappeared. Perhaps one day God will see fit to raise them up again. For now, I’m content to have been a part of something bigger than myself. This entry does no justice to the past 12 years. There’s just too much to recount. So for now, I’ll just say here’s to the close of this chapter in my life. Goodbye and goodnight.

I have a beef to pick with Wal Mart. In PA, they're giving away free gas. But not to everyone. No, in a move of blatant discrimination, they have chosen to fuel only a certain vehicle. And I caught it on camera. No kidding.
Take a look at this picture. I took this one around Lancaster, PA. I know, it's just a Wal Mart. But look closely to the right of the photo. Yes, that's a horse and buggy. Apparently the Amish dig the Wal Mart so much that they have given them their own covered parking space complete with hay for the horses. Now, I tell you, with the price of gas these days it seems like there could be a merger of ideals here. I propose a post modern Amish style mode of transportation. Why can't we still have the horse pulling a, ahem,,, new style of buggy. AC/sound system/Leather interior... The list goes on. The best thing? The autopilot feature. Can you point your car in the direction of home and turn around for some face to face family interaction? Drunk driving would become a thing of the past. Think of it. . When's the last time your car ate our of your hand, or bit you when your back was turned? Do you pet your car? That's a whole other level of interactive. And the cost??? Grass and water, friends. It's the ultimate environmentally friendly fuel. Gasoline simply burns off. You pay three bucks a gallon for something that goes up in flames. What about the buggy? Does your Mercedes give you free fertilizer out of the tailpipe? I don't think so. I think I'm onto something here.

If you're going to fly into a city at night, there's no more entertaining than Vegas baby. I have a layover here so while waiting for my red eye to board, I decided to do some people watching. Here's what I see. The round terminal is lively with gamblers who are crowding the slots in the center of the floor. Rubberneckers are hanging around and this one youngster (maybe 20) seems to be looking for a pocket to pick. He's definitely got his choice but they're probably pretty empty by now. To the right, a girl, short and thin, maybe 18, yellow tshirt, cut off jean shorts, tennis shoes, no socks, dyed black hair, lower lip pierced, heavy on the eyeliner, is sprawled out on the seats. A large, curly red haired man, mid 40s, 48 hr beard, khaki shirt untucked with sweat stains in the pits, sleeves rolled up, sloppy, holding a half full beer, (not his first of the night), has set down across from her. The pick up lines are flowing now. She's trying to look disinterested. He's not taking no for an answer. She sits up and puts her knees together, pulls her feet up, toes touching the floor, clasped hands in her lap. She looks over her shoulder and yawns. He's finally beginning to get the hint. He gets up and walks away. She watches him go out of the corner of her eye, leans on her hand, and seems to breath a sigh of relief. For every person smiling in here, there looks like two or three who look like "Lost Wages, Nevada" got the best of them. I don't have any desire to gamble. Probably because I don't have any cash tonight. A young man, early 20's, is sitting at a Wheel of Fortune machine. Whatever happened, it must have been good, because it made a lot of noise and now he's pumping both fists in the air and lets out a 'woo hoo' big enough to get the attention of the 300 or so people sitting around here. Now here's the part I don't get. He's still sitting there. I mean, if he just won a small fortune, or at least enough to buy a decent meal, why is he still there? Isn't that the point? To play until you win, and then take your winnings and go have a blast? Oh wait, that's right. The blast is to play some more, which he's obviously doing. So you play to win, and when you win, you can play so you can win so you can play so you can... Sometimes sin looks like a sweaty, overweight, drunken, pervert. Most of the time though it's packaged in a clean looking wrapper with bells and whistles flashing. Fun and addictive. Behind me through the large windows I can see the strip. The pyramid shaped Luxor is a stand out with a massive beam of light shooting straight up and disappearing in to the night sky like a giant flashlight designed to search the universe for any sign of God. Either they're hoping to find Him or keeping an eye out just in case He shows up. Just like the rest of us. There's my reflection on the night. They're boarding my flight. I'm glad to be going home.

I want to be a rally car driver when I grow up. I figured this out yesterday evening when I was precariously navigating my rented Hyundai down McKenzie Pass in Oregon's Cascade Mountain Range. Hugging the edge and leaning with the car around each hairpin turn, I found myself laughing out loud. No 90 second rollercoaster ride could compare to 40 miles of this.
I'm often so disappointed in my travels whenever I encounter something beautiful or wonderful because my family isn't always there to share the experience. This time, however, I was glad I was alone. I could feel Traci's fingernails digging into my arm and hear her voice saying, "For the love of God and the sake of your offspring, slow down!" Ok, maybe not in those words, but you get the idea. (When she reads this, I'll get chewed out fro sure.) The road eventually straightened out and then I got the chance to really look at the fall colors of vivid yellow and red. The forest looked to be on fire with this near fluorescent hue of yellow weaving throughout the green pines. This is a beauty that makes Texas look like Afghanistan. With the window down the smell of fresh cool mountain air filled the car. In this country, those pine scented air fresheners are a pointless accessory. The wooden covered bridges spanning the rushing river added to the ambience of a wilderness where one fully expects an elk to wander onto the highway.
I have a difficult service coming up at church this weekend. This stress buster was a true gift from God, and I am grateful. Being Wednesday night around 7pm, I came upon a little church where the service was just about to begin. I stepped in and listened to the hymns, sat in on a study in the book of Daniel, and met Mr. Snyder. Mr. Snyder was 86 and one of the most fascinating people I've ever seen. He was a sharp, muscular, lumberjack who looked nothing like his age. He had worked the woods felling trees the old fashioned way. He loved the woods and spoke of men clearing out the dead timber in such a way that you wouldn't even know they had been there. He spoke of watching trees as tall as a skyscraper and 14 around come tumbling down with care and precision. He told of his sadness when he watches the lumber trucks come down the highway with 'twigs' instead of the massive timber he used to see. He laughs and his wide smile shines in his eyes as he talks of having to go home to shoo the elk off his back porch. The pastor, a Mr. Boyd, is a hunter and talks of doe season opening up soon. I stand in the circle, a welcomed foreigner, and I'm fascinated. Pastor Boyd prayed with me before I left, and I wandered out into the parking lot surrounded by the darkness of the woods and the cold air, yet feeling very light and warm within.

In my nomadic missionary childhood I visited some cool places. One of my favorites was Old Tucson, a mock old west town outside of Tucson, AZ, used as a movie set. While I was fascinated by many places in the world, I was, at heart, an American boy. What better epitomizes the American boy than the wild west? This place captured it in all of it’s glorious spur clinking, ideological detail. John Wayne walked these streets and to some folks that makes this place about as holy as Jerusalem. You can just hear that dusty drawl utter sentences that would make the outlaw wish he had a change of underwear. Of course now I know that when they yelled, “CUT!” Mr. Wayne grabbed his bottle of fizzy water and headed over to his trailer for a rubdown. Such is Hollywood. But when I was a kid, I didn’t care what famous muckity muck shot a movie here. I loaded my toy peacemaker with deadly plastic bullets, twirled it around a couple of times, and dropped it in my plastic holster. I cinched up the string on my blood red hat, and adjusted my blue bandana. My imagination wandered and before I knew it I was Wild Bill, standing in the middle of a dusty street, eyebrows gathered as my furrowed forehead pointed my imaginary enemy to make intense eye contact with his worst nightmare. Heart beating, sweat beading, I was only too sure that while he was fast, I was faster. There’s only two kinds of cowboy out here in the old west, the quick and the... “Biiiilllllllllyyyyyyy!” Mom’s voice broke my concentration. “We’re going to the pony rides and after that, we’ll get ice cream.” Was she kidding? Cowboys who trade lead with murderous horse thieves don’t go on pony rides. The attendant lifts me onto the back of ‘Lightning’. Mom and Dad watched while I was led around on the yard, at least that’s what they saw. In my mind, I was in full gallop on the back of a stallion, arrows whizzing past my head. The horse winces as an arrow pierces it’s left flank. It’s stuck fast, but ol Lightning isn’t gonna slow up and let his faithful friend lose his scalp, no sireee. I turn and empty my six shooter... “Ride’s over, kid.” says the attendant. What’s with these people? Right when it’s getting good. Adults just don’t understand that when you’re in the zone, you can’t just call the ride to a halt, have a potty break, or go get ice cream cones. Wait. Ice cream cones sound pretty good. “Hey Mom, wait up!”
So here I sit, 24 years later, in the parking lot of Old Tucson. It’s closed now. I got here a little too late. It just doesn’t feel quite right to drive all the way out here, and simply drive away. So I guess I’ll sit here and do some reminiscing for awhile. Wait a minute. An attendant just opened a gate. I have a hankering to be my dad for a sec and go ask him if I can just take a quick look around. After all, what do I have to lose? What would Wild Bill do? I’m getting out of the car...

I flew into Phoenix Sunday evening and headed for Flagstaff. The sun was setting and painted the desert a vivid orange which was set against the purple hue on the clouds and made you feel as though you were driving through a Navajo sand painting. The drums from Rich Mullins song, I See You, pounded through the sound system of the rental car and made an excellent soundtrack. The sun set quickly and I drove the rest of the way to Flagstaff in the dark. I was sure I was missing some amazing scenery and my thoughts were confirmed when I drove back on Monday evening. I was thrilled to get to see Sedona and the beautiful and rugged sights on the way. It made me think of those who travel this life in spiritual darkness. They have no idea what they're missing until the truth is illuminated all around them. Yet the most tragic thing is not those who travel through darkness due to ignorance, but those to whom the Truth has been illuminated who, in definace choose to close their eyes and, doing so, miss the joy in the journey.

If you’re ever stuck in an airport overnight, never ask the question, I wonder how big this place is? You’ll then be compelled to find out and two hours later, when you’re shuffling like an old man, dragging your bag behind you, you’ll ask yourself a logical follow up like, what difference does it make how big this place is? The Philly terminal is no Ohare or DFW but it’s big enough. I finally sat down to start to write this and was entertained by the guy behind me who was asking for, no, demanding two comp tickets in exchange for the pain and suffering dealt to him via United airlines. He’s now asked for a supervisor for the third time in a row. He asks if he can speak to someone in the United States. I don’t think it’s going well for him. I grin. Wow, it’s true. Misery does love company. Who knew? The bar in front of me has a dozen or so tv sets tuned to sports, weather, the Wedding Singer. I’m sitting just close enough to be able to make out the hurricane (Rita) closing in on the TX border. The tv clicks off. I notice now that they’ve all gone off. The bar is closed and as I look around now, I’m the only one here. This is as eerie as the eye of a storm. As time went on I took to doing some constructive things which I won’t write about because they’re boring. The late hour also gave way to a strange sense of delirium as I took to taking some striking self portraits. I pulled a pole out into the middle of the floor (one of those poles that are used to form lines) and used it as a camera stand. I won’t go into the rest of the details but I’m sure the guys in the security camera room were thoroughly entertained. About 3am I took a walk over to the only restaurant open 24 hrs which happened to be a sushi bar. On the way out, I glanced up at the departure board and read that my 6:20am flight was CANCELLED! I about choked on my salmon and seaweed. (There’s the way not to die. “After a full life he departed this earth in the middle of the night at Philly International, succumbing to asphyxiation from raw fish”). I pulled out my boarding pass, found the 1-800 number and called Continental. First try I got disconnected because the power in Houston went out. Stinkin hurricane. I called back and got the brother of the guy I dealt with the night before. (Probably not but you get the idea) I can’t bear to go into the particulars but we went around til 4am, me trying to get home Saturday, and he saying it wasn’t going to happen until Sunday. When I realized it was 4am and the counter was open, I walked down to the desk and stood in the short line. I got up to the front and while I was on the phone with the guy in Houston, asked the lady behind the counter the same question I had been asking for the past hour on the phone. “I need to get to Austin as soon as possible. Could I please get transferred to another carrier since my flight was cancelled?” SHE SAID, “SURE, NO PROBLEM.” I asked the guy on the other end of the line why this lady did in 10 seconds what he had spent the last hour telling me couldn’t be done. I uttered something sarcastic about his mother and hung up. Ok not really. Got on American Airlines to fly home. While on the plane, I was sitting next to a guy named Daniel who, during conversation, revealed that he was raised Buddhist but had married a Christian girl who had been trying to get him to go to church. As we talked, he kept saying, “I just don’t know. I don’t know.” I’m ashamed to say that I was so tired that I just wanted to go to sleep. I remembered that before I had left Austin Traci and I had lunch at Tres Amigos and in the bathroom I picked up a tract left by the sink. I don’t really know why at the time I picked it up. I reached into my bag, pulled it out, and set it on his tray. On the front it said, “You Can Know.” He read it. I tried not to keep looking over. I noticed that when he got to the last page where the prayer was written, he bowed his head. I trust that at that moment, Daniel invited Jesus Christ into his life. I gave him my information and hope to hear from him. Daniel, if you’re reading this, always KNOW that I’m praying for you. I don’t know who put that tract by the sink at Tres Amigos. I used to laugh at such futile efforts to get the Gospel out. This time, I’m grateful for it. Til next time.