Q

Q is a letter. Q is also the name of a conference. The leader of the Q conference said that Q stands for questions, because the focus of the conference is asking questions, not giving answers. It’s not called A. It’s called Q. 

So I went to the Q conference, and I asked people questions.

I don’t like crappy questions like, “Where are you from?” “What do you do?” “Is this your first Q?”

No, I like big questions. So I gave my first big question to Donald Miller. I asked Don out to lunch.

He turned me down. He already had a date with his girlfriend and friends from out of town.

No big deal. I grabbed a bite at Noodles & Co. and went on an expedition at Powell’s.

Later that evening, Imam Feisal (the Ground Zero Mosque Imam) showed up at Q. After his interview on stage, I went over and talked with him. The crowd had emptied out, so I had his full attention. I asked if he had any advice for me.

He said to learn to love God, develop my relationship with Him, and everything I do will come out of that. Not bad for a guy that is often viewed as a terrorist.

I asked Imam Feisal how long he had been traveling and speaking. He said since 2001. I asked if he was drained yet. He said it can be tiring, but it is also very fulfilling. He said when you’re doing the work God has called you to do, it feels like fun. More fun than vacation.

I liked that. I think it’s true. When I write, or teach, it’s more fun than vacation.

(More about Q? Just wait for Round 2.)

Werd Plae

 

wer-dz

r

fuh-knee.

Wii yous th-m ev-re-dae butt rair-ley due wii cun-sid-r wat wii r due-ng. Hear, eye hav maid cent-in-ses whith tha saym s-ow-nds butt dif-r-int spel-ngs. Thadz ahl wii due wen wii reed, iznt iht? N-tr-prt sownds? Hoo cairs abowt tha spel-ng? Englsh teechrs?

Reeding stuph lighk thiz iz’nt az difi-colt az eye im-ahjind. Ihtz a phun x-ersize doughn’t u thnk?

Lan-goo-ige iz pha-sin-ate-ng.

We just keep putting one word after another after another, and suddenly life starts to make cents. since. sense.

A Thought on Forgiveness

I have a friend–well kind of a friend, more like an acquaintance, who if we had more time to get to know each other, would be a friend. A person like that. In my life. Every other Monday.

Anyways, this friend wrote a poem. It’s a really beautiful poem, but I can’t post it here because it’s too long and it would be a nightmare to try to format. But the point is, she wrote this poem. A really beautiful, really haunting poem. And I can’t stop thinking about it.

She wrote it from the perspective of a young woman, who had been sexually abused in her past. The poem describes how the abused girl sees the perpetrator later in life. Now, he is living as a happy, Christian man. He was never caught or punished for his crime; it was one of those things that happened in the dark. And now, he is married, enjoying his life, his wife. Guilt-free. Forgiven.

The poem brings up a huge issue. Sexual abuse.

And it brings up another huge issue. Forgiveness.

I cannot comment on the first because I have never experienced it. But I can comment on the second. And I wonder, along with the author…

Is there a dark side to forgiveness? Is there a sense in which we may experience forgiveness, but the people we have wronged have not experienced the same? And if they haven’t, are they wrong for harboring bitterness? After all, they were wronged by us. They simply want justice. And what’s wrong with justice?

Anyone? Thoughts?

Jack

I like Jack.

Without providing any context, you have no idea what or who I’m talking about. I could be expressing my homosexual love for a man named Jack. But those of you who know me, know that’s not the case. I’m married to a beautiful woman named Hannah, not a guy named Jack.

If you kind of know me, you might guess that I have a friend or brother named Jack. I don’t. I just checked my Facebook list to make sure. No friends named Jack.

But I do have a musical artist I like named Jack. His last name is Johnson. He’s really good at metaphors. And playing guitar. And balancing the guitar on his head.

Sometimes I like to drink Jack. Not Jack Johnson. Jack Daniels. I don’t drink it everyday, just on special occasions, with a Coke. It’s a tasty treat.

I’m going to have one in about three weeks…after I finish seminary!

Poor Park Etiquette

Today a lady called my dog stupid. That’s poor etiquette.

Later she asked what kind of dog he was. I said a stupid one apparently. No, actually I said, “We aren’t sure. We know he’s part lab, but we aren’t sure about the other part. He looks similar to some pictures of a lab/hound mix we saw online.” She said “No way! Nope. His ears are too high to be a hound. He looks like he has some sharpei in him.” Poor etiquette #2–telling the owner he doesn’t know what kind of dog he has.

She watched Gideon run and prance a bit and made some more comments about how he must be part sharpei. I nodded, kindly saying, “I guess that’s possible.” Then I asked where one of her dogs ran off to. She looked around and he had disappeared. I chuckled on the inside. Then I left her to find her stupid dog.

We’ll call that poor etiquette #3.

Friends

Hannah and I have a friend. She came down to Portland to visit us this weekend. It was a grand ol’ time.

Last night, Hannah and I lay in our bed and talked. We talked for three plus hours. We exchanged thoughts about life, about Baby, about friends.

Friends are great. Thinking about them makes me happy. It puts a smile on my face.

Most of the time.

Sometimes, though, friends make us mad. And what I mean is this: Sometimes, you think someone is your friend, but that person isn’t really your friend at all. You may want to be friends with them, but they may not have the same desire. Sadly, we have to come to this realization that not everyone wants to be our friend, and honestly, that can hurt. But that’s how life works.

Other times, we think someone is our friend, but that person is not our friend. That person has been a poser. And the sooner we realize that, the better.

The characteristics of a friend: A friend is someone who stays with you through thick and thin. A friend doesn’t stab you in the back. A friend doesn’t demean you. A friend doesn’t pressure you. A friend loves you for who you are. A friend is someone you go to when you have problems. A friend does not create more problems for you. A friend is closer than a brother or sister.

That’s a friend. And I have a few of them. And I love them. And you know who you are!

How a Cord Can Change Your Life

Yesterday, the charger for the laptop broke. I almost cried. 😉

Today, I am writing this post from a computer at the school’s library. For the next week or so, until the new charger arrives in the mail, this will be my habit. I will be operating my digital life from a campus computer. Sad, eh? I guess I’ll have to cut back to checking my digital life every couple days, instead of every few hours. This is an inconvenience, certainly. But is it really that bad? I did have a life before the internet, didn’t I? I was able to function before laptops, right?

I can’t remember.

 

 

What did we do before laptops?

How was life possible?

What happened?…

…

…

Speaking of life and cords, what about that other cord? The one that is 20 inches long and 3/4 of an inch in diameter. The one that connects a baby to its mother. The umbilical cord. Yeah, I think that’s the cord that matters more than the laptop cord. That’s the cord that is really going to change my life. I mean, the baby that’s attached to that cord. She’s going to change my life.