This Friday we will kick off the 21st season of my fantasy baseball league. I started this league way back in 1991, and somehow it has managed to survive a complete turnover in league membership, work stoppages, steroid scandals, and the existence of Bud Selig.
For the first 20 seasons, we chose our teams through a "snake draft," meaning that we each took turns choosing players, reversing order from one round to the next. For the past two seasons, I ended up with the very last pick, thanks to my evil son Thomas, who chose the names "randomly" (so he says) out of a cup. I fired him. Twice.
This year we are doing something different. This year we will be conducting an auction. Each owner will have an imaginary sum of $260 to spend, and we will bid against each other until our money is gone and our rosters are filled. This will present a new set of challenges and strategies. Should I spend big money on the top players and settle for scraps at the end, or should I try to balance my team with middle-of-the-road guys throughout? Should I spend equal amounts on hitting and pitching, or is pitching too risky to spend good money on? I'm not really sure how it will go, but it should be fun.
This also got me thinking, What if we had a Bible fantasy league? What if we had to choose teams of Bible characters, but only had $260 to spend? Would we load up on "superstars," like Jesus ($48), Paul ($39) and Peter ($32), or try to get by with some of the lesser-knowns?
Here are a few of my choice picks and projected prices...
Elisha ($18). He's not quite the caliber of Elijah ($32), who is a human rain delay and bringer of fire, but Elisha can bring miracles and prophecies with the best of them. I think he's a steal at $18.
Joshua ($16). Like better known OT leader Moses ($36), Joshua brings excellent leadership skills and good experience in battle. He might be the one to get me to the Promised Land.
Job ($12). Yes, he's an injury risk and can be temperamental, but he's also primed for a major comeback.
Luke ($7). It's always good to have a doctor on the roster.
Andrew and Nathaniel ($4 each). Let's face it -- you're gonna have to pay big money for Peter, James ($27) and John ($31). These two guys are underrated and under-appreciated. Nathaniel is a guy you can trust, a good "clubhouse" guy, and Andrew enjoys setting the table for his teammates. I think it's a good one/two punch.
Timothy ($2). Since we have a "keeper" rule, meaning I can keep him for the next two years at a discount, it's worth taking a shot on the young guy and hope he pans out in 2013.
I would enjoy hearing your suggestions for filling out my roster.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Simply Blessed
Sometimes you find the best wisdom in surprising places.
I just spent the weekend in Chicago at the Simply Youth Ministry Conference. This annual conference is designed to encourage and equip more than 3000 youth workers for the daunting and beautiful work of student ministry. There were general sessions with worship, comedy, well-known speakers and concerts. There were tons of workshops with titles like, "Engaging the Soul of Youth Culture" and "Taking it to the Next Level: Advanced Junior High Ministry" (Enter your own joke here). And of course there was a small planet of exhibits filled with books and resources to address everything a youth pastor could ever need, with the exception of a chiropractor.
I enjoyed it all. It was a nice hotel (Hyatt). I ate well (on the church's dime). And my room had a 40" flat screen with NCAA games playing all weekend. It was worth every penny.
However, I must confess that it wasn't the conference itself that provided me with the majority of encouragement and wisdom. It was my traveling companions.
There were six of us from Frederick, all youth guys from the churches involved in Epicenter. We are good friends and have spent a lot of time praying and working together over the past five years. We all have our distinct personalities, represented by our nicknames for the weekend (Grandpa, Pa, Sista, Cuz, Bro and Crazy Uncle Dan). We all have our unique ministry contexts. But we all share the same devotion to the insanity that we call "working with kids." And like soldiers bonded by war, we share common experiences and a like-mindedness that we cannot find among "civilians."
That's why I learned so much at this conference. I learned more while we were crashed on the giant bean bags the conference was selling, asking each other questions about how we structure our student leadership teams, recruit volunteers, or relate to our senior pastors, than I did while the "experts" were speaking from the stage. That's why I laughed more sitting around the table after midnight swapping stories of "worst parent encounters," "mission trip disasters," and "worst thing we ever did to a kid" than I did at the paid comedians. Youth ministry is a strange animal, staffed by even stranger ones. Finding camaraderie and true brotherhood is all too rare, and we are blessed to have discovered it here at home.
So to make this blog seem spiritual, I thought of a few verses that might apply. How about Amos 4:10: "I filled your nostrils with the stench of your camps." That's accurate, especially after the Chicago-style pizza. Or maybe Proverbs 12:8: "A man is praised according to his wisdom, but men with warped minds are despised." No comment. I actually like these guys and I think they like me. So how about Proverbs 15:22: "Plans fail for lack of counsel, but with many advisors they succeed." Yes, that works. Our impromptu conversations, questions, stories and jokes are what filled my head with great ideas, my body with a second wind, and my heart with the realization that I am in the company of fools. And I love them.
(For the film version of this blog, check out...)
http://www.facebook.com/reqs.php#!/video/video.php?v=10150099798002724
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
There's a new God in Town
In a move surprising to everyone but his omnipotent self, Charlie Sheen has fired God and taken control of the universe.
Sheen, winner of Academy Awards for his roles in such critically-acclaimed films as Major League and Hot Shots! Part Deux, as well as spokesman for Fruit of the Loom undergarments, made this announcement while spinning the planets on his fingertips. "I'm hot. I'm life. I'm the man, or should I say, THE DEITY," he said during a radio interview broadcast from heaven. "God wasn't getting it done, you know? The world was jacked up. Lots of dirty laundry and nothing but fabric softener. I'm an atom bomb, a tsunami, an earthquake. I'm continental shift in a bottle. I'm nuclear fusion, bro. The universe needed me to complete my self-actualization and assume control like I was meant to."
Sheen had been under fire for his alleged addictions and self-destructive, narcissistic behavior. A series of public rants, binge parties and police encounters had led CBS executives to delay production of Sheen's hit TV show, Two-and-a-Half Men. The show, which Sheen says is named for his prowess as a lover, has been the number one rated sitcom for several years, due to Sheen's unparalleled acting skills and a laugh track which enhances the same tawdry joke week after week. Sheen was receiving $2 million per episode, a sum which now pales in comparison to his ability to mine the cores of stars for any element he chooses. "I'm a black hole; the world flows through me, man. I'm the Big Bang. I'm not king of the world, dude, I'm king of eternity. I'm the Alpha and Omega."
Sheen's first move as God was to take over every television and cable network in the world and replace them with SHEENGOD TV, a network featuring nothing but Sheen shows and movies. "There's really no need for anything else," he said. "I AM the networks, Direct TV, every Cable provider, XM radio, Syrius, Sling Box, Red Box and Juke Box in human form." SHEENGOD TV is expected to receive a boost from the fact that all universal remote controls do nothing but tune the world to Sheen.
Potential rival Alec Baldwin offered his temporary, though unenthusiastic, support of Sheen as Deity and Proprietor of the Universe. "It's mine when I want it, but Charlie's a supernova, so I'll let the world worship him for now," Baldwin said.
Yahweh, the Being formerly known as God, could not be reached for comment.
Sheen, winner of Academy Awards for his roles in such critically-acclaimed films as Major League and Hot Shots! Part Deux, as well as spokesman for Fruit of the Loom undergarments, made this announcement while spinning the planets on his fingertips. "I'm hot. I'm life. I'm the man, or should I say, THE DEITY," he said during a radio interview broadcast from heaven. "God wasn't getting it done, you know? The world was jacked up. Lots of dirty laundry and nothing but fabric softener. I'm an atom bomb, a tsunami, an earthquake. I'm continental shift in a bottle. I'm nuclear fusion, bro. The universe needed me to complete my self-actualization and assume control like I was meant to."
Sheen had been under fire for his alleged addictions and self-destructive, narcissistic behavior. A series of public rants, binge parties and police encounters had led CBS executives to delay production of Sheen's hit TV show, Two-and-a-Half Men. The show, which Sheen says is named for his prowess as a lover, has been the number one rated sitcom for several years, due to Sheen's unparalleled acting skills and a laugh track which enhances the same tawdry joke week after week. Sheen was receiving $2 million per episode, a sum which now pales in comparison to his ability to mine the cores of stars for any element he chooses. "I'm a black hole; the world flows through me, man. I'm the Big Bang. I'm not king of the world, dude, I'm king of eternity. I'm the Alpha and Omega."
Sheen's first move as God was to take over every television and cable network in the world and replace them with SHEENGOD TV, a network featuring nothing but Sheen shows and movies. "There's really no need for anything else," he said. "I AM the networks, Direct TV, every Cable provider, XM radio, Syrius, Sling Box, Red Box and Juke Box in human form." SHEENGOD TV is expected to receive a boost from the fact that all universal remote controls do nothing but tune the world to Sheen.
Potential rival Alec Baldwin offered his temporary, though unenthusiastic, support of Sheen as Deity and Proprietor of the Universe. "It's mine when I want it, but Charlie's a supernova, so I'll let the world worship him for now," Baldwin said.
Yahweh, the Being formerly known as God, could not be reached for comment.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Me and My Big Mouth
My son Timothy has a small mouth.
He has been dealing with pain in his jaw for over a year now. He can't open his mouth very wide, can barely brush his teeth, and struggles to eat anything crunchy or chewy. Bagels, once devoured by the dozen, are now eaten like lollipops. Gum is off limits. Steak is downright cruel.
This condition is called TMJ, which stands for Timothy's Mouth & Jaw. However, it seems to be one of those gray areas of medicine, lost in the twilight zone between dentistry, orthopedics, and tribal ritual. Insurance doesn't cover it. Few doctors deal with it. We found an oral surgeon in Mt. Airy who has been seeing us, but even he can't provide an easy answer.
This morning I took Tim to be fitted for an orthotic for the mouth. It's a mouthpiece which is supposed to realign his jaw over time, or at least we hope so. The experience was kind of funny, and rather unpleasant. They had to take impressions, so the nurse inserted a large metal plate about the size of a manhole cover, filled with pink goo, into Tim's tender mouth. She kept it in there for about a minute. She was very nice about it and kept apologizing for shoving a a giant pizza spatula down his throat. Tim apologized for nearly puking on her.
Afterwards he said, "That's the biggest thing that's ever been in my mouth."
It got me thinking, What's the biggest thing that's ever gone into my mouth? And the answer is obvious: My foot.
My foot finds its way into my mouth on a regular basis. Sporting events (I've never meet an umpire or referee I couldn't argue with), staff meetings (I'm sure I drive Pastor Guy crazy), even at home (Why did I criticize Karen's attempt at creative cooking?). Yes, my foot has been in my mouth plenty of times. When you are clever with words, opinionated, and outspoken, it makes for a good blog but a mouth big enough to fit a Shaq-sized shoe in there.
While insurance doesn't cover this condition either, there is a treatment. It's administered in three parts--forgiveness, patience, and maturity. I have a good doctor. I think it's getting better. But I still taste leather too often.
Hopefully the orthotic will help Tim's mouth get bigger so he will never have to have that giant metal plate jammed in his mouth again and can return to the pleasures of eating. And hopefully God will help my mouth get smaller so I won't have to jam my sneaker in there anymore. I never care for the aftertaste.
He has been dealing with pain in his jaw for over a year now. He can't open his mouth very wide, can barely brush his teeth, and struggles to eat anything crunchy or chewy. Bagels, once devoured by the dozen, are now eaten like lollipops. Gum is off limits. Steak is downright cruel.
This condition is called TMJ, which stands for Timothy's Mouth & Jaw. However, it seems to be one of those gray areas of medicine, lost in the twilight zone between dentistry, orthopedics, and tribal ritual. Insurance doesn't cover it. Few doctors deal with it. We found an oral surgeon in Mt. Airy who has been seeing us, but even he can't provide an easy answer.
This morning I took Tim to be fitted for an orthotic for the mouth. It's a mouthpiece which is supposed to realign his jaw over time, or at least we hope so. The experience was kind of funny, and rather unpleasant. They had to take impressions, so the nurse inserted a large metal plate about the size of a manhole cover, filled with pink goo, into Tim's tender mouth. She kept it in there for about a minute. She was very nice about it and kept apologizing for shoving a a giant pizza spatula down his throat. Tim apologized for nearly puking on her.
Afterwards he said, "That's the biggest thing that's ever been in my mouth."
It got me thinking, What's the biggest thing that's ever gone into my mouth? And the answer is obvious: My foot.
My foot finds its way into my mouth on a regular basis. Sporting events (I've never meet an umpire or referee I couldn't argue with), staff meetings (I'm sure I drive Pastor Guy crazy), even at home (Why did I criticize Karen's attempt at creative cooking?). Yes, my foot has been in my mouth plenty of times. When you are clever with words, opinionated, and outspoken, it makes for a good blog but a mouth big enough to fit a Shaq-sized shoe in there.
While insurance doesn't cover this condition either, there is a treatment. It's administered in three parts--forgiveness, patience, and maturity. I have a good doctor. I think it's getting better. But I still taste leather too often.
Hopefully the orthotic will help Tim's mouth get bigger so he will never have to have that giant metal plate jammed in his mouth again and can return to the pleasures of eating. And hopefully God will help my mouth get smaller so I won't have to jam my sneaker in there anymore. I never care for the aftertaste.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Snow Day
Happy 2011 Everyone! I have been busy and haven't had a chance to write anything yet this year, though I will soon. In the meantime, here is a stream of consciousness essay Jon wrote yesterday about life at our home on a snow day. Yes, it's really like this. Enjoy.
It is a snow day, and inside is chaos. The dog barks, and the orange cat cries and whines, a persistent sound that will never cease, high and shrill and pained and undending until he is finally let out into the cold. A minute later he is back, scratching to be let in, crying again, the sound so persistent and unbearable and familiar that it is as if it never stopped at all. Downstairs, my brother pounds his drums ferociously with a brutal violence that shakes the walls of the house. I worry that it will fall apart. The noise of the drumset becomes part of the house, part of me, loud and obnoxious and unceasing, like the bark of the dog and especially the cry of the cat. My youngest brother is energy and clumsy excitement. Out of control, he bounces off the walls that are shaking from the sound of the drums, and plays football and basketball in the kitchen and is loud, but not quite as loud as the drums and the cat and the dog. The noise is growing now, a crescendo that does not seem to have a climax, but will continue growing and banging forever, or until my ears cannot take it and my head explodes. I stare at the window, my hands over my ears, and then make my escape through the door that lets in cold air and a blast of silence. Outside everything is white and gray. Snow falls softly and silently, muffling anything and everything. It clings to the trees and silences them, covers the ground and hides the dead brown grass, and melts on my head and my hear and my ears and silences the beat of the bass drum. I shiver and stand in the cold, gray silence, alone; the only person in the world. It is a snow day, and inside is chaos.
It is a snow day, and inside is chaos. The dog barks, and the orange cat cries and whines, a persistent sound that will never cease, high and shrill and pained and undending until he is finally let out into the cold. A minute later he is back, scratching to be let in, crying again, the sound so persistent and unbearable and familiar that it is as if it never stopped at all. Downstairs, my brother pounds his drums ferociously with a brutal violence that shakes the walls of the house. I worry that it will fall apart. The noise of the drumset becomes part of the house, part of me, loud and obnoxious and unceasing, like the bark of the dog and especially the cry of the cat. My youngest brother is energy and clumsy excitement. Out of control, he bounces off the walls that are shaking from the sound of the drums, and plays football and basketball in the kitchen and is loud, but not quite as loud as the drums and the cat and the dog. The noise is growing now, a crescendo that does not seem to have a climax, but will continue growing and banging forever, or until my ears cannot take it and my head explodes. I stare at the window, my hands over my ears, and then make my escape through the door that lets in cold air and a blast of silence. Outside everything is white and gray. Snow falls softly and silently, muffling anything and everything. It clings to the trees and silences them, covers the ground and hides the dead brown grass, and melts on my head and my hear and my ears and silences the beat of the bass drum. I shiver and stand in the cold, gray silence, alone; the only person in the world. It is a snow day, and inside is chaos.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Real Fake Christmas
I have done something traitorous. I am ashamed. And now I'm going to justify it.
I bought an artificial Christmas tree.
I know, I know, lots of people have fake trees. It's not a sin; it's a lifestyle choice. That is, unless you were born and raised in the Christmas Tree Capital of the World, also known as Indiana County, Pennsylvania. That's Indiana--the hometown of Jimmy Stewart, whose father owned Stewart's Hardware, where they never, EVER sold fake Christmas trees. Indiana, which could have been used as a set for Bedford Falls--a town steeped in Americana and decorated by Currier and Ives. No, in my hometown, trees of plastic and wire are not only frowned upon, they are despised and rejected as invaders of the true spirit of the season and killers of the local economy.
And it's not like we live in a place where it's hard to get a real tree. I suppose if you lived in Las Vegas, it would be easy to justify a fake tree. Heck, nothing is real in places like that. They even have fake Santas.
But Maryland has trees. There are tree farms not more than 15 minutes from my house. But we're not going there this year. Our tree was delivered by UPS. In a box. I ordered it online. From Sears.
So why did I do it? Why did I forsake my heritage and ignore the wishes of my sentimental oldest son and wife?
It's simple. I wanted to enjoy Christmas more.
Once upon a time, Karen and I were dreamers and idealists. We bundled the boys in thick coats and trudged out to the tree farm with a bow saw and high hopes. We walked over the hills and valleys, through the snow, to find "the perfect tree." Usually, what we got instead was complaining children, cold feet, snowballs down the back, fights, arguments, and an afternoon of misery. Ah, the memories!
So we started buying the tree from the boy scouts on the corner. The boys were off the hook now, but Dad wasn't. It was up to me to get the thing trimmed up, in the door, into the stand, straightened, and well lit. It took hours, and caused me to use words I shouldn't use, synonyms for "Hey, why are you guys sitting around drinking hot cider while I'm torturing my fingers and breaking my back?" It caused me to lose sleep because it took till 1:00am, and because on at least one occasion it crashed to the floor in the middle of the night. It left needles everywhere, it never fit right in the corner, and it was ugly by the time January rolled around. Did I mention we often forgot to water it?
So this year Christmas is coming from a box. It will be straight. It will be well lit. It will fit in the corner. It will take about 1/5 the time, leaving me time to enjoy my hot cider.
And it will smell like plastic.
I bought an artificial Christmas tree.
I know, I know, lots of people have fake trees. It's not a sin; it's a lifestyle choice. That is, unless you were born and raised in the Christmas Tree Capital of the World, also known as Indiana County, Pennsylvania. That's Indiana--the hometown of Jimmy Stewart, whose father owned Stewart's Hardware, where they never, EVER sold fake Christmas trees. Indiana, which could have been used as a set for Bedford Falls--a town steeped in Americana and decorated by Currier and Ives. No, in my hometown, trees of plastic and wire are not only frowned upon, they are despised and rejected as invaders of the true spirit of the season and killers of the local economy.
And it's not like we live in a place where it's hard to get a real tree. I suppose if you lived in Las Vegas, it would be easy to justify a fake tree. Heck, nothing is real in places like that. They even have fake Santas.
But Maryland has trees. There are tree farms not more than 15 minutes from my house. But we're not going there this year. Our tree was delivered by UPS. In a box. I ordered it online. From Sears.
So why did I do it? Why did I forsake my heritage and ignore the wishes of my sentimental oldest son and wife?
It's simple. I wanted to enjoy Christmas more.
Once upon a time, Karen and I were dreamers and idealists. We bundled the boys in thick coats and trudged out to the tree farm with a bow saw and high hopes. We walked over the hills and valleys, through the snow, to find "the perfect tree." Usually, what we got instead was complaining children, cold feet, snowballs down the back, fights, arguments, and an afternoon of misery. Ah, the memories!
So we started buying the tree from the boy scouts on the corner. The boys were off the hook now, but Dad wasn't. It was up to me to get the thing trimmed up, in the door, into the stand, straightened, and well lit. It took hours, and caused me to use words I shouldn't use, synonyms for "Hey, why are you guys sitting around drinking hot cider while I'm torturing my fingers and breaking my back?" It caused me to lose sleep because it took till 1:00am, and because on at least one occasion it crashed to the floor in the middle of the night. It left needles everywhere, it never fit right in the corner, and it was ugly by the time January rolled around. Did I mention we often forgot to water it?
So this year Christmas is coming from a box. It will be straight. It will be well lit. It will fit in the corner. It will take about 1/5 the time, leaving me time to enjoy my hot cider.
And it will smell like plastic.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
The Great Conspiracy
Do you ever feel like the world is conspired against you?
A few weeks ago, one of the headlights on my car was burned out. Now, I'm about as handy as a foot, and auto mechanics is a language I understand as well as Chinese. But I've replaced bulbs before, so it was going to be no big deal. I even had an extra bulb in my workshop from the two-pack I bought last year.
I popped open the hood, unscrewed the bulb, and was ready to put the new one in when I realized my new bulb was slightly different. And I do mean slightly. There was one little extra tab that made it impossible to fit it in. So I checked the number on the old bulb, realized I needed an exact match, and drove off to Auto Zone to get it.
I returned home, plugged in the new bulb, and then spent about 15 frustrating minutes trying to reenter the bulb plate into the back of the fixture. You have to have it just right (you can't see it) before it will screw back on. Finally, I got it inserted and screwed on. I turned on the headlight to check it. And discovered I had replaced the wrong one. I had replaced the high beam instead of the regular beam.
Okay, I'm an idiot. But I discovered the extra bulb that didn't work before was actually for the regular headlight. So I didn't have to go back to the store. I screwed in the new bulb, got the fixture back in place (only five minutes this time), and was finished.
Having accomplished such a manly task, I pushed my luck. The brake light in our van has been on. I thought I'd check the brake fluid. I popped the hood, and located every reservoir of liquid except the brake fluid. I took the manual out of the glove box, found the engine diagram and there it was, buried in the back, unmarked. I unscrewed the cap to see if it was empty. It wasn't. But as I went to screw the cap back on, it slipped out of my fingers. I heard it drop, make several mysterious pinging noises, and then....silence.
"No way!" I said, though I was thinking of some other words I've heard Karen use when she's mad at me.
I crawled under the van. Surely it was on the ground? No, it was stuck somewhere inside the engine.
Now it was getting dark, and we had plans to go out. But I had effectively rendered our van undrivable, and I had a full day at church tomorrow and we needed the van. I was officially an idiot.
I ran inside to get a flashlight. In our house, flashlights disappear more quickly than milk and cereal. I couldn't find one. So I got in my other car and drove to our local hardware store. I nearly ran over the owner as she walked to her car, having just turned over the "closed" sign. I raced to CVS, where I found the flashlight aisle, which happened to be devoid of all flashlights. Unbelievable. I couldn't stop now. I got back in the car and headed the other direction, towards Walmart. I decided to check at Sheetz instead. Sure enough, they had nice little flashlights and they weren't terribly overpriced. I bought three, and paid $79 for a lifetime warranty against losing them.
I returned home. It was now dark. I was frustrated and embarrassed. What started out as a simple task that should have taken ten minutes and the brain of a pea had turned into a two-hour production for a pea-brain.
And I was hearing voices. You know the ones I mean--the ones that assail your weaknesses. How can I make this so difficult? Why am I so inept? Why can I not fix anything without a huge hassle? Why is the world conspired against me?
I imagined the call I would have to make. "AAA? Yes, I dropped my brake fluid cap inside my engine. What? You need to take my entire car apart? $1500 plus labor? Okay. What's that? Yes, I know I'm a mechanical weanie..."
I peered inside the engine with my flashlight (No kidding -- I almost dropped it). Nothing. I got down on my hands and knees. Yes, to pray, but also to look under the van. I crawled around for a few minutes, ran my hand under every nook and cranny, pleading for mercy.
Finally, at that moment, I felt something. The cat? No, the cap. I grabbed it. I climbed out and very carefully screwed it back on. The conquering hero. The relieved idiot.
I wondered later, Is the world conspired against me? Sometimes it feels that way, doesn't it? Little things turn into big things, and our weaknesses are attacked in ways that feel supernatural. The man who fears public speaking is put on the spot at the meeting. The woman who worries about her weight has a job interview with a fitness queen. The unathletic teenage girl is placed on the gym team with the super-competitive boys. The child who fears embarrassment spills his milk on his shorts. The man who can't fix anything renders his van useless by unscrewing a cap.
The world finds ways to make us feel small, to pick on us, to drop us into the engine, just before dark, and make us want to disappear.
The world is conspired against us. But it's no match for Jesus. He knows our weaknesses, and he really doesn't mind them at all. They are just opportunities for him to show us how much he loves us. He takes us by the hand. He fixes what we've broken. He doesn't embarrass us or demean us. He just says, "Hey, I've got this one. No big deal. Trust me. All will be well, child. Light bulbs replaced, small battles conquered, and hopes laid for greater things."
"In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
A few weeks ago, one of the headlights on my car was burned out. Now, I'm about as handy as a foot, and auto mechanics is a language I understand as well as Chinese. But I've replaced bulbs before, so it was going to be no big deal. I even had an extra bulb in my workshop from the two-pack I bought last year.
I popped open the hood, unscrewed the bulb, and was ready to put the new one in when I realized my new bulb was slightly different. And I do mean slightly. There was one little extra tab that made it impossible to fit it in. So I checked the number on the old bulb, realized I needed an exact match, and drove off to Auto Zone to get it.
I returned home, plugged in the new bulb, and then spent about 15 frustrating minutes trying to reenter the bulb plate into the back of the fixture. You have to have it just right (you can't see it) before it will screw back on. Finally, I got it inserted and screwed on. I turned on the headlight to check it. And discovered I had replaced the wrong one. I had replaced the high beam instead of the regular beam.
Okay, I'm an idiot. But I discovered the extra bulb that didn't work before was actually for the regular headlight. So I didn't have to go back to the store. I screwed in the new bulb, got the fixture back in place (only five minutes this time), and was finished.
Having accomplished such a manly task, I pushed my luck. The brake light in our van has been on. I thought I'd check the brake fluid. I popped the hood, and located every reservoir of liquid except the brake fluid. I took the manual out of the glove box, found the engine diagram and there it was, buried in the back, unmarked. I unscrewed the cap to see if it was empty. It wasn't. But as I went to screw the cap back on, it slipped out of my fingers. I heard it drop, make several mysterious pinging noises, and then....silence.
"No way!" I said, though I was thinking of some other words I've heard Karen use when she's mad at me.
I crawled under the van. Surely it was on the ground? No, it was stuck somewhere inside the engine.
Now it was getting dark, and we had plans to go out. But I had effectively rendered our van undrivable, and I had a full day at church tomorrow and we needed the van. I was officially an idiot.
I ran inside to get a flashlight. In our house, flashlights disappear more quickly than milk and cereal. I couldn't find one. So I got in my other car and drove to our local hardware store. I nearly ran over the owner as she walked to her car, having just turned over the "closed" sign. I raced to CVS, where I found the flashlight aisle, which happened to be devoid of all flashlights. Unbelievable. I couldn't stop now. I got back in the car and headed the other direction, towards Walmart. I decided to check at Sheetz instead. Sure enough, they had nice little flashlights and they weren't terribly overpriced. I bought three, and paid $79 for a lifetime warranty against losing them.
I returned home. It was now dark. I was frustrated and embarrassed. What started out as a simple task that should have taken ten minutes and the brain of a pea had turned into a two-hour production for a pea-brain.
And I was hearing voices. You know the ones I mean--the ones that assail your weaknesses. How can I make this so difficult? Why am I so inept? Why can I not fix anything without a huge hassle? Why is the world conspired against me?
I imagined the call I would have to make. "AAA? Yes, I dropped my brake fluid cap inside my engine. What? You need to take my entire car apart? $1500 plus labor? Okay. What's that? Yes, I know I'm a mechanical weanie..."
I peered inside the engine with my flashlight (No kidding -- I almost dropped it). Nothing. I got down on my hands and knees. Yes, to pray, but also to look under the van. I crawled around for a few minutes, ran my hand under every nook and cranny, pleading for mercy.
Finally, at that moment, I felt something. The cat? No, the cap. I grabbed it. I climbed out and very carefully screwed it back on. The conquering hero. The relieved idiot.
I wondered later, Is the world conspired against me? Sometimes it feels that way, doesn't it? Little things turn into big things, and our weaknesses are attacked in ways that feel supernatural. The man who fears public speaking is put on the spot at the meeting. The woman who worries about her weight has a job interview with a fitness queen. The unathletic teenage girl is placed on the gym team with the super-competitive boys. The child who fears embarrassment spills his milk on his shorts. The man who can't fix anything renders his van useless by unscrewing a cap.
The world finds ways to make us feel small, to pick on us, to drop us into the engine, just before dark, and make us want to disappear.
The world is conspired against us. But it's no match for Jesus. He knows our weaknesses, and he really doesn't mind them at all. They are just opportunities for him to show us how much he loves us. He takes us by the hand. He fixes what we've broken. He doesn't embarrass us or demean us. He just says, "Hey, I've got this one. No big deal. Trust me. All will be well, child. Light bulbs replaced, small battles conquered, and hopes laid for greater things."
"In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
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