Life with Forrest

A few weeks back our ol' buddy Forrest the three legged Greyhound contracted an infection in his remaining back leg. Within a couple short days the infection spread throughout his entire back leg. The leg was compromised having had surgery when he lost his other leg in the surgery back on Halloween '06. We miss him desperately, but after a few days watching the progress of the infection knew we would have to say goodbye to him. That's him smiling big above.

Holly is pictured with him, and she is adapting to life without Forrest. She howls when we leave her at home alone, and snuggles up real close to us in the bed. We adopted Forrest and Holly together, and they had been ever together since they both retired from the racetracks about 8 years ago.

Forrest had really become my buddy. The last two years were filled with caring for him as he recovered from his accident, and the lessons I learned about life while caring for him are far more valuable to me than they were to him I am sure.

If animals end up in heaven, of which I do not have a theological consideration one way or the other, I will want to sit down with Forrest and spend some time hanging out with him long before I will want to visit the typical heroes of my faith like Paul the Apostle, Petr Chelcicky, John Huss, or Harald Bredesen.

Late Night with Jamiacan Special and Thinking About Stuff

So tonight was a generally good night at The Vault. I came home following our 6pm service, and decided I wanted to smoke a big ol' fatty Jamaican Special cigar. Not really being a smoker I have them for our guys cigar smoking group, which I jokingly refer to as "Padron Me." Stupid Christian humor I suppose, and maybe a pun most people won't get.

So I laid under the stars on this first 70º night in Salem this year. I contemplated the peacefulness of God as I gazed on the stars through the branches of the silver maple tree in our yard, and periodically had to get up to take care of Forrest our three legged greyhound.

Tomorrow at 5am (only 5 hours from now) I will rise to go work at Starhouse. Within the next couple weeks I will transition from this morning job to a position as a liaison to DSS - I think.

I am hoping to get back to writing regularly again.

Down, Up, Down, Up, Down, and Up Again - Please?

In a two year season of many difficult downs, I am grateful for every little up. Is it personal deception to see positive things when so many problems are swirling around? Perhaps it is a something somebody has slipped into my morning Odwalla Juice. Or maybe it is a mental illness.

Whether it is healthy to be positive or not, I am thankful for experiencing little moments of happiness, and seeing little things that bring me joy.

Things that made me happy these last couple weeks.

Caroling tonight in Jeff, and Diane's neighborhood, and not being the only instrument playing. I was able to bring my mandolin, because there were two guitar players, and Carl on his acoustic Bass. Frank joined us. He's not part of our church, but he was a competant guitar player, and a ham - Yeah Frank!

Reading Matt Stone's Blog a couple weeks ago on Chaser's War on Television Evangelists. Now that was funny!

Our Thursday Evening Lectio Divina scripture meditation was fun for me. I usually get cerebral, but this week I only experienced joy. I meditated on some passage which I can only paritally remember, because Jeff uses The Message when he does his reading. I think it said something simple like, "He kept His hand on me." The thought made me happy, and I just repeated it to myself for five minutes. This was NOT a vain repetition. It had meaning.

My buddy Shah Afshar e-mailed, and I was happy to see his name come up on the screen.

I walked outside at 9:30 at night in my short sleeve shirt on December 15th, and I was quite comfortable. That's really weird for December in Salem, Massachusetts.

A group of us danced to some rippin' Bluegrass music from Laurel Grove on Friday Night, and a neighbor of ours was at the show. Adeel showed us all off. He is Muslim, and from the middle east, and he was spinning, and kickin' his heels up like a mad dancing cleric. He and I had a great talk, and I expect him back to the church sometime, but what made me happy was that he was kickin' up his mad cleric heels to a bluegrass jam.

Forrest gets happy if I am away for a little while, and return home. He wags that long tail connected to that little butt which has one less leg attached to it. Forrest makes me happy because he's a survivor in the highest degree. He's a happy lanky greyhound with just three legs, and a bad haircut which a doctor who does amputations gives. I can not express how happy that makes me. It is even worth the astronomical Vet bill.

So, those are some of my little happy things this month. I think that I am mad.

It's a bird. It's a plane! It's a frog. A Frog? No...

American heros are often come from behind, you were given no chance to make it type of characters. Well that used to be the case, but it seems that the romanticism of overcoming all odds to make it is being replaced by trash talking sports stars, cocky musicians, and mean spirited businessmen who like to fire people.

I suppose I am old fashioned in this respect. I still like the underdog, and I am hoping that underdogs still have a chance to make it in today's world.

My three-legged buddy Forrest is coming along just fine, and so it looks like we'll have a real superhero dog in the house.

I am sure that part of the process of moving from tragedy to triumph is believing that there is a God who likes underdogs too. Perhaps its time for some of us to start purchasing cool Underdog paraphenalia.

Apathetic? Me?

I still have to keep a watch on Forrest, and so I spend more hours at home than ever before. I will probably have three more weeks of this dog nursing task during the days. This is quite frustrating, but I suppose it should give me opportunity to do some things I might not regularly get to.

Jeff and Ken want me to get a book together since it appears that I will need to hit the road soon. Yep, I can get to work on that. I already have so much material it ought to be easy to piece a book together.

I need to get my first trip out to Southern California organized. That should be fun to do, and motivating.

I have done some things to organize these blogs better. That was good. Right?

I find that motivation is difficult. It comes in spurts. Then it fades to black.

Is apathy a result of abuse? I know that stress can cause me to want to run, but this isn't running. I'm not going anywhere, or avoiding anything. I'm just at home doing the dog nursing thing, and trying to get things done which I can do from home.

Discovering what to do next is a tough task in itself. Some of this is easily recognizable as the result of being in new circumstances. I am in need of doing things I have never done before. Yet, some of this struggle comes from the last year of treachery. Could it be that the way we do church, and practice our leadership in Christianity today actually may increase the apathy we preach against?

Manic Joys of Stressful Seasons

So we are now into our fourth week of watching Forrest 24 hours a day. He was hit by a car on Halloween morning, had to have a leg amputated, and had surgery on his other back leg. For the first week, his liver almost failed, and he was on his deathbed, then on the second week, he snapped out of it, and became his same old silly self.

After he came home, with the price tag of a new car, I have watched him for most of the 24 hours each day. He had to have a second surgery on his one back leg because the sutures didn't stay after the first day of recovery. So now he has a bigger cast, and it has a rounded bottom, which makes him shakey on it. Every time he goes out, we need to keep him on a sling to keep him from bouncing too hard on his back leg. So each time he stirs in the night, I am up to see how he is doing. Since Forrest has always stirred a lot at night - so do I.

Tonight April came to visit. April was the first person to help Forrest when he was hit by a car. Somehow he got up with his seriously mangled leg, and hopped to her. She was two cars behind the car which hit Forrest. She drives a trash truck, and stopped to help him. She held him, and used her hand to stop the bleeding until I arrived on the scene. She probably saved his life. In all the furious action to get Forrest to the Vet Hospital, we never actually met April, nor did we hear the story until tonight. Somehow she tracked him down at the Vet, and then found us, and wanted to come visit him.

In the midst of a series of stresses, and tragedies over the last year, meeting April seemed to bring joy to the house.

Of course, I question myself and wonder: Will the joy last for an evening, and dissipate quickly to the bland feeling which comes with discouragement? or will it prove to be one of those steps up toward normality?" (Perhaps I should have used the word normalcy, because normalcy wasn't a word until a President used it in a speech, and as we know normal doesn't exist.) Is this just the manic up of a bi-polar swing?

Over the last three weeks I have slept few hours each night working my doggy-nursing position. I am sure sleep deprivation, added to stress helps create a sense of having bi-polar disorder. Dog accidents, sickness in the family, financial stress, and naughty Christian leaders can help create stress which leads to sleep deprivation - we know here at 7 Upham Street.

I saw Elijah go from slow to happy yesterday as well. He was feeling terrible - which is common as his kidneys are failing, but he found out that it was primarily because his blood pressure was so low. That means that he had to stop taking one of his meds which is supposed to bring his blood pressure down. That was something like mildly good news, so he was happier when he came home from his Nephrologist visit. Up, down, up, down we go in this house lately.

I've never been bi-polar, although I've experienced the swings from mania to depression which mark its presence over this season of stress. I am hoping that mania, and depression are fading away into the stability of simple joy. April's visit may be a simple return to joy, but perhaps it is a mild manic swing. I'll let you know. But right now, we're smiling here at 7 Upham Street, and we are not even taking any happy meds.

Home Brew Gone Bad? gauging persecution, isolation, and a Martyr's Complex

This being my personal blog which releases the serial deconstructionist in me back upon myself it only seems right to consider whether my highbrow ideas about church life, and the state of Christianity are really just some sick Messiah Complex.

Okay my ideas about churchlife may not really be highbrow. They may actually be quite common, simple, and more like an home-brewed ale, than a expensive wine matched with the first course of a seven course meal, but that does not relieve me from the possiblility of acting all highbrow and know-it-all about my self-appointed important ideas.

Now I know a few people with Messiah Complexes. Most of them tend to have a Martyr Complex as well. Could it be that somewhere their good ideas were rejected, that they received a little abuse - perhaps even a lot of abuse? Could it be that good ideas ignored ferment, and build pressure until they bust out in a more aggressive expression? If left to ferment too long, is it possible for the expression to be more violent than it needs to be - self important, and perhaps over bitter like a bad home brew?

The Messiah Complex people I know are pastors, alcoholics, businessman, unemployed laborers, lawyers, high school dropouts, soccer moms, and society's disenfranchised. They do not fit a specific demographic, but they do all have ideas which carry some sense of urgency, and they view their ideas as under-utilized, and ignored.

Of course, I am not sure how one personally discovers whether their ideas are revolutionary or simply insane. I am not sure that Martin Luther felt any different about his ideas than Rasputin, DeTorquemada, or the countless mad monks who have filled the hills of history.

I do know this: I need to be careful about how I think about what I think. I am convinced that church as usual is not the way to go. Having been on the receiving end of abuse in denominational activity, I am convinced that something needs to change in the circles I had a part of over the last twenty years. I have seen the hypocrisy of the people who speak in the name of unity, and carry the small knife which gets buried deep in the back. I have seen Christian leaders nod in approval to ideas which I have presented, only to have them turn and treat those same ideas as heretical spewings.

Yet I have to ask myself, "What is the difference between good ideas gone bad, and truly revolutionary thinking?"

I am sure that I have had enough persecution, and general trouble, with a small degree of isolation (especially now while I help lil' ol' Forrest to recover) to allow the Martyr's Complex to ferment in my heart, and even develop to the Messiah Complex. Yet I am hopeful that in questioning this I am knocking myself back to a humble position, and avoiding thinking more of myself than I ought to. Perhaps this will allow the yeast of my thinking to controllably ferment.

Jesus was a Rebel, and so must I be. Yet his home-brew has lasted for centuries. It has not gone bitter. It still fills the heart with laughter and joy. I am not sure I have His recipe, or his skills in my batch.

Lord, help my revolutionary thoughts to brew a fine deep red ale, and not a nasty little home brew no one else can stomach.

Tension and Excitment: The Revolution Starts Now?

Today I received a letter from the old Denominational gang. We sent a letter asking for them to reevaluate their previous decisions, and look fairly at all the evidence - which they previously neglected to do. Their letter said in business like terms, 'we will review this request.'

Meanwhile back on the blogfarm, I have been listening to a song repeatedly, like a four year old. The song is "The Revolution Starts Now" by Steve Earle. In fact, I will pause for a moment to light up my iTunes, and play it while I type.

"buh, nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh...I was walking down the street, in the town where I was born..."

Okay I'm back - kind of.

"The revolution starts here..."

I was nervous to open the letter, because we've been through Hell in the last year. The Wall Street Journal did not have the space to even touch the depth of our tension, and struggle. But after reading the short, (terse perhaps?) response from a denominational VP, I began to get excited as the day progressed.

Pause again - I've been typing slowly, because I was singing along with Steve, and now like the four year old, I must restart the song. Tom Petty is cool, but not revolutionary enough for the moment.

"buh, nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh..."

"I was moving to the beat, that I never felt before..."

Okay, I'm back again.

Is this some weird form of mental disease, or was I born for revolutionary activity? Do I enjoy pain, or is my sense of adventure overheightened by a love for adrenaline? I should be mad, sad, or tense that this might start up again, but for some reason I am feeling excitement. What's up with that?.

"Yeah, the revolution starts now - in your own backyard, in your own home town...."

That's it. I can't type anymore, but I can replay the song a third time.


"buh, nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh...I was walking down the street, in the town where I was born. I was moving to the beat, that I never felt before. So I opened up my eyes, and I took a look around. I saw it written 'cross the sky, 'The Revolution starts now.'"

By the way - Forrest is home, and appears to be coming along as a three-legged Greyhound. What a tough little guy. He's my inspiration.

Tragedy and Twitching

My buddy Forrest got out of the gate on Halloween morning. Some one left it open, and I did not see that the gate was not latched. He got hit by a car on North Street, and now he is in doggy intensive care.

He had one leg amputated, and another had some surgery. After all this work, we are not sure he is going to make it. So we spend a few hours each day sitting with him in the vet clinic.

This is the second dog in as many years to be hit by a car. Annie was killed right in front of me a little over two years ago.

When Annie died on the street as I knelt in front of her, I could not sleep for three days. Each time my eyes shut, and I began to fade off, the scene suddenly replayed in my mental vision so clearly that it seemed real, and I startled suddenly awake. Sometimes still I remember that event and I will quickly blink, or perhaps even jerk mildly.

This must be a mild version of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, or perhaps even Tourette Syndrome.

Forrest's recent tragedy has caused this response to increase a bit.

Bev and I have been crying periodically throughout the day, and are perhaps a little distant to our friends. I suppose that comes with the emotional, and financial stress of seasons like this.

I am twitching less over the treachery by my Christian brethren last year. I am sure that Suzanne Sataline and The Wall Street Journal Article about "Befriending Witches Still a Problem in Salem" was instrumental in helping that twitch, but now I have an old twitch renewed by a recent tragedy.

I hope that in Heaven there will be no more twitches, just as there will be no more tears.

Walking Forrest, and Kites without Tails

Billy Adams and I used to make kites from paper and balsa wood in Junior High. We lived a few doors away from each other, in the same mobile home park in Escondido. We would take our kites out into the field on the corner of East Valley Parkway and Citrus Avenue. It's not field anymore though. It's a shopping center.

We tried to make the smallest kites which could still fly. We created 5 to 7 inch kites which we sometimes could get to fly about 50 feet up in the air. We typically built traditional diamond shaped kites, and they needed tails. Without tails they would spin around, and quickly dive head first into the ground, at which point we would need to begin building another kite. But we wanted our kites to fly higher, so we had to make the tails as light as possible, while still creating enough drag to keep them upright.

Some guy named Daniel Bernoulli figured out that as the velocity of air passing around the kite increased, the air pressure decreased. When the pressure is decreased enough the kite goes up against the force of gravity. A kite is a type of airfoil, like a wing on an airplane. An airfoil is a surface which is designed to create lift when air passes over it.

Mr. Bernoulli wasn't really working with an airfoil though. He figured this out on a

chalkboard with math

back in 1738, so that makes him a pretty smart guy. Other smart people are still trying to figure out how it works today, but they are not sure how it works, they just know that it does. So I guess we trust our lives to Daniel Bernoulli when we get in an airplane, and look out at those skinny little wings as they lift the bird much bigger than a house into the air.

Walking Forrest is like flying a kite without a tail.

Not all kites have tails, but if Forrest was a kite, he would be a traditional diamond shaped kite which needs a tail. The purpose of the tail is to create drag below the towing point, and ensure stability. If the kite had no tail, it would spin in circles like some of the kites Billy Adams and I made in Junior High.

When I walk Forrest he goes to the right, and the left, and he tries to run ahead, and then he stops, and goes behind me to smell something. He would run in the road in front of passing cars, if I did not keep him controlled with the leash. He is so excited to be out for a walk, that he runs every direction possible, and tries to discover every new thing in sight. He does have a long tail, but his tail doesn't help him go straight. Maybe it doesn't create enough drag below the towing point.

I suppose people who enjoy having everything in control don't like walking dogs like Forrest. Control freaks would be quite mad at the end of the walk. Forrest would not want to go straight without constant coaxing. You most certainly have to carry bags to pick up after him, and although he moves much faster than Holly during the walk, he takes far longer to actually cover the distance.

I am a lot like Forrest. I like adventure, and discovering new things. I don't like tours, because I always get in trouble for breaking the rules, or sneaking away from the tour group. I don't like monotony. I do like surprises, and mystery. I am not good to walk with a leash either I suppose.

I don't even mind not understanding how that skinny little wing is able to hold the big fat airplane up in the sky. I wonder if control freaks are afraid of flying? Does it bother them that nobody really understands how the Bernoulli principle works?

There seems to be something similar to the fear of flying, and the control freak's fear of not having a situation under his power. Being frustrated walking Forrest, and being afraid of flying are not terribly different from one another, they are both situations which lack control, and I imagine are both based in fear.

My Christian life will be an adventure, not a list of dos and don'ts established to keep me in line. I want to examine the fringes of humanity, and get to know the people others are afraid of. The Christians I know are afraid of Witches. I live in town with quite a few Witches. So, like Forrest I will run around and meet them, and make friends with them, because I figure they are regular people with regular lives, and if they do something a bit irregular, I would like to know why.

In my little mind I dream that if I run around long enough, the Bernoulli effect will take place, and a miracle will happen - I will fly. Maybe it's not real flying, but flying high on life, and experiencing God doing His stuff as I find ways to simply love people - even people others are afraid of. No, especially people others are afraid of.

I did not realize it, but there was a control freak trying to walk me on a short leash, and so he yanked real hard without warning me first. I don't wear the collar they attached that leash to anymore. They can go and find someone else's collar to yank.

Lessons from a Goofy Greyhound

We have two Greyhounds living in our home. They are rescue Greyhounds. They are called rescue hounds, because we adopted them when they were older, and had retired from a life of racing at the dog tracks.

Most people think Bev and I are wonderful humans for saving these dogs from a life of wretched slavery, and abuse, but I am not sure, because I have never seen any creature which loved to run as much as a Greyhound. They smile and show off for us when they run, so I think they must have loved running with the other dogs.

Actually I think the real reason we adopted them is because we like friendly dogs, and Greyhounds are gentle and friendly, or it might have been a selfish desire to adopt a dog which was already potty trained, and nearly guaranteed to be affectionate. Of course, they are not quite cuddly, because they are either too boney, or too hard and muscly to be cuddly.

Holly is short, thick, black, and muscly like a little rock. She is an extremely quick runner. Her turns are sharp. Her starts are explosive, and she is aggressive when pursuing. During her racing days Holly was a champion. Of course, she is retired and likes to eat a lot, so she's not as fast as she once was, and not quite as rock hard either.

Forrest is tall, long, blonde, and lean. Forrest is fast when running straight ahead. Because he is so long, he takes one stride for every two of Holly's strides. Forrest is goofy, and likes to play, and investigate new things, so he is not aggressive like Holly. Forrest was never a winner

When a dog is a winner they are called "in the money." If a dog can place in the top three in a race they make money for the owner, and for those who bet on them at the racetrack, and that is why they are in the money.

I think preachers like to think of some other preachers as "in the money" preachers. In the money preachers are on TV, or they have large churches. They have important friends, who are other in the money preachers, and they speak at big conferences, and say important sounding things which apparently other preachers can't say as well. Christians run to see in the money preachers, and pay good money to hear them speak, or give them large offerings at big in the money events.

Most of the in the money preachers are not well known outside of the their little circle of Christian fans, who help support them, except maybe Billy Graham, and he's famous because he doesn't seem to care if he's in the money, so everybody likes Billy Graham.

There are a few more famous names. One ran for President, and another tried to start a group to help decide who should become President, but they seem to stick their foot in their mouths often, so not everybody likes them. There are a couple more famous names, but they are famous for doing something wrong, and so they might not be considered in the money any longer.

I am like Forrest. I am not an in the money preacher, and I think that sometimes people who want to be in the money preachers don't think much of me because I am not one of them.

We have the race records for both of our dogs. Forrest never placed in the top three any race, but his fastest time was almost identical to Holly's fastest time, but I don't think Forrest cared if he won. Forrest likes to play, and he likes to investigate things. He likes to smell stuff, and visit new places, but Forrest especially likes to meet people.

When I take both dogs for a walk, Holly stays next to my left side, and walks with me stride for stride, and looks straight ahead, unless she sees a squirrel. Forrest runs ahead of me, and pulls at the leash to move as quickly as he can, but he does not move forward in a straight line. Forrest stops to smell a tree trunk, or a fire hydrant, and then races ahead to find something new. Then he bolts to left to try and enter a gate to someone's yard, or to the right to meet someone walking down the sidewalk.

Forrest might make a good pastor. He could teach pastors a few lessons. He is happy when he meets people. He likes people, and playing more than he likes winning, and this is probably why he was never in the money. He might be able to teach us preachers that people are more important than being in the money, but then I am not sure too many preachers would enjoy learning that lesson.