Brad's Blog

A Florence Scene

2011-12-31T09:27:00.003-07:00

In Paris, you learn wit, in London you learn to crush your social rivals, and in Florence you learn poise.

- Virgil Thomson

Best Routes

2011-12-19T14:12:00.000-07:00

The best routes are the ones you haven't ridden. You could pedal the same loops year after year. Many people do, literally or figuratively. But to grow, you need new rides. Risks. Turn down lanes you've long seen but never traveled. Get lost once or twice. Live like this and you come to see unknown territory not as threatening, but as intriguing. - Remy

Cycling in Umbertide, Italy

Bicycles in Florence

Home Again

2011-11-22T13:53:00.000-07:00

The return from Italy was something of an endurance test, but no complaints. Home safely. Lots of images captured in Umbria and Tuscany in particular, the first couple to share I’ll post here today.

Truth

2011-10-26T16:24:00.000-06:00

All truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident.

-Schopenhauer

An Offering

2011-10-24T09:00:00.000-06:00

Came across this from Elizabeth Elliot. Good thought for Monday morning.

This job has been given to me to do. Therefore, it is a gift. Therefore, it is a privilege. Therefore, it is an offering I may make to God. Therefore, it is to be done gladly, if it is done for Him…Here, not somewhere else, I may learn God’s way. In this job, not in some other, God looks for faithfulness.

Love is...

2011-10-21T06:58:00.001-06:00

Lately I’ve been going through images I’ve filed away - photographs I’ve taken over the past few years - trying to find a better way to organize them. Putting a few up here day-to-day seems to make sense.

Also, today I came across this quote...off a twitter feed that posts comments from Tim Keller.

Love is the effort and desire to make someone else everything they were created to be.
- Tim Keller

Imagination

2011-10-20T07:29:00.000-06:00

The imagination is among the chief glories of being human. When it is healthy and energetic, it ushers us into adoration and wonder, into the mysteries of God. When it is neurotic and sluggish, it turns people, millions of them, into parasites, copycats, and couch potatoes.

- Eugene Peterson, Under the Predictable Planet

Street Artists

2011-10-19T14:31:00.000-06:00

Images of street artists at work in Larimer Square.

Anything Will Help

2011-10-18T22:40:00.000-06:00

On a frigid day last winter I saw this old man standing on a sidewalk between 17th and 18th just half a block from the world-famous Brown Palace Hotel where, at the moment I snapped this photograph, several limousines had stopped to drop off well-dressed passengers arriving to attend a champagne brunch.

A Memory In The Park

2011-10-15T18:20:00.000-06:00

I walked with the dog through the park and across the baseball diamond this afternoon. All summer the kids came to play, but it was quiet today. With autumn and school they don’t come anymore. But this ball was left behind.

Something In The Air

2011-10-12T06:52:00.000-06:00

I was standing at the gas pump when I realized it for the first time; that ever so slight chill that slips in on a breeze this time of year. It was still a beautiful, warm, sunny day overall, but for just a moment I could feel it. For me, autumn is as much an emotion as a season. It doesn’t catch me off guard, exactly, yet somehow I find I’m not really expecting it either. The grass is still green and the trees spread across the hillsides are only just beginning to display fall color, but there it was. I could feel it in the air.

“It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life.” - P.D. James

Received 63 - Sent 8

2011-10-11T15:18:00.000-06:00

I was reading several brief profiles of notable people in which the writer detailed the number of emails each person receives on an average day and, in turn, sends. The received typically outnumbered the sent by a large margin and it made me wonder if the same would be true of me. So I poked through my email program’s received and sent folders, looking back over the past week or so and, it turns out, it is. Who can keep up?

Yet I have stopped this evening to write this blog. Why?

I seem to be at a stage when I most naturally end my thoughts and observations with a question mark. Hmm.

Here’s an image I’ve had sitting in a file. It didn’t make it into a gallery showing this month so I am dragging it out of the file to put here. Where else?

Muses

2011-10-10T13:30:00.001-06:00

We have only a little time left to get ready for the upcoming travel. Hastily agreed to yet considered at some length. Flights booked, passports on the desk, a growing list of to-dos - second thoughts?

Reading Wendell Berry. This is worth sharing:
“There are, it seems, two muses: the Muse of Inspiration, who gives us inarticulate visions and desires, and the Muse of Realization, who returns again and again to say "It is yet more difficult than you thought." This is the muse of form. It may be then that form serves us best when it works as an obstruction, to baffle us and deflect our intended course. It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.”
- Wendell Berry

REALIZATION

2008-06-23T23:00:00.000-06:00

I had another weird dream last night. I woke up in the middle of the night gripped with fear. I realized with striking clarity that... Doom had slipped into the bedroom under cover of darkness and wrapped itself around me while I slept and ever so slowly began to squeeze me like a constricting serpent, a python or a boa. There was no escape. It had me. It spoke evenly, without inflection. It said this to me:

You are doomed.

And, though it was hidden beneath a dark cloak it did not bother to remove, I knew it was telling the truth. There was no escape.

I pulled on a robe and found my way downstairs, Doom following me like a shadow. I clicked on a lamp, plopped into a chair and stared across the room at Oswald Chambers lying on the coffee table. He was next to Tozer and Chesterton.

The center of every man’s existence is a dream. Death, disease, insanity, are merely material accidents, like a toothache or a twisted ankle. That these brutal forces always besiege and often capture the citadel does not prove that they are the citadel.

Hmm.

Then I really did wake up, still in bed, but seeing light sneaking in through the shutters. Doom was nowhere in sight, but I got up and checked around anyway, just to make sure. I was thinking, I should go climb a mountain...chuck it all for one day, climb on the dirt bike, ride it to where the road ends in a steep canyon, and start walking, one step at a time, to the top. Then I remembered Chesterton on the coffee table:

One sees great things from the valley; only small things from the peak.

So instead of chucking it all, I made a cappuccino and wandered out into the cool morning air.

A little later, after I had finished a production session in the studio, I was talking with a friend about all the things going on and the things that are no longer going on when it occurred to me that I have not missed doing the radio show even once since that ended last October. In fact, there was/is the sense of a burden being lifted; a burden I was aware of over the past few years but not one I was willing to fully recognize. Most days I still enjoyed doing the show, mostly, but there was also the weight of something that was often an unpleasant reality I could not escape. There was a shallowness to it all that was wearing me down. Driving up from Colorado Springs to Denver last Friday evening I had one of those moments where it was almost as if I were observing myself from an objective distance and, in the observation was the knowledge that I like myself (or at least my life) more now than I have in a long time.

I shouldn’t be writing here on the blog today. I am on a deadline with the book that looms large this week as next week I will be getting very busy with a new project. I can’t really know what it will be like to take on some new work and still being trying to finish the proposal for the agent to shop so I am trying to wrap up the writing by the end of the month.

I have never been good at steering clear of distractions.

SLEEP

2008-06-16T23:04:00.000-06:00

Woke up feeling like someone had pounded on my chest all night. I spent the night hacking and coughing so today I’m calling in sick. No one to call, though, since I am... What am I? Entrepreneurially engaged? Creatively caught up? Poorly prepared? Professionally perplexed? In any event, I am my own boss, more or less, so the only one to call in sick to is me and, frankly, I’m too ill to pick up the phone. Besides, I have caller ID. I’d see that it was me. Wouldn’t want to answer the phone only to have to listen to someone complain about how bad they feel.

Despite my hacking, Lucy slept like a log next to me. Nothing wakes that woman. She has the gift of sleep. Even my constant cough couldn’t cause her to stir once she hit the major REM cycle. But in deference to her comfort and the distant possibility that my noisiness might have somehow bothered her, I spent a good portion of the night in the den watching a very old Burt Lancaster movie while sipping on a cup of Theraflu.

**

Earlier this week, Lucy sent me via email the following story, along with a note saying that I should take comfort knowing she sleeps so soundly.

NBC - Women in a happy marriage, enjoy a good night's sleep.
Nearly 2,000 woman were involved in this study from the University of Pittsburgh. Researchers asked them to rate their marital happiness and sleeping history. They found women who considered themselves happily married were less likely to have sleep problems. Overall, this group of women reported less problems falling asleep, staying asleep and had a better quality of sleep than those who reported some marital struggles. This study was presented at SLEEP 2008, the annual meeting of the Associated Professional Sleep Societies.

The Associated Professional Sleep Societies? You wouldn’t want to give a boring speech to that group.

MOTHERS DAY ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

2008-05-12T23:07:00.000-06:00

It was one of those rare mornings when weather moved in off the mountains while it was still dark, the rain arriving before dawn and thunder rumbling in to wake us before the alarm clock clicked on. That doesn’t happen often. Generally it is the warmth the sun generates in the afternoon hours, heating the air at the lower elevations that then races upward, cooling in the atmosphere over the 14-thousand foot peaks, creating massive, towering cumulous cloud banks that then carry their energy eastward out over the front range and the eastern plains. Springtime and summertime see fairly regular afternoon storm activity, but storms in the early morning almost never materialize.

So this morning was a treat.

Tomorrow morning a golf tourney fundraiser is being held at the course near my home to benefit the Young Life organization. How could I say no? I golf once or twice a year whether I want to or not and the format is a scramble so most of my bad shots won’t effect the score and my rare good shots will be the only ones that follow me into the clubhouse.

Life should be so full of forgiveness.

I just realized there is an amazing metaphor for grace in there.

**

Days later...

Somehow Monday has arrived once again and I have a fairly open calendar meeting-wise but lots to accomplish in the studio. I ground some fresh Kona coffee and had a nice talk with Brandon before getting swept into the current. This quick attempt to post something on the blog is a bit of an unjustifiable diversion from that current.

We took Lucy on a Mother’s Day picnic yesterday, driving up to an overlook I stumbled upon last year just a few thousand feet down the slope from Mt. Evans. I had been wanting to take Lucy and Brandon there. The spot we picked to celebrate her was out on the edge of the world, tucked into a crook in the mountain where a stone wall juts out as a protection against the 300 foot drop off and the wall of granite that backs the spot protected us from any high altitude wind that might have swept down from the peak. The sun was warm and the food was good and the time together was so sweet.

HOPE

2008-05-05T07:38:00.000-06:00

I hold a candle in the corner
Swat at the darkness with the light
- Amanda Leggett

Monday morning. My planner and a steaming hot cappuccino in front of me, the forecast calling for mid-70s, and an early shift in attitude toward a focus on the possible. Horizons of the possible, as Andy Crouch would say.

I’ve been listening to a CD project by Amanda Leggett, an artist who sang at the symposium in Austin last month. I love her sound: soulful, bluesy. And her lyrics: powerful poetry that has a transparently honest, raw depth to it. As darkness presses our hearts at night – to miss the morning’s increasing light – from blackened worlds we perceive your light – we see you.

She sings of a secret we barely know that pulls us from the undertow.

I often feel this intense thirst to know more, to understand more; yet even the mere glimpse of understanding of the mystery is enough to sustain me for another day, another week, another year. I was talking with Lucy recently about this feeling of encouragement that is clearly not circumstantial. It is its disconnectedness from worldly circumstances that encourages me more than if I could connect it to actual circumstance, to material offering. It serves to affirm my hope in the promises and the constant character of the one who redeems.

I hold a candle in the corner
Swat at the darkness with the light
I hold it ‘till it gets me warmer
‘Til it corrects my fitful sight
- Amanda Leggett

MAKING A STATEMENT

2008-04-30T07:44:00.004-06:00

"It’s a question of discipline, the little prince told me later on. “When you’ve finished washing and dressing each morning, you must tend your planet." - Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Ahh...so true.

And here we sit, having washed and dressed and already seen half a day slip away, just me and the Mac, trying to come to terms with the to-do list in time to do the to-dos before the clock strikes 5. Or 6, since part of my task list involves the left-coast time zone and that buys me sixty minutes or possibly ninety depending on when they punch out over there. Never-the-less the clock ticks and tocks incessantly as I ponder the remaining notations in my planner and pause long enough to check the weather on-line to see whether the readings match what seems to be true when I wander out onto the deck and think to myself...whoa, it’s way too nice out here to be in there.

But in here I am, my responsibility gene getting the better of me. Sometimes tending one’s planet requires one to stay indoors. So I do. That’ll make Lucy and the little prince happy. I even managed to get a load of laundry done, something I had not even put on the list.

Springtime in Colorado is not an easy time to spend days indoors, as the landscape is transformed into a beautiful, inviting playground, the warmer temperatures luring us out to play, not work. And while I may be partial to this part of the world, spring manages to transform even the drier, less seasonal areas of the world. Wayne, a blog reader and former listener to the radio show, snapped these pictures in his desert garden just a few days apart.

It has been said that springtime is the land awakening, nature’s way of saying, “let’s party!”

Spring makes its own statement, so loud and clear that the gardener seems to be only one of the instruments, not the composer. – Charlesworth

FLIP FLOPS

2007-03-07T10:49:00.000-07:00

I received an email from Margo, a nice woman who reads this blog, telling me (nicely) she couldn’t help but notice I’ve only been writing for this page about once a week lately. It is true. But in my defense, I have been very busy with work that actually pays. Not that getting paid for something necessarily elevates it above other activities one should be attending to but it does help with those annoying little bills that arrive every month. It also helps with the big bills.

The past two days, for instance, found me working in my studio close to 12 hours each day. And I still have more to do. There’s the B&B Show every day. I have a couple of show podcasts still in need of editing before I can put them on the Website. I have some voiceover work waiting for me, and I have some film audio I’m still working on for the morning show. There’s also a project I’m working on in my spare time for my pastor and a script I’m trying to finish.

Excuses, excuses.

So should the blog continue to exist? Where should this fall in the priority list?

I have this mental image of myself. I’m wearing flip flops and a tropical shirt. I’m sitting at a table just inside a doorway off a covered porch. The door is open and outside the fronds of the palm trees lining the porch are swaying to and fro in a gentle breeze blowing off the sea. I’m writing in a notebook but I’m thinking about taking a nap. Or a walk. I move toward neither inclination at a nice slow pace.

It’s just a mental image but it seems to fit more comfortably than 12 hour days in the studio.

Einstein is quoted as saying, “If A is success in life, then A equals x plus y plus z. Work is x; y is play; and z is keeping your mouth shut.”

And then there is this, from Bob Dylan: “What’s money? A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and goes to bed at night and in between does what he wants to do.”

I think I’ll take a walk.

In my flip flops.

**
(To send Brad an email: click on his photo at the top right of this web page and then click “email.”)

CAPTURED MOMENTS

2007-02-21T12:22:00.000-07:00

It has been said a picture is worth a thousand words.

Today we’ll let the pictures do (most of) the talking.

I have captured many moments with this old camera. Examples below.

**

Taken from a bridge spanning the river Maas in The Netherlands

Outside our hotel in Maastricht

Taken just outside my studio window

A meadow high in the Rocky Mountains

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.
–Huxley

A great climb

A great day in Central Park

A great dog

A great scene

A great father-in-law

A great wife

Great truth

SECRET ADMIRER?

2007-02-12T08:40:00.000-07:00

On the radio show this morning I mentioned something I had read that surprised me. Supposedly, 15% of women in the United States send themselves flowers on Valentine’s Day. I find that a little hard to believe. Not that there would be anything wrong with doing that. Though I would imagine it could lead to some fabrication.

Imagine you’ve sent yourself a dozen roses at your office. The delivery person comes to drop them off. The other folks at work would have a hard time not noticing the beautiful bouquet. As they pass by your desk they can’t help but be curious so they ask the obvious question, “those are so beautiful...who sent them?”

What do you say then?

I was thinking you’d be tempted to lie. I mean, come on, sending yourself flowers is one thing. Admitting you sent yourself flowers...well, I was thinking that would be a bit embarrassing.

Our producer, Mrs. Grant, came up with a way around the need for prevarication in such circumstances.

CLICK HERE if you’d like her help with that potentially awkward situation.

(To send Brad an email: click on his photo at the top right of this web page and then click “email.”)

SURPRISE

2007-02-06T17:06:00.000-07:00

Do not protect yourself by a fence, but rather by your friends.
- Czech Proverb

Unbeknownst to me, my wife has been sneaking around. I had no idea. I was stunned. She had never done anything like this before so I was caught completely off guard. I was blindsided, just as she had planned.

She threw me a surprise birthday party.

We walked into a restaurant after church Sunday ostensibly to meet a friend for lunch. Sort of a spur of the moment get together. We walked in and my wife got to the hostess before me and said something I couldn’t hear. The hostess then walked us through the restaurant toward the back where we turned a corner into a private room filled with a few dozen friends all waiting to surprise me. And surprise me they did. I was floored. It was wonderful.

It was a bit crowded in the room so people had to squeeze in to fit around the tables. Still, it was great. I looked around at all the friends and wondered at my good fortune.

Jay Leno once said, “Go through your phone book, call people and ask them to drive you to the airport. The ones who will drive you are your true friends. The rest aren’t bad people; they’re just acquaintances.” I believe everyone gathered for the party would not only drive me to the airport (because, after all, that might only mean they are anxious to get rid of me) but would also pick me up upon my return.

(To send Brad an email: click on his photo at the top right of this web page and then click “email.”)

TIME WAITS FOR NO MAN

2007-01-31T15:21:00.000-07:00

Regret for wasted time is more wasted time.
- Mason Cooley

My PDA crashed.

If you don’t carry a PDA, perhaps you cannot know the seriousness of my situation. If you do, you no doubt feel my pain.

Once a person inputs all of ones days into the PDA, adds the contact information for every person one has ever known and synchronizes and backs up all that information, there is no turning back. A PDA is only slightly less than a flesh-and-blood life coach. Properly maintained it tells you what steps to take, when to take them, which direction those steps should fall and it provides phone numbers and addresses for all those you might need to call while on the journey. It even grabs all your email for you if you tell it to. It can hold family pictures. It can tell you your flight and hotel confirmation numbers. It can remind you what you need at the grocery store, what books you want from the library, which movies you want to rent... Mine would even talk to me (though I never figured out how to get it to do that). At least it used to do all that. Now it is gone. And for the past couple days I have been clumsily attempting to stay on track without it. It hasn’t been pretty.

The good news is, today (after an appropriate 48 hour mourning period) I went out and bought a new one. The new PDA is at this moment plugged into the wall receiving its initial charge. I have two more hours until I can set it up and get on with my life.

Two hours. I can wait. Really. I can.

I’d twiddle my thumbs but I’m typing.

From where I sit writing these words into my Mac I can hear the clock on the landing at the top of the stairs ticking. Tick, tick, tick tick tickticktickticktick. Time passes slowly when you’re waiting for your PDA to charge up for the first time. Two more hours and I can plug it into the computer and transfer my life into its memory. Until then, I sit. I wait.

It has been said the hours of folly are measured by the clock, but of wisdom no clock can measure. I never have liked that clock. It used to chime every hour on the hour until I opened up the back of it and removed some of its innards. Now it just ticks.

The Irish playwright Dion Boucicault once said, “Men talk of killing time, while time quietly kills them.” Fun guy, Dion. I’ll bet he was the life of the party. Bet he never had a PDA crash on him. In fact, I’m sure of it. He died more than a-hundred years ago. Time finally killed him.

I have so much to do. Can’t wait to get started.

One hour and 58 minutes to go.

**
A long time ago, back when I started doing my first morning radio show and found it difficult to get going so early each day, someone told me a mousetrap placed on top of your alarm clock will prevent you from rolling over and going back to sleep.

I prefer the subtle electronic chirp of a PDA alarm.

(To send Brad an email: click on his photo at the top right of this web page and then click “email.”)

LIGHT SOURCE

2007-01-27T17:02:00.000-07:00

I had lunch today at a little Greek taverna where a few years ago on a warm summer evening Lucy and I dined on the patio under the stars. It was a great night. Today I took a table just inside the door, directly under a speaker in the ceiling playing preposterously tragic Hellenic ballads. It was late for having lunch so the place was empty except for a swarthy-looking guy behind the bar and a short, friendly, plump woman who brought my menu and waited on me. She was obviously enjoying the music as she turned it up after seating me, smiling from across the room to get my approval of the increased volume. I didn’t mind, though given the tone and drama of the music I half expected the chef to come stumbling out of the kitchen covered in tzatziki sauce, a rotisserie spike sticking out of his chest and a note from his lover clutched in his hand telling him she was running away with the busboy and a plate of spanakopita.

With rotisserie on my mind, I ordered gyros.

I hadn’t eaten Greek since the five hours I spent in Greece in August. That was the trip that found me, between Kuwait and Albania, unexpectedly hiking up the Acropolis. I had dined in Dubai after my “escape” from Afghanistan, caught a two a.m. flight that took me to Athens via Kuwait, and found I had just enough time before my Olympic Air flight to Tirana to do some sightseeing. So I grabbed a taxi, hiked up to the Parthenon, took a bunch of pictures and grabbed an espresso and a plate of dolmathes in the city before heading back to the airport.

After all I had been through the ten days before, upon landing in Athens I almost convinced myself I was too tired to do anything but find a place to lie down in the airport and sleep. Imagine. I could have missed the Parthenon and the dolmathes.

I think it was about halfway up the steep, rocky hillside of the Acropolis that my heart nearly burst open, all the emotion, all the gratitude nearly spilling out and flowing like a river back down the hill. I stopped my ascent long enough to snap some photos of the whitewashed neighborhoods and the city spread out below, stretching all the way to the Mediterranean sea on the horizon. I could just make out a cruise ship floating on that distant blue. The beauty was so brilliant I couldn’t take it all in. After the dust and desolation of the Afghan countryside, the light and warmth of Greece was nearly too much. I had been just 24 hours before in the middle of a war-scarred land. The contrast between dark and light was arresting.

Isn’t it always?

I remember one time years ago flying out of a blizzard in Chicago on a non-stop to Hawaii. I began the day in a dark, cold storm and ended it on a beach watching a golden sun sink into the ocean, leaving the horizon painted with deep orange and red hues.

Climatic redemption in less than 12 hours, the light and warmth pouring down on everything. If only I could carry that with me back home...

Of course, spend enough time face turned toward the sun and you will carry it with you even in the darker places; like the light of the full moon rising into a night sky, its brilliance really only a reflection of the source of light.

(To send Brad an email: click on his photo at the top right of this web page and then click “email.”)

A CLOSE SHAVE

2007-01-24T12:27:00.000-07:00

Two wrongs don't make a right, but three lefts do. - Anonymous

I was driving along the freeway heading to a meeting yesterday when I happened to glance over at the guy in the car next to mine. We were both traveling at 60 miles per hour in fairly heavy traffic.

He was shaving.

Not with an electric razor. He was shaving with a blade. He was dry shaving at 60 miles per hour on an eight-lane freeway at 2 o’clock in the afternoon.

Coupla thoughts...

First off, if you’ve made it to two o’clock in the afternoon without shaving, why bother? Take the rest of the day off.

Second...dry shaving is, well, tricky even when you are standing in front of your bathroom mirror, let alone when you are driving at freeway speeds in a Jaguar sedan.

Third, where do the whiskers go?

And get this... This morning as I was getting ready for the radio show, I came across a survey that found almost all of us do things we probably shouldn’t do when we drive. My thing is talking on the phone. My car is more of a mobile phone booth than a mode of transportation. I get in the car and generally dial a number even before I pull the shift lever into drive. I get more done behind the wheel than most people do at the office. My wife even bought me a Blue Tooth thingy so I could talk hands free. I haven’t been able to make it work, but I put it in my ear anyway just to look cool.

(By the way, why do they call it a “blue tooth?” You stick it in your ear. Perhaps if you stuck it in your mouth... Why would you put a tooth of any color in your ear? What’s with the body part moniker? Why not a blue kidney or a blue spleen? “Hey, I hate to be the one to tell you, but you have a spleen stuck in your ear. It’s blue. You might want to remove that.”)

Anyway, the survey I read said seventy-three percent of people talk on the phone when they drive, so I have a lot of company. Sixty-eight percent of people say they eat when they drive. I don’t do that. 19% fix their hair. I don’t have enough hair to fix. There’s no fixing what’s left. And get this... 2% shave. Jaguar guy is not the only one.

So go ahead and shave.

But remember, while it takes around 8,000 bolts to hold together an automobile, it takes just one nut to scatter it all over the road.

(To send Brad an email: click on his photo at the top right of this web page and then click “email.”)

WRITER'S BLOCK

2007-01-16T15:36:00.000-07:00

A friend once said this: To overcome writer's block just sit down and pound on the keys.

Q;oidhf nkqfow hwqdf hwefiuopqefufeh poiwdhf fdoo

Well, that didn’t work.

ADDING TO THE BEAUTY

2006-12-28T17:12:00.000-07:00

Love is of all passions the strongest, for it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart and the senses. – Lao Tzu

We too often walk about with our heads so full of the day we miss the beautiful little moments. I do this. Just now while I was working on a story I am writing my son came in and interrupted me in the middle of a thought. I was momentarily annoyed. Until I noticed the red-rimmed eyes. He had been touched so deeply by something he had tears in his eyes and he wanted to share it with me. What else is there than that? A son coming to his father to share his heart.

Hit the brakes. Turn off the engine. Get out of the car. Stop the world. Pay attention.

A few days ago, at the start of the vacation I’m on now I stood on a hillside as the snow was falling on Colorado; big flakes settling silently on the landscape and on my clothing. For a few minutes as the snow fell into my world everything else fell away, all the junk that has been necessarily occupying my mind and distracting my attention. The more snow that fell, the more silent the world became, all the noise being muffled in the blanket of white, swallowed up. And for those moments I was mesmerized, caught up in the beauty.

On this thought train I was reflecting back on what my friend Rick the Scribe wrote in his latest book about lugging his stuff across the parking lot into his office building day after day, eyes on the pavement rather than on the “wild, craggy beauty” of the east slope of the Rocky Mountains just west of where he parks his car. When he takes a moment to listen he hears a voice say, Rick, take your eyes off the asphalt. Look up and into the beauty. Let your eyes rest for a moment on my beauty.

I wrote earlier this year about the idea of finding the art in the everyday, and took that thought a bit further suggesting we look for the artist. Sometimes when we tune in and open our eyes we even get to glimpse the heart of the artist.

A couple days before leaving on this vacation I was following my friend Walt as he maneuvered his car into a parking spot outside a grocery store where he was picking up a few things. In the car with him was his 18-year-old son, Ryan. I pulled my car into the next slot behind him. I switched off the engine and watched Walt get out of his car and walk around to the back where he opened up the trunk. He reached in with both hands and wrestled out Ryan’s wheelchair. I joined him as he unfolded the chair and wheeled it around to the passenger side where Ryan had already shoved open his door and was waiting for his dad to position the chair so that he could slide from the car seat to the chair. I instinctively reached down to help the boy, when Walt held his hand out to stop me saying, “no, Ryan can handle this part.” I watched Ryan use the arm and hand which have good strength and fair motion to pull himself up out of the car and into the chair, his legs dragging into position under him. Then he looked up at me with his great smile I see so often, making it clear he was glad I had joined him and his dad on this outing. I walked alongside as Walt wheeled him into the store.

I have been privileged the past few years of my life to see my friend Walt pour love out on Ryan. He and his wife adopted Ryan as a newborn from Korea and found out a few weeks after receiving the infant that the child had cerebral palsy. It was hard news to hear. It had quickly become clear the adoption agency had not been entirely truthful. Did he have it in him to be the father of a boy with such special needs? Should he even try? Should he send him back? And what future would the infant have if he returned him?

Then, a few nights after finding out the truth, he woke suddenly in the early morning hours. He couldn’t sleep for the burden on his heart and the worry in his mind. It probably wasn’t the first such night since finding out the truth, but on this particular night something came into his mind that would not go away. A verse from the 82nd Psalm. He didn’t even know the verse. Had never heard it or read it before. But there it was, loud and clear in his mind. Defend the weak and fatherless; do justice to the afflicted and needy.

Over the past four years or so that I have known Walt, I have watched him with Ryan, watched his tenderness, his commitment. Over and over again I have thought to myself how clear it is that God Himself brought Ryan to Walt, and gave Walt the heart to be that boy’s father.

Sara Groves wrote a song called “Add to the Beauty." It talks of our opportunity to add to the beauty of God’s creation. She sings…

Redemption comes in strange places, small spaces,
calling out the best of who we are

And I want to add to the beauty
To tell a better story
Shine with the light
that’s burning up inside

And this is grace, an invitation to be beautiful
This is grace, an invitation

**
(To send Brad an email: click on his photo at the top right of this web page and then click “email.”)

LESSONS FROM MAGGIE THE DOG

2006-12-13T15:55:00.000-07:00

The sun does not shine for a few trees and flowers, but for the wide world’s joy.
– Henry Ward Beecher

The other day I met with my friend, Rick the Scribe, for our once-a-month discussion over coffee and told him I was feeling a bit weary lately and was nearly consumed with a strong urge to run away to a remote, tropical beach somewhere for a few months. If I could only slip away to such a spot for awhile… Take long walks on the sand and the occasional invigorating swim in the open sea. Drop onto a cot or beach chair for several naps a day. Slow down. Think. Pray. Read. Watch the tide come in and go out. Listen to the waves.

But who has the time? There is the work to be done. Always the work.

Rick reminded me of a 3 day retreat he took this past summer to a Benedictine monastery high in a canyon in the mountains near Aspen. You don’t have to be a monk to hang out there. You just call ‘em up, make a reservation, and check in like you would at a hotel. He says it is a beautiful spot, and quiet. (It is a silent monastery, so the only thing you hear most of the day is the occasional breeze singing through the trees.) He suggested it might be easier to swing a two or three-day break there than three months on an island.

Imagine a guy who talks on the radio for a living spending several days in a place where you have to be silent. I’m considering it.

Although there’s probably no need to go to such an extreme.

There is this spot on the carpet in our living room – just below the window that looks out onto the lawn and large evergreen tree on the south side of our home – where the sun shines in during the mid-morning. This time of year, with the sun far south on the horizon, its warm rays break in below the higher branches of the tree, falling onto a place about three feet square on the carpet between the window seat and the coffee table. If you were to be standing in the entryway of our home and happened to glance into that room you might have the urge, on a cold winter morning, to lie down in that space to rest for awhile.

Our dog, Maggie, used to do that. After a long lifetime of blessing our home with her sweet spirit, she passed away a few years ago. I still think of her every time I see the sun warming that spot. No matter what else was going on in the house, if the sun was shining onto that place on the floor she would seek it out and place herself in the middle of it, soaking up its warmth.

In the 16th century Copernicus took up the then controversial position that the Sun itself was the center of the universe. He said one could not deny it when one considered the systematic procession of events and the harmony of the whole universe. In the face of those who came out in opposition to his certainty he said they should face the facts with both eyes open.

Maggie would usually close her eyes when she was basking in the sun, at peace, content. She wasn’t one to be drawn into a debate about the position of the sun. She would simply go in search of it and when she found it she would curl up in it and she would rest. It was a transcendent thing.

I suppose that is what I am really talking about…seeking the son and finding peace there.

(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?

2006-12-08T14:44:00.000-07:00

I just finished opening a pile of mail. Lucy usually does the mail thing but I am home this afternoon and had taken a walk up and down the hillsides around our home to get some fresh air and as I arrived back home the mailman was just driving away so I thought to stop and clean out the box. Some bills, of course, along with a bit of junk mail and a few Christmas cards. They have begun to come in larger numbers each day, each day reminding me that we need to get started on ours.

The cards that arrived yesterday were still on the table in the entryway and I put the new arrivals down in the same spot, pausing to look at some of the pictures friends had sent of their families. I noticed, next to some of the cards, a small, attractive little picture frame holding a picture of a nice-looking couple and their two children. I had no idea who they were. This happens sometimes. I will stare at a Christmas card family picture for a good long time doing my best to recognize a face and remember a name but it won’t come to me. Lucy will come in and pick it up and say, “Oh, honey, I can’t believe you don’t remember them. That is Roland and Gertrude Frankentoot and their kids, Conrad and Brenda. Remember, Roland was my college roommate’s sister’s uncle’s father’s cousin from Baltimore. You met them five years ago when we ran into them in the airport in Paris. Surely you remember?”

Umm…yeah. Sure.

But I don’t and she can’t believe it and so when I saw this picture next to all the other cards I was determined to figure it out on my own before she came in and had to tell me. I spent several moments looking at it, even carrying it over to a window where the light was better. I was thinking that whoever sent this had gone to a lot of trouble, mailing it in a little frame and all. It was at this point my wife came in and asked me what I was looking at. I was determined to at least take a guess so I held up the framed picture and said, “Isn’t this that family in Seattle we always hear from at Christmas?” Lucy came over, looked at the picture, and started to laugh. She said, “Honey, that is the picture that came with the frame. I got the frame yesterday and just haven’t had a chance to put one of our pictures in it.” And then I noticed, in tiny little print at the bottom of the photo, the words, “Place Photo Here – © 2006 Hallmark Cards.”

I’m making an appointment with the optometrist.

(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

GOOD NEWS OF GREAT JOY

2006-12-06T17:31:00.000-07:00

"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas... perhaps... means a little bit more."  - Dr. Seuss

Today is St. Nicholas Day.

What’s that?

I’m glad you asked.

St. Nicholas Day is the day when (according to tradition) Santa calls his doctor to get his Valium prescription refilled. Hey, you try flying to billions of homes around the world in one night, dragging that bag of toys through airport security. Talk about stress.

No, St. Nicholas Day is the day (according to tradition) kids hang up their stockings. It’s true. I didn’t know that either. We jumped the gun and hung our stockings last week when we decorated the house. Actually, I should have said when my wife decorated the house. I sort of didn’t help Lucy at all this year. But I have an excuse. I was out of town when she got the urge to transform the house from the fall decorations to the Christmas decorations. While she was hanging garland all over the place, I was sitting at Sky Harbor International waiting for a flight. Oh the joy of returning to our home to find it dressed for the season. There is garland over the fireplace mantle. There is garland on the bookshelves. There is garland wrapping the banister and the railing atop the stairs. I expected to find garland stuffed into my sock drawer.

There are already gifts under the tree.

Where do they come from? I haven’t even begun to shop. What is it they say? Christmas is the season when you buy this year’s gifts with next year’s money. It is the time of year we join the rest of civilization in the venerable tradition of trying to find a place to park at the shopping mall without causing anyone else to want to run you over with their car. The mall parking lot is the first place I go to find peace on Earth and goodwill toward men. If Caesar Augustus had had to deal with the sort of traffic we have these days, that census he decreed would have been a total bust. Joseph never would have made it from Nazareth to Bethlehem. He’d still be trying to get out of the parking lot at Costco.

If the Gospel was written today it would read: “Today in the town of David, a Savior has been born to you. This will be a sign to you: You will find half-price sales at the mall, but you won’t be able to park within a mile of the place.”

I kid you not when I say even Santa Claus has trouble handling the stress. I read in the news today that a survey of the members of the Amalgamated Order of Real Bearded Santas – I swear there really is such an organization – found that many have been complaining about work conditions the past few years. A spokesman for the order said the job is more than just sitting in a chair and letting children crawl all over you. Santas are exposed to germs, they hurt their backs lifting kids, and they get overheated in the red fur suit. Every day more than sixty percent of Santas get sneezed or coughed on ten or more times; 75 percent have children cry on them; 90 percent have kids pull their beard to see if it is real; half have their glasses pulled off. One-third say kids have wet on them. Consider this when you send your kid off to sit on the old boy’s lap: his beard has more bacteria than a bus station mop. He could carry penicillin around in an oil drum and it wouldn’t be enough. Imagine dealing with all that and living in constant fear that someone else is about to soil your underwear.

So… Rather than go to the mall, let’s go somewhere else for a moment.

But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people." - Luke

Over the past bunch of years I have been blessed to experience the story of Christmas every year. And not just this time of year, but throughout the year. But I love this time of year in particular. I was talking with a woman I know who helped decorate the sanctuary in our church for the first Sunday of advent. They did something with the cross that I have never seen before. You always hear, of course, of the baby Jesus being born in a manger. We are familiar with the nativity scene. But she and the others wanted to do something more this year. Rather than just tell of the birth of Christ, they wanted to tell the whole story. But they wanted to do it without words.

When we walked into the church on Sunday morning we saw before the cross a manger, a crown of thorns, and a golden crown. Three powerful symbols suspended in the air in front of the cross. It is a powerful visual telling of the full gospel story. It makes you think.

The scene captured me.

My response was more than just some intellectual comprehension, more than a simple mental registering of what was being said. Because this same story fully captured me 16 years ago, because the person at the center of that story has drawn me into the narrative like nothing and no one else in my life has ever drawn me, the story itself informs and shapes everything else in the world for me. So I stood there still as could be, yet deeply moved. It is through that story that I see everything else. Or at least, it should be.

**

Think I was kidding about there being an Amalgamated Order of Real Bearded Santas? Click here: AORBS

(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

LIFE AS A HOUSE

2006-12-04T15:47:00.000-07:00

Restaurant in Terminal 3 – Sky Harbor Airport, Phoenix

I debated over ordering anything and decided I was hungry enough to risk airport food. Turns out they serve a good burger here. I practically inhaled it. Should have savored it, as I now have another hour and fifteen minutes before my flight. So with time to kill and nothing shaking here but a USC/UCLA game on the television behind the bar, I decide to see if there is enough battery left in the Mac to get some writing done. So far so good.

One of the servers is giving the bartender a hard time over the game. UCLA scored first and is up right now by 5. I feel I ought to care who wins so I ask someone nearby which team is favored and the answer I get is USC, so I’m rooting for UCLA. I always root for the underdog. I’m sure a psychologist would have some insight into that particular decision on my part but I won’t concern myself with the deeper meaning.

A number of years ago, when Brandon was maybe 4, he and I flew to L.A. to meet with my brother’s family for a couple days at Disneyland. We stayed at the Westwood Marquis, which as it turns out, is not far from the UCLA campus. I had borrowed a bicycle from my brother during our stay. He also loaned me a Burley bicycle trailer….. so one day I packed Brandon into the Burley and we went for a ride that ended up on the campus track complex. We watched the track team working out and soaked up the southern California sun for a few hours (it had rained the day before, clearing the sky of the usual L.A. smog). It was one of those cherished, peaceful respites in the midst of the unrelenting rush of life. I remember lying back on the lawn on the periphery of the track and letting the sun’s rays warm my skin while Brandon charmed some of the college girls nearby. He has always easily managed the social scene.

So I have a connection to UCLA. Another reason to root for the Bruins.

Not long ago I found some journals I had kept during those years. It had only been a year or so before that L.A. trip that I had both taken a job at the Washington bureau of the Associated Press and then, a month later, quit that very same job to move to Colorado to work at KHOW, the radio station I had listened to growing up. I remember agonizing over the thought of packing up to move across the country. Three weeks after settling in Denver my general manager came into the studio with a copy of Broadcasting magazine in his hand and a mischievous smile on his face. He plopped it down on the desk opened to an article, complete with a picture of me, telling of my having taken a job at the broadcast desk of the AP in Washington D.C. So much for accurate, up-to-the-minute reporting.

**
Lately I have been reflecting on what I have been “building” these past many years. Lucy and I rented “Life as a House” the other night. I highly recommend it. It will have you thinking about how you are spending your years. Are you tending to the important things? Are you building something that is significant? In the film, George (Kevin Kline), gets a wakeup call. Toward the end of the story, as the sun sets, casting golden hues along the edge of a cliff where it drops into the ocean, he says this: “With every crash of every wave, I hear something now. I had never listened before.” His “house” is almost complete, and he says to his son, Sam, “If you were a house, this is where you would want to be built. On rock. Facing the sea. Listening. Listening.”

Jesus talked of the wisdom of building your house on “the rock.” The rains come down and the streams rise and the winds blow and beat against the house, but it will not fall.

It is good to stop sometimes and take inventory, to think about where you have been investing, where and what you have been building. I’m wandering around the construction site a lot lately, trying to better see what is taking shape.

Am I standing on rock? Am I listening?

(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

A WOLF IN SHEEP’S…

2006-11-27T17:27:00.000-07:00

As I have observed, those who plow evil and those who sow trouble reap it. – Job

Back when I first began thinking about writing a blog, back before the Afghanistan trip, I sat with my friend, Doug, over lunch discussing my sense that I needed to communicate all that was about to happen in a way I had not quite been able to get my mind around. He listened and, after a thoughtful pause, said this to me: “You need to be completely yourself, honest and open, exploring and examining just as you have always done. If you’re not willing to do that in the blog, it probably won’t accomplish much.”

I have tried to do that. Perhaps to a fault. It started with my observations during the travels and has continued since then. It has been mostly freeing to approach this in that way. But at times it has been a burden as well. How much can I wisely share? Should I even concern myself with that? This is not the radio show, after all. And… When things are dark… What then?

Well?

How honest can one be when feeling the way through what seem like shadows, uncertain how to put it into words? There is the vulnerable aspect to this reality. There is also the side that requires a degree of delicateness out of concern and respect for others. So even as I write these words, unable to pretend things are not as they are, I move forward only because I know I don’t have to finish these thoughts or, if I do finish, I don’t have to post them on the blog. I can simply explore for a bit and then hit the delete key.

The other day I found myself sitting in the back of a courtroom waiting for the judge to come in and confront a man I would have, not that long ago, called a friend. Now I am not sure what he is. What I now know is that I do not (and apparently never did) know this man. He has been slipping through his days on at least two levels, only one that those of us around him could see. He had two faces. Two lives. One was that of a man with great gifts and an amazing heart. A man who was doing more good than most people. The other was shrouded in darkness. No one but him even knew about it. Well, possibly one other person had at least some idea, but it is beyond my ability to even speculate about that.

The hidden man is the man who was brought into the courtroom to stand before the judge. The hidden man is probably going to spend years in prison. The hidden man was the man I saw in court. The hidden life has been dragged into the light and it is not pretty. All of us that know (knew?) him are shocked.

I didn’t even want to come to observe. But when I found out that no one else I knew was planning to attend the hearing, I decided someone should be there. And so I went.

Later that night a friend called me and said he had seen me on television. When the hidden man walked out of the courtroom I was standing off to the side in the hallway wondering whether I should greet him before he was taken away. There was a television camera there to catch him as he was led away. His story is the sort the media like to pursue. The cameraman had connected a bright light to the top of the camera and it came on as the hidden man walked out of a shadow in the doorway and into the flood of light. The camera caught me and another bystander for just an instant. The hidden man looked away.

I can’t imagine he ever meant to start down such a path as this. Now people have been hurt. Lives have been upended.

Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “darkness is only driven out with light, not more darkness.” Job said of the Lord, “He reveals the deep things of darkness and brings deep shadows into the light.”

Now, listen to this… Before all of this, several days before, my wife, Lucy, told me she had had a dream. She often has silly dreams, like we all do. But this dream had really disturbed her. She told me she had dreamed she was in a house, not ours but a place that seemed strangely familiar. She was there taking care of some children. And as she walked down a hallway at night after tucking the youngest of the kids into bed, she saw something black and unclear dart around a corner. She felt suddenly panicked. She realized what she had seen was a wolf. It had gotten into the house somehow and was on the prowl. The rest of the dream involved her trying to protect the children from the wolf, get them out of the house to a safe place. As happens in dreams, she couldn’t get to the children fast enough. She woke up terribly upset.

Good vs. evil. Often we get to coast along through life not thinking much about that battle. But it does rage on all around us every day.

(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

WINE, PAIN MEDS AND WRITING COMMANDO

2006-11-13T10:50:00.000-07:00

A few things to begin…

- We got Jack out of the hospital into rehab this past weekend.

- My nephew Luke got a job. Two, actually. He was up almost as early as me to get off to work today.

- I was completely out of clean underwear today so I’m writing in my bathrobe while the laundry dries. (I know…more information than you needed.)

I have had trouble keeping up with life the past few weeks (past few years, actually) but with my father-in-law hopefully on the mend Lucy and I may see things get back to something resembling a normal schedule. It is possible, though I’m now giving up several hours per week for some rehab of my own as my shoulder is now so screwed up I have had to start taking some pretty strong pain pills. They help a little. Mostly they just make me want to sleep. I slept 12 hours Friday night. More surprising than that was my sleeping through almost all of the Broncos’ game yesterday afternoon. I woke up in time to see the win and then my wife and I hurried off to a dinner engagement we had committed to attend. We had a great evening.

Coupla things I want to mention before I forget…

First: If you ever come across an Argentinean wine made with the Malbec grape, try it. The dinner last night included a wine tasting to raise funds for an educational project we support. One of the wines being poured was made from Malbec. It is one of the six grape varieties approved for making red wines in the Bordeaux region of France but is apparently best grown in Argentina. In Bordeaux, Malbec is used like a chef would use a spice. It is blended with other wines and it makes up a very small percentage of the blend. If you can find an Argentinean label you may find the purer Malbec.

Second: The Malbec was fine with the food, but I would not recommend it unless the Vicoden you are taking for your shoulder pain has worn off completely. Apparently it had not. We were the first to leave.

Slept great again last night.

Today no underwear.

I’m heading over to the torture guy (a.k.a. physical therapist) in a little while. But before leaving I wanted to finish reading my friend Rick the Scribe’s book. I wrote a few posts ago about Rick’s book. He wrote most of it in about a week. You would never know. It is quite good. When it is published and shipped I’ll give the details here on the blog. I especially liked that he mentioned me in the acknowledgements. I look good in print. He might not have done that had he known I occasionally write my blogs sans undies.

Gotta go, but first wanted to share a picture I took while in Spokane a couple weeks ago visiting my son. This is Brandon playing his guitar. He played for me for about an hour one day while I was there. I had forgotten how much I enjoy hearing his music in our home.

(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

HOSPITAL OBSERVATIONS

2006-11-07T14:58:00.000-07:00

Health is not valued till sickness comes. – Dr. Thomas Fuller (1654–1734)

This morning I was riding down the elevator in the hospital where my father-in-law has been this past week. Sharing my elevator was a nurse who got on at the second floor. Obstetrics. I had come down from the 5th floor, where the cardiac patients are kept. We were heading for the ground floor, destination…the cafeteria.

She said to me, “I hope they haven’t closed yet.” I told her we still had five minutes. She said, “Oh, do you work here?” I said, no, I don’t, but hang around here long enough and you get to know the rhythms of the place.

My father-in-law, at 84, is struggling with the weight of the years. Her floor deals with the opposite end of life.

I wandered through there a couple days ago, looking through the windows of a room where they keep the premature babies in little see-through plastic cribs under what look like heat lamps. They are tiny, struggling for their shot at life. A beginning.

Last night outside the main entrance I saw a woman sitting on a wooden bench, staring out into the darkness. In her eyes was the weight of her burden, her concern. I have seen her wandering the halls inside. She has someone on the 5th floor, too.

On the other side of the main entrance, about 20 feet to the south, was another woman. She was wearing a hospital gown. She had come outside to smoke a cigarette.

As I walk past her on my way back into the hospital I remember reading somewhere that the broadcast report (on CBS Radio) of the news of Edward R. Murrow’s death from lung cancer was followed by a cigarette commercial.

(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

BIGGER THINGS

2006-11-02T14:44:00.000-07:00

Take care of the moments and the years will take care
of themselves. – Maria Edgeworth

Sometimes you’re plodding along caught up in the middle of the work week, eyes on the path immediately before you, when all of a sudden something whacks you upside the head or trips you up or blocks your path, causing you to screech to a halt and spin around trying to orient yourself, suddenly aware of the surrounding landscape. Whoa. How’d I get here? Sometimes you don’t even have to leave your house or get out of your car to realize you aren’t going where you thought you were going.

I had been conversing with my friend, Richard the Sage, attempting to solve the problems of the world (safely removed from most of them at the time) while sipping a café mocha at a bookstore/coffee shop. Properly caffeinated I then met up with Lucy as she ran a few errands. That’s when her phone rang. Next thing I knew we were hurrying to a hospital where her father was being treated in the ER.

Heart trouble.

Metaphorically speaking that malady is running at epidemic levels through the human race, but his is the literal sort of heart trouble that lands you in the hospital.

It was midnight before we got home. Then I was up at 5 getting ready for the radio show and am now back at the hospital hanging out with Jack, tubes and electrodes stuck in and to his person, talking when he wants to talk, just sitting quietly across the room when he doesn’t. He is not happy, but he is looking a little better today. That’s a hopeful sign. One of the medical team just stopped in and Jack’s first words were, “when do I get to go home?” He’s no fan of hospitals. Who is? We don’t check in because we want to.

My father died in a hospital not much different from this one eight years ago. Almost exactly eight years ago. The anniversary of his death was 4 days ago. I still miss him. For me the world will never be quite what it was before that day. Yes, it is filled with wonder and beauty and I am more blessed than I’ve a right to be but still, once he left, it changed, became less than it had been.

So we’re spending another day in the hospital. Where else would I be? My wife is here. She would not be anywhere else right now. She could not be. So why would I be?

Every day of our lives we make decisions about what is important. Everything we are, everything we have been, all the things that have happened to us, who we know, how we’ve been wounded, how we’ve been loved, what we believe; all this comes into play when we make our decisions. What will I do with my life today? How will I treat people? Am I reflecting what I believe?

I’m reading a book by Rob Bell in which he wrote these words: “I’m convinced having compassion is a better way to live.” The book is a story of the search for truth. That can look a lot of different ways, but deep down, everyone believes something. We are all believers. He says everyone is pursuing something. Everyone follows somebody. He is trying to follow Christ. He says it is about compassion, peace, truth telling and generosity.

My friend, Richard the Sage, said to me yesterday (in a paraphrase of something Einstein once said), “When you look at yourself, something inside informs you that there are bigger and better things to think about.”

(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

WHO IS THE ARTIST?

2006-10-29T10:20:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning, early. Small café not far from my hotel.

I spent the day with my son yesterday, wrapping up our time over a fine dinner near a park along the south bank of the Spokane River in downtown Spokane. This morning I woke up around 6, pulled on a pair of khakis, a wine-colored long-sleeve Eddie Bauer T, wrapped a scarf around my neck and slipped quietly out of the hotel to come here to read for a bit. I avoided the hotel restaurant so I could get out and experience Brandon’s college town a little bit. The breeze blowing the colorful autumn leaves across the sidewalks and streets of the city this morning is quite cool, but more bracing than unwelcome. It was a short walk to the café but I took a little detour that sent me down a walkway along the river where I lingered awhile to take it all in. Fall is definitely in the air.

Yesterday Brandon walked me around the campus to show me where he spends most of his time; where his classes are, where he grabs coffee, where he works out. I had forgotten what a beautiful campus it is. As we drove down the tree-lined street toward the center of the campus a group of girls walking alongside the road waved and called out an enthusiastic greeting. I’m pretty sure they were waving at him, not me. Now a senior, he knows a lot of the students and faculty. This is his world. He’s done well putting together a life here. It is a blessing to be the father of such a fine young man.

When I travel I often bring a book along for the flight. I had picked up a book yesterday that has been getting a lot of publicity. The God Delusion. It was written by the influential scientist, Richard Dawkins. He draws on evolution to attempt to disprove the concept of intelligent design and promote atheism. His prose is full of scorn for people of faith. He says it is the scientist in him that makes him hostile to Christianity. I heard Dawkins interviewed the other day. He said he can’t prove absolutely there is no God, but in his mind, he just can’t imagine it. A lifetime of research has left him believing that a God that could create such an astoundingly beautiful, infinite universe would have to be extremely complex, raising questions over how the creator himself came into existence. How could such a God exist? How would such an entity communicate?

**

Taking in the grassy, forested expanse of the campus yesterday, I found myself again seeing art in the everyday. (Ever see the Banana Republic ad campaign “Find the Art in the Everyday?” Great campaign. Great suggestion.)

On the campus there was this tree, brilliant in its autumn colors, standing in the midst of a forest of evergreens, dropping its leaves. The leaves were falling steadily without pause onto the green lawn. It was like snowfall. At the rate they were falling I could not imagine the tree would make it to day’s end with a single leaf left on a branch. But they just kept falling, raining down, raining down, raining down.

This morning as I walked the sun crested the horizon and the river surface caught the rays as they spread across the scene. The moving water played with the color of the sunrise, carrying it down into an area of rapids where it disappeared into silver as it spilled over and around some boulders. I watched the display, thinking that every moment, every hour, every day, every year, year after year after year, the river is new, ever changing.

The office building where my friend Rick the Scribe does his work is just off a parking lot situated at the base of the foothills of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. He was telling me that usually when he arrives, loaded up with his briefcase and a crate he carries back and forth from his home office, he trudges across the parking lot with his eyes fixed on the pavement, consumed with the task list in his head. But sometimes, every once in awhile, he hears a voice telling him to stop. Stop. Slow down a sec. Turn around and look toward the west at those mountains rising up toward the heavens. Would you just look at that? Is that spectacular or what?

Look for the art in the everyday. Yes. And more than that, look for the artist.

(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

WATER BOTTLES, SHOTGUNS AND AIPORT SECURITY

2006-10-28T14:27:00.000-06:00

I’m flying up to Washington to visit my son for a couple days. They stopped me at security because of a bottle of water. I forgot it was in my carryon bag. The early Saturday flight time found DIA a little less crowded than usual so there wasn’t much of a line at security. The security guy pulled the bottle of water out of my bag and looked at me like my name was Osama bin Laden. I told him I was thirsty so he let me drink some of it before he called in the bomb squad. Glad I don’t need my passport for this flight. I could imagine him opening it up and seeing the stamp from Afghanistan.

Good thing I didn’t bring the shotgun.

Remember the shotgun? The Italian semi-auto in the storage room? The one my son asked me to send to him? I haven’t shot it in years and don’t plan on taking up hunting so I had decided to bring it to him this trip because he has a friend who is into sporting clays. The thought of carrying a firearm into the airport in the current climate of fear of terrorism was not one I was particularly looking forward to today. If they unlock their holsters over a bottle of water imagine what they would’ve done if I'd walked in with a shotgun. I’m thinking someone would’ve needed a change of underwear. Probably me.

As it turned out, Brandon had called the airline for me last night to see what the rules for checking a shotgun were and was told one needs a locking, hard-sided gun case. Ours doesn’t lock. So I called a few friends who are hunters and was surprised none of them have locking gun cases. It’s possible the locking case requirement is a new one since Homeland Security has us in “threat condition orange.” (Wonder if I could’ve brought an orange?) Anyway, the lack of a locking case meant I left the gun at home and am sitting here in the concourse waiting to board the flight without any means of protection. If the real Osama suddenly came running toward gate 52A I wouldn’t even have a bottle of water to pour on him.

(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

DEADLINES AND BLIND CURVES

2006-10-23T20:51:00.000-06:00

All of us learn to write in the second grade. Most of us go on to greater things.
– Bobby Knight

My friend, Rick the Scribe, has been overwhelmed lately. He has been doing his regular job (magazine editor) and writing a book under completely unreasonable deadline pressure. In the spare moments he can squeeze out he bangs his head against the wall for agreeing to do it. The fact is, there are reasonable deadlines and there are unreasonable deadlines. He was given (I swear this is true) one week to write an entire book. And listen to this… The amazing thing is, he did it. He turned the first draft in on time.

What person in his right mind agrees to write an entire book in that amount of time? My friend, Rick the Scribe.

When he came up for his first breath after the marathon, he called me, cell-to-cell, to let me know he made the deadline and would like me to read the first draft. He felt like it was some of the best writing he’d ever done. Said he’d send over a copy. After a couple of days of not receiving it I called him back and he told me this… “Well, my editor had a look at it and made a few suggestions and now I don’t want you to see it until I have fixed it.” He might not have used the word “fix,” but that was the meaning conveyed.

Editors!

After insisting someone write a book in a week the only thing you should do when said someone finishes that task on time is take him to dinner at the nicest restaurant in town and ply him with food and drink until he no longer wants to kill you. Or, if you are an unpleasant, hard-to-like sort of editor, send him to that restaurant with people he really likes, and then go home and eat leftovers.

Cold leftovers.

I remember hearing a writer say that it is always a mistake to enclose with your manuscript a stamped, self-addressed envelope, big enough for the manuscript to come back in. It’s too much of a temptation to an editor.

Rick was then given (are you sitting down?) one week to do the re-write. The amazing thing is, he did that, too. Sent it off to the editor. I haven’t had the nerve to call him to see how it went. He doesn’t have time to answer the phone anyway.

What’s that old saying? There is never enough time, unless you’re serving it.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, in his book “Letters and Papers From Prison” wrote about seeing scrawled upon the wall of his prison cell (no doubt by the former occupant) the words, “In 100 years this will all be over.”

Or in one week if you’re on deadline.

Now that I’m thinking about it… When it comes to life, we’re all on deadline. And we don’t get to know the date. Not the hour, not the day, not even the year. Oh, it’s out there, down that road somewhere. Will it be around this blind curve, or the long straightaway, or just over that next hill? (As it is written, no one but the Father knows about "that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven.") Sometimes we feel we’ll never get there. Other times we’re aware we're rushing toward it like a speeder toward a cop with a radar gun. Gotcha!

Might cause you to wonder if you’re focused on the right thing.

And what’s the editor going to say?

(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

A GLIMPSE INTO THE HEART OF A FATHER

2006-10-21T13:04:00.000-06:00

I’m sitting in a café with Lucy this morning. This is our Saturday morning routine. She brings her book bag. (On any given day she’s reading several books so she needs the bag to haul around her choices. I just asked her what else she keeps in there. She says there are note cards, some articles she has printed off the internet, recipes and a few other odds and ends.) I bring my briefcase containing my Mac, a couple of small notebooks and a sheaf of papers filled with notes from my August travels. I’m still going through those notes. I have trouble reading my own handwriting so I sometimes have to ask Lucy to help me decipher what I’ve written. My penmanship was especially awful during the trek through Afghanistan and Albania. I blame the lack of sleep, bumpy roads, and turbulence at 28,000 ft.

I’m reading through notes I took from conversations I had with people I met along the way. This morning I’m trying to decipher some cryptic entries made during various meetings with missionaries, political officials, the Albanian Defense Minister and an old man I met along a rural highway near Pogradec.

There are notes about a blood fued in Shkoder, an attack on a radio station transmitter site near the Bosnian border, a rat infested slum where I was served Turkish-style coffee by a kind gypsy woman...

...and a taxi ride through Dubai at 135 KPH. There is an entry reminding myself to research and write about something called the AEP, the Albanian Encouragement Project, and another note to write about trying to press the wrinkles out of a very dirty shirt I had to wear during a meeting at the Albanian Defense Ministry.

This after my week in Afghanistan. Everything in my bag was filthy by the time I got to Tirana. (By the way, I did a pretty good job getting the wrinkles out of the shirt but was a sad fashion statement as I shook the hand of the Defense Minister a short time later.)

Small world story. The Defense Minister actually knows a few people with whom I’m acquainted in the United States. He was invited last year to attend the Washington Prayer Breakfast, the annual event in DC where the president speaks. Various international dignitaries were invited and he was one of them. He calls friends several people that I know in Denver. He also has a son who has been quite ill and he has traveled as far as Dallas looking for treatment options for the boy.

Listening to him talk about searching for help for his son in hospitals in Europe and the U.S. I thought, we are not that different he and I. How far would I go to help my son? How obsessed would I be with getting good treatment? He may command a nation’s military forces while I make my living talking on the radio 5 mornings a week but a father is a father. A father loves his children. To have a nation’s armed forces at your command and yet still be desperate; to have all sorts of worldly power yet be helpless to cure your own child...

When I was 13 my older sister was injured in a terrible accident. She spent the next few months in a hospital, doctors fighting to save her life. I remember her crying out in unbearable pain day after day. My parents would ask us to wait down the hall when things were particularly bad. One of the most poignant memories from that time, though, is not of my sister in the intensive care unit, it is of my father pacing the halls outside her room. Occasionally, lost in the reality of his helplessness, he would wander into the waiting room where my brother and I would be sitting, reading or staring out the window as the hours and days and eventually the entire summer slowly passed. He would walk over to the far side of the room trying to find a place where he was alone and unobserved, and he would, for just a moment, be unable to hold it in. He was a strong man. Sometimes scary strong. The sight of tears streaming down the face of the strongest man I knew was something I was not prepared to see. I remember one such time walking over to him and taking hold of his hand. He gripped my hand so hard I thought it would break. It was the desperateness of the grasp that I have never forgotten.

It has been said it is not flesh and blood but the heart that makes us fathers. I was glimpsing the heart of the father in a man of flesh and blood.

(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

CRUNCHY STREETS AND RADIO OMISSIONS

2006-10-18T07:50:00.000-06:00

It is just before six o’clock Wednesday morning, the coffee shop is bustling. It snowed here in Colorado most of the day yesterday but the weather must have cleared sometime in the night. Though dark, I can see bright stars in a very cold sky this morning. The streets are crunchy icy and very slick. I wanted to make sure Lucy’s car (that would be the Jeep this morning) had a full tank of gas so she wouldn’t have to stop in the cold to fill it herself today so I rolled out of bed to an earlier alarm than usual and popped over to the Shell station and then decided to grab a few minutes in the coffee shop community before going back home to my studio and the radio show.

It is rare I get up early enough to do anything before the radio show but the gas tank was on my mind so I set the alarm early. Plus, I love driving in fresh-fallen snow. I’m weird that way. In other ways, too, as it turns out.

The Starbucks community at 6 a.m. is a special group. Weekday mornings they are scrubbed and clean and dressed for the workday, but still in need of a java jolt. Contrast that with Sunday morning early. My Sunday routine has me stopping early at a coffee shop near my church to read the Sunday Times (it has a great book review section) and relax a bit on my own, especially on mornings when I’ll be speaking to the congregation. I love the alone time to collect my thoughts. I also love to people watch. On Sundays people drag themselves into the shop disheveled, hair sticking up, old sweat pants on and t-shirts wrinkled as if they slept in them. They have no idea how goofy they look and they don’t care. There will be the occasional person heading early to church, like me, and they’ll be cleaned up. The rest of the crowd, though, arrives unconsciously unkempt, comfortable, with nowhere in particular to be and no thought of appearance distracting their minds.

**

It is a bit odd, driving through a fresh snowfall in Colorado to a coffee shop to have a pre-dawn cup before going into my studio to do the radio show which broadcasts in southern Arizona, where there is no snow, no crunchy icy streets. Stranger still is, I won’t even mention my early morning experience here. I talk about just about everything on the show except being in Colorado. The geography of my life is not particularly important to the lives of the listeners. So every morning when I sit down in front of the microphone, I do a subconscious mental shift that puts me in, not my own studio, but the studio in Tucson with the rest of the morning show crew. This is rarely a difficult exercise. I know Tucson as well as I know any other place. On the show, I’m there no matter where I am.

The only time that odd arrangement seems odd is on a morning like this.

(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

THE ART OF COMMUNICATION

2006-10-12T15:02:00.000-06:00

I left my home office midday today to get out and enjoy the fall weather for a couple of hours, then landed here at one of my favorite coffee shops; a favorite because it is attached to a bookstore where I can surround myself with bookshelves and allow myself a little “lost in thought” time in an environment that truly agrees with me. So much for being outside enjoying the weather. Then I realized I left the house without a pair of reading glasses. Rule number 1, never take the travel pair out of the computer bag. This is why I paid for multiple pairs of glasses, so I could leave them all at home and find myself half blind in a bookstore. After about twenty minutes of wandering among the books, squinting like a man looking into the sun as I tried to make out titles, I decided reading could wait till later and I would instead sit down and write today’s musings, though don’t hold me responsible for any typos.

Got an email from a friend the other evening about possibly helping start a small fellowship group. The thought is to gather together three or four couples every week to eat a meal, have fun, encourage one another in our marriages and our lives, and consider ways to improve communication skills with one another. I don’t know if we have time to be in the group, but I like the idea. We have been talking with some other friends about another small group that would meet just twice a month. Easier to think about working that into the schedule. One fellow wrote out a thoughtful description of the goals of the group and emailed it to me. I read through it and, in the spirit of being communicative, forwarded it on to my wife’s email address. I was in my home office/studio, where I generally work. She was upstairs in the den where she has her computer.

The next day I shared this with my friend, Dave, and he expressed amusement that I emailed Lucy rather than walk to the other part of the house where she was sitting and talk to her about the idea. I email her at least once almost every day. Sometimes, since I work on a portable Mac, I will go into her den while she is working on her computer and I’ll sit in the old leather chair in the corner next to the window seat (the chair that was my father’s 30 years ago and that I probably should think about having reupholstered one of these days but can’t bear to think of it looking any different than it looked when dad sat in it) with my Mac on my lap and I will catch up on my email as she catches up on her email. We do this often. She will send mail to me and I will send mail to her. We’re sitting only 7 feet from one another. Clicking “send” is so convenient. If I actually speak I might break her concentration. So instead, I send her email that travels from my computer, over the wireless system in the house, out into cyberspace across the Internet and perhaps around the world before, just seconds later, it finds its way back through the ether to her computer in our home at the end of the long driveway at the bottom of the cul de sac where, 7 feet from one another, we peck the keys on our keyboards, in close physical proximity but quiet as a couple of church mice. There are advantages to this. If anyone ever asks if we are working to keep the lines of communication open, we not only can say yes, but we have a written record of it.

And lately, there is this blog as well. My wife reads it a couple times per week and finds out all sorts of things about what I’ve been doing.

Isn’t that right, Lucy?

(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

-

CALLS FROM MY SON AND AN UNDERWEAR SCARE

2006-10-09T18:34:00.000-06:00

I am not one of those people who, when the phone rings, will knock over furniture to get to it before it switches over to voicemail. I will admit to occasionally checking the Caller ID to see who is calling before deciding whether to pick up. If the display says something like, Market Research Inc., they get the voicemail. If its an 800 number…voicemail. If it says, IRS… Actually, if it says IRS I answer it in a disguised voice and tell them I’ve never heard of Brad Behan but that I am sure he must have moved away to Kyrgyzstan and changed his name to Mikhail or Boris or Vladimir so they should just give up trying to reach him.

On the other hand, I do my best to never miss a call from my son. Brandon is into his senior year in college and I feel blessed every time he calls me to talk. And for some reason he’s been calling me quite often lately. I love that. He doesn’t even need any money. I love that even more. And he wants me to come visit him. I love that the most.

You have to understand, he’s been away three years now and is pretty well adjusted to being on his own. I suppose as a parent one should feel good when a child successfully makes the transition to being out in the world on his own. Our job, after all, is to bring them up in a way they can handle the adjustment and succeed without us. But my son has always been exceptionally adept at managing himself “out there.” Even though he is 21 years old now being a dad allows me to remember as if it were just yesterday the time I walked him to his first day at elementary school. While most of the other parents were taking their kids all the way into the classroom to drop them off – the kids crying at the thought of separation, hanging onto mom or dad like a lobbyist clutching a congressman – my 6-year-old son stopped halfway across the schoolyard. It had only been a short walk from our home to the school and he was already quite familiar with the playground since we had made a habit of going there often to slide down the slide and climb on the jungle gym. The outside of the school was familiar territory. But inside? I felt like we were crossing an ocean and I was about to leave him on some distant shore. Anyway, as we approached the school he stopped suddenly, looked up at me, pulled his hand free from mine and said, “Okay daddy, I know how to get there from here. You don’t need to come inside.”

At that moment, part of me died. It was a place previously unknown to me, hidden deep down inside. Even in that instant I knew the feeling was part of parenthood, that there would be more moments like it in the years to come.

By the time he graduated high school he had been to many far away lands, several without me along with him, and had already shown he was one of those kids who could get on a plane to anywhere and adjust within a couple days. He’d worked at a leadership camp in the mountains one summer. He’d taken mission trips to Mexico. He’d been to Trinidad and Tobago. Each time on departure day he’d given me a hug, said he’d call when he got there, and took off on his own with no evident fear or sense of doubt.

I remember taking him to college his freshman year, and watching him squirm with some degree of embarrassment as I insisted on helping carrying his stuff into the dorm. Other dads were doing the same thing with their kids. There was nothing weird about it but he was ready to be on his own. After a few arguments during the move-in, I pretty much stayed outside in the parking lot with his mom and waited to be needed. The odds were better that he would have come out and asked for his childhood teddy bear than ask for any help. From me anyway. He did come get Lucy once or twice to ask her opinion on things like bedding and the such. A little while later, after an awkward hug between the two of us (when had a hug become awkward?) I left him there and we started the long drive home, Lucy crying openly most of the way and me more broken than I’d ever felt in my life. I moped around our home for weeks after that nearly unable to function. He connected on campus in record time. It was amazing. It took me months to brave even going into his room for fear I’d lose it completely and they’d send the men with the straight-jacket to take me away.

Two years later he spent a semester overseas. He had a couple days where he was homesick and called a bunch, then he adjusted to the new surroundings and never looked back.

Now he’s a senior and calls me almost every day. I think he even misses me. It only took three years.

Here at home his cousin my nephew has moved in and the place isn’t so quiet anymore. And there is something comfortingly reminiscent of the years with Brandon at home when I find a slice of pizza on the couch or an apple core on the carpet near the bench press in the exercise room.

The other day I found something in my underwear drawer that didn’t belong in there. I don't want to go into it here, but if you want the gory details, may I suggest you…

…click here for the unsettling details.

A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE ON $3.07

2006-10-05T19:32:00.000-06:00

My problem lies in reconciling my gross habits
with my net income. – Errol Flynn

We were invited to a fund-raising dinner for a charitable organization last night. As I was getting ready for the evening late yesterday, slathering shaving cream onto my face (thought about shaving the beard I grew during the mission trip – decided against it and rinsed the shaving cream off), I was thinking that after three years of my son being in private college, I could not really afford to be much help to the fund-raising effort. Hey, one of Brandon’s textbooks this year cost $100. Cost of all his books this semester: over $400. And then there’s food and housing and clothing and, oh yes, tuition. I’d write the total figure down here but I can’t bear to see it in print.

So I finished at the sink, pulled on a dress shirt and suit pants, started picking through the dozens of ties I own, trying to decide which would look best, and continued my self-obsession. I have, at times, joked that when it comes to financial matters, I have all the money I need to last the rest of my life… unless I buy something.

If you can count your money, you don’t have a billion dollars. – J. Paul Getty

John D. Rockefeller was once asked, how much money is enough? His answer? A dollar more than you have. So the rich are different. They’re funnier. Only thing is, I don’t think he was joking. I have heard it said, make money your god and it will plague you like the devil.

This morning on the radio show I was talking about the couple from Iowa who won a $200 million Powerball jackpot. Lottery officials said the odds of winning were 140 million-to-one. They beat the odds. She works at Wal-Mart. He is a car detailer. I write that in the present tense but feel those may already be past tense details. I have got to believe if you wake up with $200 million suddenly in your checking account you’re probably not thinking about spending your day wearing a plastic name tag and greeting people at Wal-Mart. "Hi, my name is Carla. I just came into work today so I could tell you I'm rich and don't have to shop here anymore, let alone work here. I have to go now. I hear the Neiman-Marcus Christmas catalogue is out and I want to order early." Her husband, on the other hand, may continue to detail his own car. Some guys love doing that. Or, he could just buy a new one every time it gets dirty.

Haven’t heard what they plan to do with the money. I always wonder, when I read about someone winning a ton of money. That’s always the first question reporters ask. So, how you gonna spend it? It would be easy to judge them for how they decide to spend their cash. After all, they’ve got so much. Not like the average Joe. Not like you or me.

Hmm. Right.

Back to the dozens of ties in my closet and the choice of suits. Not to mention what I spend at Starbucks every week. Come on Brad, lighten up. Your average latte only costs $3.07 plus tip.

Yes, that’s true. And half of the world, nearly 3 billion people, live on less than two dollars per day. 1.3 billion have no access to clean water. I learned last night that the majority of childhood illness around the world is a direct result of unsanitary water.

In the time it will take me to write the words in this blog post hundreds of people will die of starvation. Imagine that. Hundreds more will die by the time I go into my kitchen, make a sandwich and eat it.

Bono, the front man for the Irish band U2, said in a speech recently, “where you live should not determine whether you live or die.

But in this world, it does. This fallen, broken, troubled world.

Why am I so blessed? That is not a rhetorical question. I ask sincerely.

The dinner for World Vision last night was great and the speaker even better. He is a successful businessman who has in recent years had his life changed by a trip to Africa. He witnessed unbelievable poverty, saw people die before his very eyes.
He saw more orphans and widows than he could count. He saw that, despite what the numbers may portray from thousands of miles away, people don’t die en mass. The death toll is not just a statistic. Each one that dies is an individual, just like you and me. Each death leaves devastated loved ones asking why.

His friends have asked him why one needs to go to Africa to help people? Isn’t there work to be done here? He said, yes, clearly there is plenty of work to do here in our own country. You don’t need to go anywhere. But, personally, he said he will be forever indebted to Africa, that Africa awakened him when he didn’t even know he was asleep. It allowed God to give him his own personal passageway to meaning and purpose. And he prayed that everyone who seeks one will find a similar path, that each will find his or her own Africa.

Back in the 1950s, having had his eyes opened to Third World struggle, another man prayed that his heart would be broken by the things that break God’s heart. That man went on to start World Vision, an organization dedicated to helping children and their communities reach their full potential by tackling the causes of poverty.

I remember praying before leaving on a mission trip this past August that my eyes would be open to see, and my heart willing to embrace, the things God had in mind to show me. While in Afghanistan, seeing things first hand I had never seen before and considering the varied forces working against peace and stability for the people there, it was hard not to feel a sense of hopelessness.

But I am only human, and while my vision is limited I know that hopelessness is not a characteristic of the heart of God.

(Click here for information on World Vision)

FLIPPING THE CALENDAR PAGE

2006-10-01T08:29:00.000-06:00

A New Month

Calendars are for careful people, not passionate ones. - Anonymous

On my way to church this morning I stopped at Starbucks and it happened again.

I paid for my double-short, extra hot, double-cup, breve latte with a twenty dollar bill and got, as part of my change, a crumpled, faded, ripped, plague-infested ten dollar bill. The thing was just gross. It was not only crumpled, faded ripped and plague-infested, it was kinda wet. Definitely damp.

Who is passing these bills?

**

I found out I am a Blogger. I didn’t know. I was reading an article in Forbes magazine last night. It quoted a person it referred to as an “entrepreneur and blogger.” So this blog writing thing actually comes with a title. I didn’t realize we were that far along. If Forbes ever decides to write a story quoting me, I would probably be referred to as “broadcaster and blogger, Brad Behan.”

Next week when we start the Podcast I suppose I will also be a “Podcaster.” And while we’re labeling, I should mention that I am also a jogger. So if you’re going to be accurate, I am a “Jogger, Blogger, Broadcaster, Podcaster. I’ll need a longer business card.

MAKING THE IMPOSSIBLE POSSIBLE

2006-09-27T15:03:00.000-06:00

Time is the most valuable thing a man can spend. – Theophrastus

There’s something to ponder.

Gets me thinking about how I have spent my free time the past few days. Not that I had any free time. Is there really any such thing as free time? You’ve heard the phrase “time well spent?”

I had lunch with my friend Richard the Sage today. Over a very tasty cup of soup I confessed I was having trouble budgeting my time, getting things done. It seems sometimes that the harder I concentrate on my vision, the more I lose my sight. I asked if he might help me come up with a plan. Richard the Sage said, no he would not. He feels, the way I am wired, that “plan” is a word loaded with potential pitfalls and suggested I use the word “path” instead. And, yes, he would be happy to help me with the path.

The path. I do like that better.

So we talked vision and possibility alongside burden and practicality and I agreed to spend some time getting all my thoughts down on paper, which I will give to him so he can ponder it all and help me put together a pla… I mean help me see a path. He said a lot of other things but I was concentrating on the soup and have forgotten most of it.

Next time we’ll just meet over coffee.

Years can pass by without you realizing what is happening and you wake up one day and you are in your 40s and your son is away at college and it hits you… This won’t last forever. St. Augustine once said “God has promised forgiveness to your repentance; but he has not promised tomorrow to your procrastination.”

I remember talking with another friend of mine, Rick the Thoughtful, about the idea that God always rejoices when we dare to dream. I had heard someone say that “we are actually much like God when we dream. The Lord exults in newness, delights in stretching the old. He wrote the book on making the impossible possible.” I asked Rick the Thoughtful if this was a theologically sound statement and he felt that, indeed, it is.

I like that.

Try this sometime. Sit down with pad and pencil and start writing down all the things you feel you need to do, love to do, want to do; all the things you feel pressured to manage, all the things you feel are heavy on your heart. Write down dreams you have. Picture your life ten years down the road. What do you want it to look like? Are you on “a path” toward realizing that picture. Jot it all down, even fleeting thoughts that move you; the shoulds and the woulds and the coulds and even the if onlys. Don’t hurry. Getting all this down may take some time but find the time to do it.

Then give it all to Richard the Sage, buy him a bowl of soup and see what he has to say.

NOTEBOOKS AND CRIMINALS AND SHADOWS AND LIGHT

2006-09-22T19:26:00.000-06:00

You can't have a light without a dark to stick it in. - Arlo Guthrie

I was supposed to be on a flight to Tucson today but things unexpectedly changed at the last minute so I will be home this weekend. That is okay with me as I have about a hundred things to do here. Picking my way through a pile of papers after the radio show this morning I found a wad of notes stuck into a journal I carried around with me while traveling Afghanistan. I had filled the pages with my scribbled observations and so had moved on to another notebook, the contents of which I later ripped out on the flight from Vienna to Frankfurt and stuck into the first journal thinking it was best to keep it organized all in one place so that I wouldn’t have to look through different books when I was writing about it all later. Sometime in the exercise of unpacking my bags the whole mess found its way to the middle of the pile of papers I stumbled upon in my office today, three and a-half weeks after the paper shuffle on the Lufthansa flight. So much for organization.

I remember last year, after my wife and I returned from a trip to Maastricht and some other places, one of the bags was somehow set aside and it was a month before I found it under the bed in our guest room, still fully packed.

That was the trip during which all our camera gear was stolen. My wife and I had walked to a little café adjacent to our hotel in Amsterdam for breakfast and I left her there, with an espresso and the camera bag, while I ran back to the hotel to ask the concierge for a walking map of the city center. I wasn’t gone five minutes. In that time a couple of thieves, working together like they do in those old American Express commercials, distracted her long enough to grab the bag and disappear. When I returned she was standing in the middle of the café, shouting. The waitresses were looking at her as if she had lost her mind and for just the slightest moment I wondered myself until I realized what she was shouting.

He took the bag! He took the cameras!

Then she ran outside the café and I, slowly realizing what was happening, chased out after her. Then we stopped. We stood there, together on the broad expanse that on the one side opened to the street and rail lines separating us from the train station where we had arrived the night before, and on the other, the dense collection of structures that front the circular city center and canals. We were strangers in this place.

The thieves were long gone, swallowed up by the narrow streets emptying out onto the boulevard where we stood feeling sick and violated and bewildered and alone.

--
Last Friday afternoon I was traveling to a retreat in the Rocky Mountains near Kremmling, winding my way along a road snaking it’s way up a sun-soaked valley. I was driving mostly north-northwest, alongside a river, taking off and putting back on my sunglasses as the sun danced just above the tree line on top of a high ridge. Finally, as the afternoon gave way to evening, I rounded a bend edging my way closer to the mountain as the road sunk into heavy shadow. It seemed suddenly dark and I thought to myself that it was unlikely the valley would open up again to the late evening light so I put the sunglasses away in the glove compartment.

Life can feel that way. We go through times where it seems very dark indeed and sometimes in the midst of that darkness we can’t imagine it ever being light again. We think, better get used to this.

A few minutes later the valley opened up, the river and the road curved left around a corner and a flood of sunlight filled the horizon. The brilliance of it was nearly blinding. Follow me, it beckoned. Steer toward the light.

DIGGING MYSELF OUT OF THE HOLE I DUG MYSELF INTO

2006-09-15T13:30:00.000-06:00

Never say something behind someone’s back. That’s good advice for all of us. But it is particularly good advice if you make a living hosting a radio show. Take it from me.

Here’s the thing. When you host a radio show, you really have no say over who listens. Who hears what is completely out of your control.

It is not unlike a blog on the internet. You never know who might read it. Remember when I wrote about my son and the shotgun ownership question? I found out he does read my blog.

Not that I’m complaining.

But I need to use this space to clear up a little misconception about my feelings about my nephew, Luke, moving in. I told a little story on the air, which a certain someone heard. That someone told another someone, who told another someone, and on and on until my sister heard the story.

(Click here to listen to the radio discussion that may have given the wrong impression, then come back here for my feeble attempt at clarification)

The fact of the matter is, I am very glad he is living with us. Several months ago I told my wife that if Luke moves to town, we should offer to have him stay at our place until he gets situated. No, really. I did. I was the first to bring up the possibility way back when. Our son is off at college, we’re empty-nesters. We’ve got room. Only thing is…I forgot about it. Then I left the country for a couple weeks for the mission trip to Afghanistan and Albania. It was while I was away that Luke decided to move to town and into our house at the invitation of his aunt, my wife.

I was tired when I returned. I’m still tired. So I should be forgiven for being surprised.

Since the discussion on the radio show, Luke has been a blessing from God. He is painting the trim on the south side of our home, and redoing the deck. You can’t buy help like that. Well, you could, but why would you when you can get your 22-year-old nephew to do the work for free?

He’s a wonderful young man.

Plus, he reads this blog.

RELIVING HORROR AND THINKING ABOUT BEAUTY

2006-09-11T08:33:00.000-06:00

Last night as I sat down to spend some time preparing for this morning’s radio show I found myself torn. I was listening to some of the audio I had in the archives from this day 5 years ago and felt a flood of emotion.

(Click here and you'll see what I mean.)

Reliving it again I thought, I don’t I want to do this. It is not a place I want to go.

Then again, it is not wise to take the show in a direction that is out-of-sync with the hearts and minds of listeners. Bobby & Mrs. Grant and I had a few discussions on how to approach the show and came to a consensus that it would be wise to strike a balance between “remembering” and moving forward.

In this space today I find myself thinking about the grace of God. The singer-songwriter Sara Groves says God’s grace is an invitation to be beautiful. She says the Lord has invited us, as mere human beings, to add to the beauty of his plan and creation. She says, if I may quote her here, “the Kingdom of God transcends politics and policy, nationality, gender and race. It transcends the way we do church, and makes us a real live body of believers. It gives us the ability to be very different and still bear with one another. It gives us the power to extend the same kind of grace that has been extended to us, and to love each other with a love that never fails. The very real kingdom of God calls out of us, it’s inhabitants, beautiful art, creative lives, and redemptive work.”

I love that. In a world that feels, at times, very dark indeed, God invites us to “add to the beauty…” Bring light into the lives of others.

Another favorite artist of mine, Phil Keaggy, says he believes the art of being has to do with the art of giving, the art of loving. After all, he points out, “scripture tells us that ‘it is more blessed to give than to receive,’ and that the only thing that really matters is ‘faith working through love.’" To believe we are important for who we are is to believe we have the potential to love and give.

That is something worth reflecting on throughout a day filled with reflection.

EMAIL, GOAT MEAT, & FIREARMS

2006-09-07T15:26:00.000-06:00

I am finally caught up on the email. While I was traveling it backed up like my digestive system at the all-you-can-eat goat meat buffet at the Best Western Kabul. Alright, so there was no goat meat buffet in Kabul. No Best Western, either. But there was a buffet, actually, at the Serena Hotel, though I don’t think the meat was from a goat. I don’t know what sort of meat it was. But I ate it because everyone warned me not to eat the vegetable-looking stuff or the bowl of cold soup because of the water and I had to eat something so the meat-like substance won by default.

But I digress. I was thinking about all the email I had to sort through when I got home. Took me more than a week to clean out the inbox. The very occasional computer access I had overseas did not give me enough time to even think about going through the mail and I didn’t want to leave any of it unanswered if I could help it. I got some really encouraging notes from people I now feel connected to, even though we’ve never actually met.

Speaking of email… Take a second and go to your email inbox and see how many you have in there. I’ll wait here.

Well?

I was just using my wife’s computer a little while ago and in her inbox in Outlook there are 343 messages. 343. I can’t stop thinking about it. We have completely different approaches to dealing with email. For me, email in the inbox represents work to be done. As long as the mail is in there, I feel I’m not done working. I know I can rest only once the inbox is empty. A bunch of email in the inbox is as annoying to me as someone parked in my driveway honking their horn to get my attention. My wife, on the other hand, seems unaffected by this sort of thing. She treats the inbox like other people treat the junk drawer in the desk. Every so often she rummages through there to see what she can find, and occasionally she actually starts to clean it out, moving half a-dozen out of there every few days. At the same time, 30 or 40 more arrive. She’s got a few thousand in the deleted folder. Doesn’t bother her at all. I’m never going to use her computer again.

My son, Brandon, emailed me the other day asking if I would ship a shotgun to him because he has a friend at his college whose family owns some land nearby where they all want to go and shoot trap. He wrote, “Dad, could you ship my shotgun to me?” It was only after I replied yes and logged off that I remembered the shotgun is not his shotgun. It is my shotgun. I never use it, but it is my shotgun. It’s some kind of fancy Italian model. He has some other kind of gun that has gone untouched in the storage room for the past 6 years. Its not the sort of gun one uses to shoot trap. Neither of us are hunters so I’m not even sure why we have the guns. I’ve been trying to figure out how to write him back or call him and tell him the shotgun is not his, and now that he’s reminded me that we have one in the storage room I’m thinking of selling it and using the money for something we actually need. I feel guilty because he obviously thinks it is his and I didn’t correct him on that point when I had the chance.

Had my wife received that email, it might have gotten lost among the hundreds of other emails in her inbox and that would have been the end of it. But there it is, in my inbox, honking its obnoxious little horn.

I wonder if Brandon reads dad’s blog?

TERRORISTS AND BUTT DOUBLES

2006-09-06T21:13:00.000-06:00

I’ve been working in the broadcast business for 25 years now so I pay attention to the news. Let me tell you this… What qualifies as news around here is a world apart from the news in Afghanistan. During my time there it was clear that the pressing issues of the day were generally life and death matters. Consequently, the news is serious. Always. In an earlier blog I wrote about the headlines from the only English-language newspaper I saw while I was there. On the front page alone there were three or four stories about terrorism: suicide bombings, increasing rebel attacks, etc. Other stories involved the opium crop funding insurgents, land mine dangers, bin Laden. Heavy stuff.

It’s not that we don’t have problems around here. Certainly we do. But we clearly have the luxury of not focusing on them all the time.

The top stories here in the U-S today included: Katie Couric taking over as the anchor of CBS News, Rosie on The View, photos published of Tom and Katie’s baby (finally!), and actor Luke Wilson hiring a butt double for a nude scene in a movie. He said choosing a stunt butt was very difficult. Whoa. Stop the presses.

Hey…inquiring minds want to know these things! And we are blessed enough to be able to indulge in trivial distraction.

Speaking of trivial distraction…

According to a new book by a Sudanese woman who says she was Osama bin Laden’s slave ten years ago, the terrorist is obsessed with Whitney Houston. He claimed her music was evil, but hopes someday to come to America and secretly meet with her. He says she has a nice smile. (If its in the tabloids it must be true.)

And here I thought it was a slow news day in America.

TOO MUCH TO DO AND A NAKED GUY IN A COFFEE SHOP

2006-09-05T17:50:00.000-06:00

There is a lot of work to do yet before I’ll be caught up. I still have a notebook full of notes from the trip that I have yet to decipher and expand upon. Not to mention lots of things on the home front to-do list.

Isn’t it amazing how the pace of life can be so unrelenting. After checking out of the normal day to day routine to go overseas for nearly two weeks, the demands of the day wasted no time swelling up like a wave and crashing down on top of me. What happened to the task list while I was gone? It got along without having me to bully for 12 days. It seems it could get along without me now that I’m back. But no.

The radio show is always full of its demands but I don’t have any real complaints there. It is what I do and so the preparation must be done. And I have to be honest in admitting that most of the rest of the things I have to do are things I signed on for so who can I blame for that?

And what am I doing now? I’m sitting in a coffee shop about twenty minutes drive from my house pecking away at the Mac as my espresso gets cold.

So I admit it. I’m slacking off. It doesn’t help get the work done but I excuse it by telling myself I am still working off the jet lag. I can work longer tomorrow. I have about 20 phone calls to make but those can wait as well. I’m not “networking” this afternoon I’m “notworking.” I’m letting opportunity open its own darn door. I’m de-nosing the grindstone for a few hours.

After the show today I was writing stories for tomorrow when I came across the story of a guy in Bend, Oregon, who is in trouble for what he did at a coffee shop. Twice. He forgot his pants. Walked into the place naked from the waist down. He said he just wanted to see what it felt like. Imagine looking up from your mocha frappuccino to see some guy standing in line with his private parts exposed.

Also saw, on the Associated Press newswire, a story of some thieves who broke into a bank in Malaysia early the other morning, wrapped some ropes around an ATM, tied the other ends to a car, and pulled the machine right out of the wall. Problem was, the machine they ripped out of the wall was not an ATM. Kinda looked like one, but it was actually simply the box where people deposit checks. The police got there about the time the men opened the box and found only checks. No cash.

And, finally, there is this… Police in Italy came to Mario Rivera’s house to question him about a drug ring they thought he might be connected with. Officers looking around Mario’s place quickly found cocaine hidden in a shampoo bottle. The reason they found it quickly? Mario is bald.

Sometimes the show writes itself.

THE BODY CLOCK ADJUSTMENT CHALLENGE

2006-09-02T07:19:00.000-06:00

I can’t believe I didn’t get anything written here the past few days. I’m certainly not earning my pay. Oh, that’s right, I don’t get paid for this.

It would seem the exhausting nature of the travel to Afghanistan/Albania and the 10 hour jet lag was more than I had anticipated. Needed to sleep. At night if possible. Monday, the first day back, was spent in a zombie-like stupor, not really asleep but far from awake. My wife and I had several long conversations that I don’t remember. I stared a lot at nothing in particular and dozed off without much warning several times. I was then wide awake all night. I managed to do the radio show Tuesday morning but am pretty sure we won’t be winning any awards for that broadcast. On the other hand, it is possible I’m a better broadcaster when only half conscious. (If you happened to hear that show, don’t feel the need to email any critiques.)

Wednesday was not a lot better but I finally managed to sleep during the night rather than on and off all day and am now, Saturday morning, feeling like my body clock is close to correct. Or would be if I were on a ship about a-thousand miles off the eastern seaboard.

But that is a lot closer to home than Afghanistan, or Vienna, for that matter (captured in the above photograph as our flight from Albania was approaching to land). I must say it seemed somehow unfair to me that, after the time in Afghanistan, I would only be in Vienna long enough to tour the airport.

And I complain!

While in Albania, I visited a school for Roma (Gypsy) children run by an American missionary.

She is there with the Christian organization Youth With a Mission, YWAM. The school gives the 160 kids the blessing of an education, the love of the teachers, and food to eat. Then many of the children go home to conditions you wouldn’t believe; families of six living in one small room in rat-infested slums. No running water. No electricity.

The stop at the school was part of a full day of visiting missionaries who, in their hearts to follow Jesus, had made Albania (the poorest country in Europe) their home. I met some of the most amazing, beautiful people you could ever encounter.

Even as I visited the various mission teams, I confess I was thinking about how tired I was from the past eleven days. I was thinking about home. Sleep. Clean clothes. It’s not that I wasn’t deeply impacted by what I was experiencing. As I have said before, I believe when you get a glimpse into the heart of God, you see something often missed by much of this world.

Yet still, I was thinking of myself.

**

Here’s something interesting. The experts (whoever they are) say, when it comes to adjusting to jet lag, it takes a full day for every hour of time difference. If that is true I won’t be truly back on track until the middle of next week.

STILL TOO JET-LAGGED TO WRITE

2006-08-29T16:08:00.000-06:00

But I did manage to get some photos up in the gallery.

Click on the Photo Gallery link near the top right of this page, or click here.

WHY IT TOOK SO LONG TO GET HOME

2006-08-28T22:51:00.000-06:00

WHICH FLIGHT IS MINE?

Some random thoughts and pics.

Finally made it out of Kabul and flew to Dubai where I was to catch the flight to athens. You know, the flight that took an unexpected little detour to Kuwait in the mddle of the night. Nothing about that on my itinerary or tickets. But with this departure board for a reference I should perhaps be thankful I didn't end up in Baghdad.

Not being schooled in reading Arabic script, I can only guess that my flight is the squiggly yellow one five down from the top. Now, which gate do you suppose that is?

UNEXPECTED ROAD HAZARDS

I saw quite a few of these parked outside the airport at Kabul. It may be an American SUV, but with the organization name/logo on the side, it is another sobering reminder you're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.

I'm not sure whether you should follow a truck like that or avoid it at all costs.

PLAN AHEAD

I do know this, when planning the time it takes to get to the airport to make your flight for the escape from Afghanistan, you need to pack early, make sure you don't have anything in your baggage that will slow you down at the security checkpoints, and you need to give yourself extra time to deal with unexpected traffic jams.

Even though I am home now, I do want to have that little follow-up chat with the person who arranged the travel. I'd like to know more about the surprise trip into Kuwait, the 30 extra hours in Kabul, and the propensity to book us on flights that took off at two a.m.

FINALLY ON BOARD FLIGHT FOR HOME SWEET HOME

After this trip, it didn't take long to fall asleep.

ARMED CAMP

2006-08-25T00:29:00.000-06:00

A FLASHBACK

I am now in Tirana, Albania and have already met with one of the mission group directors here. We had an espresso at a café in the city. Had not slept at all in two days so was attempting to stay awake until dark and then get a good night’s sleep.

It is morning now and I am feeling a little more rested. We have a very full day of meetings today.

More on all that later. Right now I want to flash back to my extra 30 hours in Kabul, Tuesday-Wednesday.

The hotel we found was quite nice. Given the reality I had already experienced in Kabul, this place belonged in some other world. But here it was, Kabul Serena Hotel. The coalition bigwigs stay there.

As we approached the place in our taxi the number and variety of troops increased. Half a mile or so from the property there were armed soldiers everywhere I looked; lots of Afghan forces, but also American troops in desert camouflage. Heavily armed, very serious-looking American troops. There was a sharp contrast between the American guys and the other troops. The Afghans mostly stood around looking bored. Either that or they were all piled into the backs of pickup trucks going for joy rides like high school kids zooming around the stadium parking lot after a Friday night football game.

The U.S. troops, fewer in number, were all business. I got the feeling something big was going down. When we got to the hotel I found out I was right. The Serena was hosting a bunch of Pakistani generals at something called the “Combined Forces Dinner.” The generals, along with many U.S. officers and a contingent of State Department-types were arriving about the time our taxi pulled up to the hotel gate.

And what a gate it was, 11 or 12 feet high, steel, set in a high wall that surrounded the hotel grounds. Guarding the gate were what appeared to be Afghan and Pakistani troops, but in front of them, clearly the ones in charge, were more American troops, guns very much at the ready, earphones and microphones wrapped around their heads, all communicating with one another as they took a close look at anyone approaching.

We got out of the taxi about 20 yards from the gate. As we approached we were patted down, our luggage was opened and searched, and we were directed to walk through the sort of metal detector you see at airports. Once through all that we proceeded through the gate and a hotel bellman waiting on the other side loaded our luggage onto a cart and led the way across an inner courtyard crawling with troops to the hotel entrance, where we passed through another metal detector on our way to the lobby and the registration desk. I felt like I was on the set of some sort of Hollywood war movie.

Inside the lobby we saw more soldiers, some with German Shepherd dogs, and a bunch of Pakistani officers. In contrast to the American guys in their desert camouflage the Pakistanis were decked out in dress uniforms with medals and gold braid all over their coats. They looked like marching band directors. Lots of lower-ranking Pakistani soldiers were lounging around, too, looking bored out of their minds. Again, in contrast, half a dozen U.S. troops (I took them to be Special Forces guys but what do I know?) were stationed around looking ready to pounce if provoked. I said hello to a few of them and they acknowledged me respectfully but did not allow themselves to be distracted.

(Their vigilance was understandable and appreciated. I heard the State Department-types talking about a suicide bomber who had blown himself up near a U.N. patrol south of Kabul the day before.)

After nearly a week of sleeping on a floor, the hotel room bed was a welcome change.

IN THIS WORLD YOU WILL HAVE TROUBLE

2006-08-24T10:24:00.000-06:00

(I managed to get out of Afghanistan. Read on.)

You won’t even believe where I am and what I’ve been doing the past 11 hours. Even I can’t believe it. There were two very big surprises. The first was unwelcome but, in the end, unavoidable. The second was one of the great experiences of my life so far. But I need to back up several thousand miles and a couple of days first to get some things that are heavy on my heart out of my thoughts and onto the page here.

First…news flash to all the U.S.-based airlines. A couple days ago, on a Kam Air flight from Heart back to Kabul, I managed to fall asleep and awoke only when the wheels touched down on the runway at Kabul airport. Because I was asleep, I did not return my seatback to its full and upright position before landing. And get this… Nothing bad happened! We didn’t crash or anything. And that’s not all. My tray table was down the entire time. I am not making this up! The flight attendant never woke me to say anything. In Afghanistan they don’t much sweat the small stuff.

Yes, on Tuesday I (along with Peter the Aussie and another friend on this trip, Hal) left the team in Herat after an emotional goodbye and returned to Kabul, hoping to make a connection to Dubai. It didn’t work out, though, so we had to spend another 30 hours in Afghanistan. I managed to find an English language Afghanistan paper to read on the flight. A quick scan of the headlines painted a vivid picture of the situation here:

“15 Militants Killed in Volatile Helmand”
“Sources of Terrorism in Pakistan”
“720 Million Sq Meters of Land Not Cleared of Mines in Afghanistan”
“ISAF Vehicle Patrol Attacked by Suicide Car Bomber”
“Bin Laden Still Deadly Relevant”
“4 ISAF Soldiers Injured, 9 Rebels Killed in Kandahar”
“World not Doing Enough on Afghan Drugs, Karzai”

All that in the current issue of the Daily Outlook Afghanistan.

Later, on the way from Kabul airport to find a hotel (we decided not to stay in the team guest house this time) I saw more amputees begging alongside the road.

I had, before leaving the relief team in Herat, been reading the little Bible I keep with me. Jesus’ words in John 16… “In this world you will have trouble, but take heart! I have overcome the world.” I wonder, had I not come to faith all those years ago, how hopeless I would feel in this dark place? Afghanistan breaks your heart. At the same time, what but the heart of God could compel a person to voluntarily come here and try to make a difference? There is indeed hope in that.

I will never forget the people I have met here. They came before me and they stay after.

**

SURPRISE SURPRISE

The unwelcome surprise… At 2 a.m. in Dubai, Hal and I finally board the Olympic Air flight to Athens. But guess what. It doesn’t go to Athens. Not directly, that is. I asked the flight attendant how long to Athens, and she said, “you do know this flight goes to Kuwait, first?” Umm, no, actually, I didn’t know that. Somehow the travel agent who booked all of this neglected to put Kuwait on the itinerary she printed up and included with my ticket package. We’ll be having a little chat when I finally get home.

The welcome surprise… And this was just unbelievable. We did, eventually, get to Athens, earlier today. I’d never been to Greece before, although I’m not sure landing and taking off again a few hours later really counts for visiting Greece if one doesn’t even get out of the airport. Ahh, but it turns out I did. We had a five-hour layover so we decided to grab a taxi and see what we could see. The taxi driver said it would take about half an hour to get downtown, to Constitution Center. So we said, “well, what are we waiting for?”

Once there he casually mentioned (his English was good) that the Parthenon was only another 10 minutes. Before we knew it we were hiking up the hillside of the Acropolis to the Parthenon. Who ends up at the Parthenon without planning to go there?

Then again, who ends up in Kuwait without planning to go there?

TRIPLE-A KIDS

2006-08-22T00:44:00.000-06:00

(I don’t believe I have explained before, but I have been using initials rather than names for the relief team as a precaution. It probably would not be a problem to identify them, but in a place that has seen so much trouble, and is far from trouble-free today, I have decided to err on the side of caution.)

Team leader L’s two daughters filled me in today on what they think of Afghanistan and the other places they have seen. His older daughter, H, is six. She’s the landmine expert I told you about the other day. Her little sister C is four, so she doesn’t have quite as many opinions, although both of them are delightfully articulate. Blonde and quite fair, they stand out here both because of their looks but also because of their lack of hesitancy to share whatever is on their minds. They say things every day that surprise me.

Their father, L, is American, though he has lived much of his life overseas. Their mom is Australian. When I asked C what sort of passport she had she smiled and shrugged. When I asked H what nationality she considers herself she said she is a “Triple A.” Triple A? “Yes, I’m an Australian/American/Afghan.”

I asked her, "what's your favorite place?" She thought for a few moments before saying, "McDonalds."

They haven't been out of Herat for a long time so I wonder when she's ever had a chance to visit one of those and have a happy meal?

MINE AWARENESS

2006-08-21T11:16:00.000-06:00

(Unusual Wisdom From A 6-Year Old)

I had heard that Afghanistan is one of the most heavily mined countries in the world. I’m not talking gold mines. Back when the Russians were here fighting the Mujahaddin, they got in the habit of dropping and planting land mines and other types of mines all over the place. They probably weren’t the only ones, but they can be sure they were near the top of the list. In fact, some of those who are against the current government continue to lay down mines. Russian and other mines litter the landscape from north to south, east to west. Some areas are more heavily mined than others of course, but no place is completely safe. The rule of thumb given to me upon my arrival was: in the city you’ll be fine (both in Herat and also most areas in Kabul), but don’t go for any hikes in the country, and if you are driving in the rural areas (which we don’t advise) don’t pull off anywhere. Between the landmines and the Taliban, some places you just shouldn’t go.

Got that? Okay, now, the other day team leader L. was showing me and a few others around and had driven up a hill on the northern edge of Herat to give me a view of the city. As we rounded a corner there was this old Russian tank just 10 yards off to the side. It had not survived an attack. I asked L. to stop so I could get out and take a picture. I got out, walked up an embankment and snapped a pic and when I returned to the car I heard him telling the others that it was possible there were still some unexploded mines in that area. Well, thanks for the warning.

And listen to this. Today we drove about ten miles into the countryside to a park (there were actual trees, not something you see in much of Afghanistan). I was in the SUV with L, his family, and several members of the relief team.

So I try to ask, as casually as possible, as if I have no personal stake in it, “So…I thought landmines/insurgents/rebels/Taliban/Bogieman were a problem outside the city. But I guess not where we’re going? Right?”

L.: Not in the area where we’re going. There is actually a nice park where they planted trees. We go there fairly often.

ME: So, how can you tell when an area has been cleared of mines?

L: In some places they actually scatter colored rocks or stones around to let you know. For instance, red stones mean there are still mines in an area. Blue stones mean there might be mines, but they are not sure. White stones mean they have de-mined the area.

H: (L’s 6-year-old daughter, piping up from the back seat) No, blue stones mean there are UXOs.

ME: UFOs?

H: No, UXOs.

L: (Explaining his daughter’s words) UXOs are Unexploded Ordinances.

ME: How do you know about those?

H (As if talking about this is the most natural thing in the world for a 6-year-old): I took “Mine Awareness” in school.

ME: Mine Awareness?

L (expanding on his daughter’s surprising statement): They teach all the kids in Afghanistan how to avoid mines and other explosives.

H: We learned all about that.

ME: You know, this is not the sort of conversation I have ever had with anyone, let alone a six-year-old.

H: I think kids are the wisest people.

ME: I think you are probably right about that.

JOY AND DUST AND TRAVELING WITH WHAT’S HIS NAME

2006-08-20T11:13:00.000-06:00

W.A. Guest House In Herat, Afghanistan

Awake again in the early morning darkness listening to the Mullahs calling people to prayer. (I have been referring to them as Imans but one of the relief team members here told me today that it is the Mullah who calls people to prayer, not the Imam. Peter the Australian gave me bad information. Never trust an Aussie to identify Muslim prayer callers.) I can hear two this morning. One sounds pretty good, the other sounds like a sick cow. Can’t imagine many people responding to that noise. I can also hear cats fighting somewhere nearby. They sound better than the tone deaf Mullah. I’m sure he’s a nice guy and all, but, seriously, he should sleep in. The other one sounds quite good. Because of the heat and the 10 hour time difference I am running on very little sleep. It is not by choice but this has become my morning routine. After maybe two hours sleep, around 3 or 3:30 I give up and roll off my little bedroll on the floor, go outside to cool off and sit on the step in my boxers. There is a wall around the guest house so there’s no real possibility of offending anyone.

The stars are beautiful this morning. I can see a crescent moon low in the sky just over the top of the wall around the guesthouse. I may as well be up there on the moon, so out of this world is this place. This time of day is the only time it is not hot. The wind has finally died down a bit. Several people here have told me Herat has 120 days of wind every year. They didn’t say 4 months. 120 days. In a row. Like someone has counted them.

I feel I have been covered in dirt and sweat since arriving in Afghanistan. There is a coating of dust on everything. The computer I have been borrowing from one of the relief team members is so dirty some of the keys stickkk. Running my fingertip across the touchpad is like drawing a line in the sand.

And here’s a weird development. For some reason, yesterday, Peter began forgetting my name and now calls me Rob about half the time. We fly halfway around the world together and six days into the trip he forgets who I am. So now I call him Larry.

Yesterday the members of the relief team gathered in the upstairs room of the guesthouse to sing and share stories. I knew most of the songs but I don’t believe I’ve ever heard them sung with quite so much energy. The team leader shut the windows and the door about halfway through the first song, clearly concerned the neighbors would hear. I have now had a chance to talk at some length with most of them and am more amazed each day. On the one hand I understand them better now, yet it is still hard for me to really grasp how they have been able to leave their homes, friends and families behind, convinced that they are supposed to be here helping strangers. It is clear they have a burden for the people of Afghanistan. They speak with certainty about the reasons for coming. Their love for God is at the heart of it.

And the joy… L., the director, is an amazing and, to me, perplexing man. He has done relief work in Mauritania, Pakistan, India, Israel, and perhaps a dozen other places. I had thought he had been here in Afghanistan for just a year but it has actually been more than three since he first arrived with his wife and two young daughters. He can be quite serious, but is quick to laugh. And when he laughs he laughs with his whole body, loudly at first, then swallowing the sound for a moment, then slapping his knee and letting it all out. It’s the knee slap I love the most. His joy is transcendent.

3:45 a.m. – Relief worker guest house, Kabul.

2006-08-19T14:05:00.000-06:00

I wake to the sound of Imams in the distance calling people to prayer at mosques around the city. In a way the sound is beautiful, poetic. Haunting, too. As I listen I realize there is a mournful quality to the sound as well; voices calling out from the darkness.

Most of Kabul has been without electricity since I have been here. The lights and a fan here in the guest house came on for a couple of hours in the middle of the night but went off again about 3 a.m. It is uncomfortably hot in here. I am at the moment writing on a notepad by the beam of a small flashlight Lucy insisted I bring with me in my backpack. Glad she insisted. The guesthouse actually has a generator but they only run it for an hour or so a day, long enough to charge the batteries for their cell phones (yes, some cells work here) and to turn on a computer long enough to write and send some emails (yes, somehow they can access the Internet). They don’t run it long, though, as it costs money and they don’t seem to have much in the way of funding. I’ll ask to use the computer a little later so I can send these words back home.

Because access to a computer has been difficult I haven’t had much time to describe Kabul, yet. The city, at least the parts I have visited, show clear evidence of all the war it has seen; building after building shot full of holes, walls and rooftops blown away or caving in. I have never seen anything like it. Most of the houses are surrounded by walls. The poorer residents live in mud-brick dwellings. Some of the westerners here, the few I have met so far, have hired what they call chowkidors (guards or watchmen). They hang out by the locked gates in the walls bordering the streets. There is a chowkidor watching this house where I am spending the night. We have to ring a bell to get inside the wall. Pull the cord, a bell rings inside, and he lets us in a minute later. He is not armed so I don’t imagine he would be much help if anyone armed and determined wanted in. But the westerners who hire the chowkidors apparently feel they are a deterrent. Our chowkidor is tall and thin, very dark with a thick black beard. He’s draped in a robe, of course, and never smiles. Guards at two other homes I have visited were more friendly, quick to smile, and have kindly eyes.

A few of the larger homes I have seen have armed guards patrolling their perimeters. R. says the wealthier Afghans may have enemies so they hire armed protection. An armed guard is apparently also a status symbol in some circles.

LATER…
I am now sitting in seat 18c on a commercial flight that is to take me to Herat. I am sitting with two female relief workers from the U.S. C. and M. The jet has not moved since we boarded an hour ago. It is very hot inside with very little air circulating. It is stifling. I don’t know how all the robed people around me can stand it. The only two I can speak with in English are the two American women I am traveling with. They, like the local women, are required to cover themselves. They first said the heat was not bothering them too much but now they admit they are uncomfortable. My beard is growing in, which doesn’t help much. I am covered with sweat from head to toe. Seriously. I’m wearing sandals so I can actually see the sweat on my toes. I didn’t know toes could sweat.

On the drive from the guest house to the airport I mentioned to my driver, D. (an American relief worker stationed in Kabul) that I thought I heard gunfire during the night. He said it was probably fireworks. Today is Independence Day in Afghanistan, a national holiday, and he says there were fireworks set off after midnight to celebrate.

I noticed even more armed Afghan patrols in the streets on the drive to the airfield this morning than I saw yesterday. D says they are out in force to discourage any anti-government violence on the holiday. As we neared the gate at the airport entrance some soldiers (or police, I am not sure which) approached with what appeared to be Russian-made Kalishnikov rifles. That’s what I’ve seen most around here. Even the occasional armed guard carries the same weapon. It has some sort of modified metal stock so it looks shorter than what I’ve seen in news photos from various war zones over the years. These guns appear very beat up, like someone bought them all at some garage sale. The way they handle them gives me the feeling they haven’t been through proper firearms training.

It just occurred to me that I have not seen any American military anywhere in the city. I know they are in Afghanistan from the reports I have read over the past few weeks about battles between U.S. forces and rebels in the south and east parts of the country but they don’t seem to be in Kabul. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind seeing some. I have seen an occasional U.N.-marked vehicle, and from the gate before we were allowed to board the jet I could see several armored personnel carriers moving along a taxiway at the far end of the tarmac.

Going through security I was people watching. The women were covered, of course, so there wasn’t much to see. The men wore robes as you would expect Arab men to wear. The security checkpoints don’t seem all that secure. They barely look at the bags and frisk each man quickly. The women are taken into a separate room where a female security official frisks them (“really feels us up,” the female relief workers told me later).

I have only slept a few hours since leaving home so I am wiped out right now. Time for sleep.

7 a.m. – Flight 006, Dubai to Kabul.

2006-08-18T19:21:00.000-06:00

I have written this on a notepad I brought along, and will type it into a computer if I can find one to use when we land.

Lufthansa may have brought me here last night – Kam Air is a long way from the efficiency and luxury of last night’s flight. This Kam Air jet is an old, and I mean very old, 737. Kam Air must have purchased the plane used from Mexico or Spain, as the instructions on the seatback are written in Spanish. I don’t know much Spanish but the printed words bring me closer to home than anything else around me. Everything within miles is in Arabic.

A male Arab passenger stops to make goo goo eyes at the little toddler perched on his mom’s lap across the aisle from me. Smiles and laughter as the baby grins and giggles. I am reassured. When we get news at home from this part of the world it is generally about war and hate, grudges held onto and revenge carried out. But I am seeing love surrounding a baby boy. It is easy to feel, reading dispatches from the Middle East, that there will never be peace here. But I see they love their children. This gives me hope.

We are somewhere over the Persian Gulf heading north toward Iran and eventually Afghanistan. There is cloud cover below so I can’t see the Earth. Looking up I notice a bunch of wires hanging down from between big cracks in the ceiling of the cabin. Yes, this is a very old plane. This does not give me hope.
A thought races through my mind before I can stop it… “What in the world ever made me decide to come here?”

Just before I left the U.S. a friend reminded me to read Psalm 121. She calls it “the Travelers Psalm .”

I am, at this moment, nearing Iranian airspace at 500 miles per hour.

Notes From The Trip So Far

2006-08-17T14:58:00.000-06:00

I’m on the jet, Lufthansa fl 447. The very friendly flight attendants are all German but speak very good accented English. The pilot did the announcements, first in German, then in English. His accent is much heavier but understandable. The jet is huge. I picked up a slick looking magazine on the way onto the jet. A glossy and expensive looking mag. Realized too late it is all in German. At least the pictures are nice to look at. I’m suddenly glad I brought several books to read.

The flight attendant, going down the aisle near me with such efficiency, is checking seatbelts. As she moves from row to row she switches seamlessly back and forth between English and German. She manages to make German almost sound pleasant. Almost. I can imagine someone moving too slowly for her liking and her saying, “Und now you vill buckle zee seatbelt und prepare for takeoff or I vill smack you upside zat head uf yours.”

I love this airline. They offer in-flight internet access. Peter the Australian in the seat across from mine says he uses it all the time. Peter also says that, when I arrive in Kabul, I should not go jogging outside my hotel. And don’t even think about wearing shorts in Afghanistan. I want to ask him why but think I’ll wait a little longer. As my lovely country fades away into the gathering darkness of night it is suddenly very clear, deep down in my stomach, that I will miss my home.

13 hours later…
I’m now 36,000 feet aboard Lufthansa flight 630 flying from Frankfurt to Dubai in the United Arab Emirates. Currently on a heading for Turkey, the country not the meat. This flight crosses places I hadn’t thought I would see, but we don’t touch down anywhere between here and Dubai. At least I hope we don’t touch down.

Later…
After clearing Romania and Turkey crossing north of Syria and Lebanon and all that mess down there, we work our way around the north and then east border of Iraq. From the video map on the wall here in the cabin, it appears we are preferring Iran’s airspace to Iraq’s airspace. As darkness falls for the second time on my journey so far, we eventually pass by the eastern edge of Kuwait and out over the Persian Gulf toward Dubai. Back a few hundred miles, when the Iraq border was just outside my window, Peter the Australian leaned over and said, “It’s a good thing those katusha rockets can’t reach this altitude.” I suddenly found myself wishing I knew more about katusha rockets, or that I at least knew whether Peter has any idea what a katusha rocket is capable of doing.

While on the ground switching planes in Frankfurt I managed to find an English language newspaper. On the front page was a story about U.S. and Afghan forces raiding compounds suspected of being al Qaeda sanctuaries in S.E. Afghanistan yesterday, seizing weapons and taking eight prisoners.

The pilot just announced the temperature in Dubai is 44 Celcius. Peter the Australian leans over and does the conversion for me. He says, “that is 120 Fahrenheit.” Lovely. Any other encouraging news you’d like to share?

Have I mentioned already...I managed to get upgraded to business class. You don’t even want to know what that ticket cost. Well maybe you do…but I don’t want to tell you. But I will tell you this. The food is very good. Real silver wear and china. 1st course was Sesame-cured Tuna with marinated vegetables…Avocado Crème and lime olive oil. Or…as the Lufthansa menu stated: In Sesam gebeizter Thunfisch mit mariniertem, Gemuse, Avocadocreme und Limonen-olivenol. (You vill eat ziss und enjoy it or vee vill force you to put und seat in it’s full und upright position. Schnell!)

I am eating while I am still able to identify what is being served. I have no idea what I will get in Afghanistan.

Received an email just before leaving on this trip. Printed it along with some others figuring I would just read them on the plane. It was from the World Advocates Herat team: “Our city has been a bit insecure for the last few weeks. We have been having some people against the government acting up. By acting up I mean setting off flash bang grenades in the night to get some attention and cause insecurity in the city. Here you have to laugh at things otherwise you will not survive.”

About a week ago the team leader, discussing the security question, said Afghanistan is a dangerous country, but “not as dangerous as the media makes it out to be.” He says it is far more dangerous in the southern Afghan provinces than in Herat. He believes that in Herat, with a bit of common sense, you can avoid danger. For example: stay away from large crowds.

Hmm. Okay.

A Quick Thought From The Airport

2006-08-16T16:39:00.000-06:00

Just enough time to write out a quick thought. Am sitting at the airport waiting for the Lufthansa flight that will take me to Dubai, the last stop before Kabul, Afghanistan. I came across this great quote from Dr. Paul Tournier while reading to pass the time in airports and on airplanes. He said, "There is an astonishing contrast between the heavy perplexity that inhibits before the adventure has begun and the excitement that grips us as soon as it begins. As soon as a person makes up his or her mind to take the plunge into adventure, they are aware of a new strength they did not think they had, which rescues them from all their perplexities."

Time To Go

2006-08-16T13:19:00.000-06:00

The packing is nearly finished, the papers are in order, and it is time for me to go. My wife has spent the past few minutes on the internet looking up weather forecasts for my various destinations. Surprisingly, the high temperatures for the areas I will visit in Afghanistan are only in the mid-90s. Tirana, Albania, is forecast for 108 today. Dubai, where I will land late tomorrow en-route to Herat, is supposed to reach 115 today. That should feel lovely. Guess I won’t need to pack a jacket.

My nearing departure to Afghanistan has impacted me in a way I had not anticipated back when I first agreed to take this trip. I find that it has impacted every conversation I have had and every email I have sent in the past couple of days. I find myself making sure to tell people I love how I feel about them. I suppose we all should always think about communicating such things, but I don’t usually. We should not miss an opportunity to express how we feel to those who bless our lives.

I have never been a fan of roller coasters, but when my son was a little younger I did the dad duty and rode with him a few times at Disneyland. We rode Space Mountain, which is basically a rollercoaster in the dark. I feel a little like I’m on that ride, lately. Today I feel we’ve just reached the top of one of the arches and we’re about to go plunging at high speed into the unknown.

I’m hanging on.

24 Hours To Takeoff

2006-08-15T08:22:00.000-06:00

I woke up this morning to find an article about my upcoming trip in the newspaper. I should have expected it, after all I was interviewed by the Arizona Daily Star’s Erin White last week. She asked me a lot of questions and we had a very good conversation. But after we talked I was pretty sure she would decide not to run a story about me. If you’re like me (and I know I am) after you talk to a reporter you go home re-thinking everything you said and find yourself wishing you had been more articulate, or at least slightly less verbose. But having now read the article I see that she managed to connect the dots of my rambling and sometimes disconnected thoughts.

How Big Is God?

2006-08-09T08:21:00.000-06:00

It is now exactly one week till it’s wheels up for Afghanistan. The question most often asked is still, why are you going to a place like that?

The other night my wife and I rented the profound and deeply moving film, “Joe Versus the Volcano” (or was it just quirky and silly?). There is this great scene in which Patricia (Meg Ryan) and Joe (Tom Hanks) are sitting together in the twilight on a sailboat somewhere in the South Pacific discussing their lives when Patricia says to Joe, “My father says that almost the whole world is asleep…everybody you know, everybody you see, everybody you talk to. He says that only a few people are awake, and they live in a state of constant, total amazement.”

I don’t feel I’ve been walking around asleep or anything like that. Honestly, I feel, particularly in the past few years, I am more awake than I’ve ever been before; more awake to what is going on around me and the opportunities I have to participate in ways that truly matter. I find it is not about me but for some wonderful reason I get to be a part of it. And I am often amazed.

It should probably be pointed out that in the film, a short time after Meg Ryan speaks those words, the boat is struck by lightning and sinks, leaving them both stranded, floating on an expensive set of luggage for weeks before they finally reach land. That was sort of amazing. Probably not something you’d sign up for. But, wow.

After a few days or weeks adrift, Tom Hanks is in bad shape. He is dehydrated, his skin burned and blistered from the sun. (Meg Ryan has been unconscious since the lightning strike, floating serenely in an unconscious state the entire time they’ve been stranded.) One night, with Meg lying there being unconsciously beautiful and Tom lying next to her looking up at the stars probably wondering whether he will live or die, the moon begins to rise on the distant horizon. It is gigantic, a brilliant white orb rising out of a sparkling, star-lit sea. Tom rolls painfully over onto his side and struggles to stand. As the moon, bigger than life, nearly as big as the earth itself, finally breaks above the horizon Tom stands up on the luggage that has been serving as their life boat. We see him from behind, mesmerized. Silhouetted in the brilliant glow, he raises his arms above his head creating, for a moment, the illusion that he is holding the moon up there above the earth. But it continues its slow rise into the heavens, beyond the reach of his outstretched hands. The camera then switches position and we are looking at Tom’s face as he stares into the brilliant light. He looks awful, but in his eyes we can tell that he is seeing something he’s never really seen before. He’s seeing in a way he’s never seen before. And he is totally amazed. That is when he says these words:

“Dear God, whose name I do not know, thank you for my life. I forgot…how big…how big you are… Thank you for my life. Thank you. Thank you.”

It is impossible for me to talk about the reasons for my taking this trip to Afghanistan without talking about my faith. I am always humbled by the stories of the people I have been privileged to know who have left the comforts of home to go into the battered places to show people the love of the Lord and do what they can to help rebuild broken lives. I wonder if they might sometimes get to glimpse the bigness of God in ways the rest of us don’t?

A Pillow and Peace of Mind

2006-08-06T21:41:00.000-06:00

My passport and visa arrived today (had to send the passport off with the Afghanistan visa application) so it would appear I’ll be allowed in.

Unrelated to that piece of mail and what it means for my future, my wife said to me today as we drove to dinner, “We should go to Hawaii for a vacation.”

I’m thinking that sounds like a better idea than going to Afghanistan and Albania.

But I am getting more and more excited about the trip. A bit surprising, frankly, knowing me the way I do. Honestly, my idea of the ideal vacation would probably involve little more than heading to a tropical beach and staying there for a couple weeks. I am not one to go out of my way to rough it. For instance, I don’t camp. I wouldn’t even consider camping. The ground is hard, it can rain, I could run into an angry bear or hungry mountain lion; I could go on and on. I also am embarrassingly picky about the hotels where I stay. I like to be comfortable. I am not particularly proud of this, but I can’t deny it. For me, roughing it is slow room service at the Westin.

Here’s a true story. Last year on our way to Europe to visit our son who was studying overseas we stopped in New York City for a couple days before continuing on to Belgium. It was going to be a long trip with lots of different destinations so we thought taking a couple days to ourselves to see the city and rest up would be a good idea. We checked into the Ritz-Carlton hotel at Battery Park and after the bellman showed us around the room, got his tip and left, I opened one of my bags, took out the pillow from my bed at home and propped it against the six luxurious pillows already on the hotel room bed. My wife looked at me and said questioningly, “You brought your own pillow to the Ritz? You think the pillows here won’t be comfortable?”

It’s not that I don’t think they'll be comfortable. You must admit, there’s something comfortingly personal about one’s own pillow. And yes, I will be taking it with me to Afghanistan. Who knows where I’ll be sleeping? At least my head will be in a familiar place.