Back at the Ranch

I have many friends celebrating their anniversaries in the coming weeks. I won't lie, there are plenty of times when I would love to be married, it goes without saying. Fortunately this is NOT one of those times. No friends, this Friday I celebrate the anniversary of my singleness, yes, Bachelor Day 2006. BD'06 looks a little something like this: Friday morning, sleep in a little, then complete a full round of golf, followed by a free lunch at the pro shop. Immediately following lunch, run home, grab Rold Gold Honey & Wheat Braided Twists and Fierce Melon Gatorade, then head to the Marina for a little Striped Bass fishing in the Atlantic. Get off the boat, fly back to the Ranch, grab a couple fellas, head to the log cabin, grab some grahams, mallows and chocolate and light stuff on fire for a couple hours, do a little "redneck firefighting" and head out. Leave the cabin, head back to married friend's house to house sit and mooch off of all their food. For the record, that's a ton of snack food and only one legitimate meal that I neither bought nor prepared... I think I'm starting to get a hang of this bachelor thing. So you married people have fun on your anniversaries, I'll be sitting on your couch, eating your potato chips and watching your cable, without ever spending a dime.

Just so you know -- you can't fish for largemouth bass while they are spawning. What?!? At least Jersey and PA let me catch and release, that's bad enough, but who ever heard of robbing a man of the primetime of fishing! Alas, one thing that I have to learn about NY is that there is a season for everything. The word varmint is not in their vocabulary. The squirrel I shot with the pellet gun out of my back door--that was illegal (Nov 1st thru Feb 28th only, with a bag limit of 6). The possum (Opossum, if you're in NY) I ran over with my truck--illegal (Nov 1st thru Feb 25th only). The snipe that Ryan nailed with the top bunk of an RV at 65 mph--awesome, but still illegal (absolutely illegal on the island -- upstate: Sept 1st thru Nov 9th only).

If I wanted to take a bass out of the lake and to my home and mount it on my wall I can only do so during the regular fishing season of the 1st Saturday in June through the 30th of November, and supposing that I do catch a fish that I want to take home it would have to be in excess of 15". Now I'm not in the habit of mounting bass under 15", but then again, the state record is only (and I say this with reservation), only 11 lbs. 4 oz. According to the Vermont Fish and Wildlife website, their average length of largemouth is 8-15", which is a neighboring state with a similar climate. So deductive reasoning would indicate that I would not be able to "harvest" the average bass because it would not be large enough to justify my keeping it.

I am allowed to continue fishing in December through March 15th, providing that I catch and immediately release any fish without killing it. The problem of course being that it is fairly difficult to get the boat out on the lake in those months due to the feet of ice which cover it. Still, I am permitted to fish then. But during that blessed 2 and a half month period, the holiday season of bass fishing, I cannot even be on the water, let alone wet a line. So, in the blissful moment when the males are more feisty, protective and aggressive than they've ever been, and the women are stuffed full of eggs; in other words, the prime fishing time, The New York Department of Environmental Conservation will not allow me to fish.

I guess I'll just have to stay at home and poach rabbits from my back porch (Nov 1st thru Feb 28th only, bag limit of 6).

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Corona Park, Flushing, NY outside of Shea Stadium. A little Ice Cream, a huge globe, and tons of fun:




Holla at my boys. They're using that picture for their album cover.

Spreading a little love to my Miracle Mets (even in Yankees hats)

The following cautionary statement or disclaimer, whatever you want to call it, was available for us, under the overhang, on the 2nd deck, where we paid $2 for the tickets...

I don't think so, but nice try

Finally, the picture of the day, the only wildlife in Corona Park:

Yes, he dyed the poodle's hair, and yes, that is a real, living parrot on his head, which stayed there while he rode his bike around. Welcome to NY.

I’m an American. I was born here. I grew up here. In fact, I’ve never technically left here. I like McDonald’s, I don’t care what kind of documentary you throw in my DVD player, I have the right to eat there, and I am going to capitalize on that right. I also have a discount card which I purchased from the local High School football team which entitles me to a free large sandwich along with many great deals at other stores. One store allows me $5 off any purchase of $25 or more, excluding tennis balls and treadmills. Don’t ask me why these two items are together, or why they’re even excluded, $25 worth of tennis balls would be a lot for your average tennis connoisseur, and $5 off a $700 treadmill doesn’t cut into profits I’m sure; nonetheless, the restriction is there for all to see. The Golden Arches, on the other hand, simply say "free large sandwich with purchase of same" – literally, that is all that it says on the back of the card. I have no complaints, so I pull into the parking lot.


It had been raining all day, and the last thing I wanted to do was get out in the pouring rain and run into the restaurant when all I had to do was use the drive thru, after all, that is my right. So in the pouring rain I pull up to the speaker and order a #1. Very kindly I asked for my free Big Mac, as I am entitled to it because I have the card, and quickly I am denied. Denied? Denied! No no no. I don’t think so, the card says I can have it, and I’m going to get it. In the pouring rain we debated through a speaker about whether or not I deserve a free Big Mac. As cars piled up behind me, anxiously awaiting their lunch, I stood my ground.


Now let me set the stage, this wasn’t my first encounter with greedy fast food chains. My freshman year in college they instituted the Collegiate Card, which allowed discounts at several establishments around the greater Abilene area. A great idea. I particularly enjoyed the 20% I received at Burger King. 20 percent! Who can pass that up? So I took a great deal of advantage of the discount, leaving with a Whopper Meal for under $3. I became accustomed to my discount, and returned the favor by giving BK my patronage on a regular occasion. That is until they no longer acknowledged my discount. I walked into the establishment and kindly demanded my rights as a cardholder, and they instructed me that it was a "misprint" on the card and they were no longer recognizing it. It wasn’t my fault that they had an error, why should I have to pay? I wanted my way, it’s Burger King for crying out loud. Alas, they did not concede, and I informed them that I was lied to, and that I could not trust this organization and would no longer be giving them my business. I went on a year long boycott of the entire franchise – nationwide. And you best believe they felt the sting. Burger King has never been the same.


So there I was again, with my window rolled down in the pouring rain, calmly, yet sternly debating with a speaker outside a McDonald’s as to why I deserved a free Big Mac with my Value Meal. Soon the young lady manning the head phones found she was no match for my sharpened rhetoric and dizzying intellect, and compounded by the fact that I WAS RIGHT, she asked me to pull forward and speak with the manager. So I did, emboldened in my stance, yet wary of the consequences of my actions, after all, look at Burger King.


But hey, who are they to deny me of my rights? I am an American, I don’t think I have to say it again. I was born here, I am a citizen of this great nation. I have a ton of rights: Since 1791 I’ve had the right to free speech, freedom of religion, freedom from search and seizure, the right to bear arms, even the right to remain silent if I so choose... you name it, I have the right to it. Out of these rights and my citizenship I am entitled to many things, anywhere from calling shotgun to a fair and speedy trial judged by my peers. I would like to think that a free Big Mac, providing I have the card that tells me so, would fall within those rights of entitlement. This was a huge moment, waiting on the manager. After all, what else am I not getting that I am entitled to?
And then it hit me. Here I am in New York, on a rainy day, the inside of my truck wet from trying my best to save around 78 cents because I felt I deserved it. Here I am, trying to teach boys how to become men, how to follow one man, the very one who truly held the trump card of entitlement.


The King of heaven came to earth and born a poor, illegitimate child. Sure Joseph was there, but I’m sure no one else believed the whole "Immaculate conception" story – a large part of me doubts they ever told it. He grew up amidst whispers of controversy and stares of shame, and ended up dying the same way. The Prince of heaven, the center of glory itself, lived and died completely absent of it. He took on the guilt and shame of the world, a load he was not deserving of, not entitled to bear, and bore it. Not once did he invoke his rights, not once did he demand his freedom, not once did he require the fate he was most certainly entitled to.


Entitlement is defined as "a perceived right to demand; the opposite of a gift in that it is without appreciation." I am entitled to death, to eternal separation from God... it’s one of the many things which I am entitled to, yet will not receive. Not because of myself, not because of my rights, but because of a gift, a gift for which I am eternally thankful.


And realizing this, sitting there staring at the manager, I handed the young lady my money, took my value meal with only one Big Mac and smiled. I did not apologize, I was not rude. I did not scream or yell. I truly believe I handled myself the way Christ would want me to, and I have every right to go there tomorrow and continue to demand a free Big Mac, I am entitled to it. Yet, from here on out I’ll choose not to, understanding that one day, thanks to my gift, I won’t be receiving something else I’m entitled to.

I've often wondered what it's like to be a father. Being a dad is one of my biggest dreams, ever since I was young I wanted to be a father. I've always enjoyed being around kids, probably because it's relatively easy to spend time with people of your own maturity level and cognitive ability, but that isn't the reason. It's a dream, an aspiration; the glory of fatherhood. A lot of people get to do it, but few pull it off; there are plenty who give it a bad name or just never show up at all, but there are some people who just make it look good.

Maybe it was because I have a great father, and maybe it's because (by the grace of God) my parents had some pretty good kids, who, for the most part, did more to honor their parent's then embarrass them. My parents weren't perfect, and everyone knows their kids aren't, yet there was something they did that made this job look appealing, look dignified, look glorious.

Though my dream of fatherhood has not yet become a reality, in a way, I stand here in a gauntlet, my parental proving grounds so to speak. 24 young men, some with fathers of their own, some without, looking to me (whether they want to or not) for answers and direction, structure and stability, support and love.

I'm not an uncle yet either, but I've always viewed this job as more like being an uncle: someone does all the dirty work, you come in and have all the fun. It's not unrealistic, it's what my job is -- recreational therapy. Someone else does the diaper changing and the discipline, you come and smooth everything over. It's why we're youth minsters, because, at our best we help parent's do their jobs, and at our worst, we have them to blame it on -- after all, raising kids is not our responsibility.

This is why this job continually perplexes me. Uncles are great, they bring light and joy to your life in ways few others can, they know the ins and outs of your family but they're not fully sewn into the fabric. They give you stories about your parents, and help explain their point of view. They have the uncanny ability to be on "your side" yet still point you in the direction your parents want you to go. A good uncle is hard to come by, I have one of the best, but they're the first to tell you what you already know... they're not your father.

The more I question, the further I look, the less glorious fatherhood becomes, and the more appealing "unclehood" remains. It was never more evident than tonight.

I don't have any disillusions about fatherhood, to me part of the glory is not being afraid to change a dirty diaper, or redeeming the potentially embarrassing moments, holding the crying baby at the least convenient hour. In a weird way I look forward to those moments. I've had the opportunity here to help a young man change a dirty lifestyle, to redeem a potentially embarrassing moment, and even held those crying at the least convenient hour. As a father, those are the moments I will live for (which is easy to say now). Tonight was one of those moments you hope will never happen.

Horseplay is a fairly large offense here, because, if you're a male and more importantly you have a brother, you know that no matter how well intentioned it may be, horseplay always ends on a bad note. To the outsider looking in, it wasn't a big deal at all, one young man had a scratch under an eye, wounded pride was the only real injury sustained tonight. Yet, in here, it was much more serious. The pinned frustration, psychotropic medication, and angry outbursts would make a great story, and made for a chaotic evening, but they are not of consequence in this story.

Well after any of the "fun stuff" occurred, the real story took place. Trapped beneath every behavior is a feeling, either blatant or hidden, that is the catalyst to an event. My job, when all is said and done, is to figure that out. After bandaging bloody knuckles, and getting beyond the initial layer of crap that covers every story, I finally get the truth from one young man. Satisfied, I try my luck on the other side of the tussle, but to no avail. Long story short, one young man willing to tell the truth but afraid to snitch, the other trying at all costs to cover it up: which means, two uncooperative parties.

Maybe it's not right to play favorites, and with my boys I try my best to be impartial, but there are some that catch your heart. Not because they're the best behaved or the least aggressive, or even the most likeable, but because you know that they're the most reachable. That of all the residents there, you'll have the most impact on their lives. You love them because they're golden, because their hearts are malleable, because their lives are still transformable. I love all my boys, but you learn quick to recognize those who'll buck the system to the end, those who'll BS their way though only to repeat their folly when they get out, and the boys who will change. A seed is planted in every child, and with God's help a harvest can come down the road, but the final group sprouts the little green shoot of growth before your very eyes, and that creates a special place in your heart.

The liar tonight was one of my golden boys. It's an unnerving feeling when someone you love stands before you and lies to your face. Only in a small way did I re-live the pain I no doubt caused my parents every time I repeated that folly. It's like having your heart ripped out, trampled on, revived, and then trampled again... all while you stand to the side with a blank stare, helplessly watching. Time after time I gave him the opportunity to come clean, and time and time again his tongue could hide what has body couldn't: guilt. He knew he was caught, his cover was blown, yet he hung to the fleeting hope that his lies would save him.

I was not ready for that pain, and even less prepared for the one to follow. You see, my golden boy had been working hard for a long time to go to New Jersey for a basketball tournament that his real father had payed a fair amount of money for him to be in. It meant the world to him, and I had to take it away. I had to look into the same eyes that lied to me, and see no longer the pain of guilt, but the pain of a consequence so deep he couldn't bear to keep them open. And in doing so, ripped my own heart out, trampled on it, revived it, and then trampled again... helplessly standing to the side with a blank stare on my face.

The Uncle within me waged war with my stand-in father figure: "That's too harsh -- he worked too hard for you to take it away." "What about all the times in which you've lied to get out of something -- and got away with it!" Reason after agonizing reason ran through my head as to why I shouldn't stand my ground, why I shouldn't see this through. Yet some way, some how, as completely un-glorious as it was, the father stood tall.

Yeah, so it's a little different. I did not technically father them, nor raise them, in fact I missed out on all the cute, fun stages and get them in what the world would call the worst stage of their life. I was not the first person they knew, the man who changed their diapers, provided their meals, or took them to their first day of school. I wasn't the man that gave them their first piggy back ride, bought them their first bike, or bandaged their bloody knee. But I am the one who's looked into the needy eyes starving for answers, desiring direction, seeking structure, stability and support, and longing for love. Surely, in some small part, there lies the real glory of fatherhood. Not in the diaper changes, though they're essential; not in the piggy back rides, though they're enjoyable; not in pride healing, knee bandaging, bike riding, fun loving moments -- but in the glorious moments, when, whether they believe it or not, out of love you provide what's best.

"Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it"

Proverbs 22:6