Back at the Ranch

The Measure of a Man

2007-09-27T01:16:00.000-04:00

Chalk it up to traveling, or living so far from "home", or maybe just New York, but I haven't been one to be nailed down to anything. It could be the fact that public opinion seems to change with the wind, or that I'm surrounded by adolescent males who would rather just break wind. It can't be that, because I could care less for public opinion, and my bacheloric diet allows me to express my "public" opinion with equal if not greater flatulence. It could be the fact that I just made up the word bacheloric. Maybe it's the people who cry out for relative truth and acceptance, but they're usually the same people who get upset with me about leaving my dog in the bed of the truck, in which case it couldn't be that because relative truth is completely illogical and they are the same people who call me to take care of the raccoon that's digging through their trash... which is the beauty of relative truth, it allows you to check your personal beliefs at the door when they are inconvenient for you. It seems more and more that we are crying for a relative God, but that's another story of for another time. I guess the point is, if you couldn't tell from the tirade you just read, it's not that I'm insecure about where I am or what I believe, it's that for the life of me I can never seem to give a concise, accurate overview of why exactly I do what I do. I have not doubt that if you know me well, at some point this has to bother you. I could give you a fifteen minute dissertation as to the reasoning behind my love of Alabama football... and not even get into Bear Bryant (apostasy?). I could give you a compelling argument as to the allegorical nature of golf, and it's ability to teach a young man that golf, like life, isn't as much about where you are, but where you're going--you're next shot. I could rant and rave for hours on end about the things I believe in, both petty and significant, but if you knew me you'd stop me before I started.

Instead of trying to share what I've learned, impart some limited knowledge from narrow experience, I go to a well much deeper than my own; from the pen of Rudyard Kipling, a poem

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

~Rudyard Kipling

I have made it no secret in the last 3 years that my mission is making men, and even less of a secret that I am a long way off myself. I once asked my boys what "character"means, the closest answer I got was "the part you play in a movie." From what I can tell we get it from a Greek word that means "etched in stone." No matter the weather, no matter the circumstance, easy or hard, blue skies or gray, you will always know what to expect from a man of character, because he's unchanging, he's "etched in stone." May the words of Rudyard Kipling offer to you just a small share of the wisdom it's imparted with me... it's accomplished so artistically that which I could not, a concise, well-thought comprehensive Measure of a Man.

Isn't it ironic... don't you think

2007-01-17T23:55:00.000-05:00

An incredibly frightening and awkward part of being a minister is that you speak on behalf of God. There are a great deal of people in this world with an incredible amount of responsibility, and I in no way discredit either themselves or their job; however, I would be remiss were I to not say that in my mind there is no more daunting task in all of humanity than giving a tangible representation to an intangible being. Imagine the audacity of imperfection to portray perfection with words, much less a lifestyle. The concept to me is ludicrous – downright absurd. Yet in the ultimate act of irony, which I have come to believe is one of the Lord’s favorite tools, he asks his flawed children to express in word and deed his flawlessness, an impossible task from the beginning. For if we were able to portray perfection we wouldn’t need God in the first place... irony runs rampant through his story, through history – irony is the beauty of the story of God.

Aside from an Alanis Morissette song from high school I’m not sure I ever understood the power of irony until I moved to New York. I was born in Baton Rouge, LA, and within a couple weeks my parents moved to Colorado "for 2 years." They stayed 22. With my degree in hand, weeks from my birth into adulthood I moved from Texas to New York, committing to 2 years of service... it’s been 3 going on 22. An irony that has not failed to escape my mother, whose already impressive prayer life has only increased on my behalf, beseiging the Father to "bring me home". Irony has made it’s bed in my life, and as I sit here washing its silk sheets, I am convinced God will keep it there for the rest of my service to him.

I can spout many stories of irony; besides stress, sleeplessness, fear and male pattern balding, irony is one of the many byproducts of investing in the unknown, in the future, in human lives. It rears its unexpected head time and time again, and upon deeper reflection, it never ceases to bring you back to the One who put it there in the first place. Irony returns my heart to my God, that even when things turn out just the way you didn’t want, somehow there is someone who can make good of all the bad... the irony.

To save you three days of reading and a thousand stories I’ll share with you the most recent irony here. I work with what the world calls "troubled young men"... they’re really just normal teens for the most part, they just got caught... the irony. Is their normality a sad commentary on our culture, definitely, but it’s the truth. On Monday I took these young men to a fancy breakfast commemorating Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. (It’s a Baptist event, so you have to put Rev. at the front). Dressed in suits these young men the world thinks are nothing but troubled, flawed young men from imperfect backgrounds, behaved as perfect gentlemen.

The keynote speaker was a prominent African American businessman, a graduate of Harvard in both Business and Law, a Public Servant, an entrepreneur and a philanthropist. Not the greatest of public speakers, but one heck of a man. He spoke of the irony of King’s power. He spoke of his accomplishments post mortem, the rewards he received, the steps humanity has made, the influence of a dead man to living men. My wish was that he would have been a little more articulate, but his gist was lucidly powerful. He spoke to a middle class audience comprised of successful business men and women, of bankers and clerks, teachers and lawyers, politicians and pastors, and about 25 "troubled young men" who were incredibly out of place. He spoke to this mob about a man who emerged from the very same crowd, a third generation collegiate graduate, King’s father and grandfather had both graduated from college... he was not without. King was not fighting for a job, if he was only "looking out for me and mine" he would have needed to make no such stand. I had never known that about the man, and it was all the more impressive to me that he would offer his life on the altar of equality as the last man who needed to... the irony.

The speaker went on the to portray the ultimate irony of King’s power, the power of peace. That the very institutions that tried to hold him back, the very universities that would not let him in, the very organizations who refused to acknowledge him, all are closed on this day, they cannot do business, they do not offer classes, they close their doors to the world in honor of the man they once closed their doors and minds to... the irony.

So leaving there, juiced by a powerful message and a very moving Kirk Franklin song, I took the boys home. And when we arrived back at the Ranch I could only imagine the growth and education that came from that morning. I left, excited. Hours later I returned, the very same day, to a group of young men watching Malcolm X on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, to hear them threatening to slap all the white people, and desiring the freedom to express their "civil liberties". On the very day where we celebrate one of history’s greatest proponents of peace, the day that commemorates our most memorable pacifist... the birthday of the very man who uttered the words of one of my favorite quotes

"The past is prophetic in that it asserts loudly that wars are poor chisels for carving out peaceful tomorrows"

on this very day to commemorate the man who fought a fight without violence, and whose death brought about in many ways a new life to this nation, the most my young men can muster is a broken line from a movie by an annoying, short new yorker of a historical figure who stood in direct opposition to the very man for whom we stop this day to remember... the irony.

And what has this day accomplished, the end of the story has yet to be seen, but the irony has the same effect on me as it always has. It brings me back to the only One who can bring the good from the bad. The only One who offered the greatest of gifts to a people who couldn’t have cared any less. The One who sent perfection to walk among an imperfect world, who offered love to the unlovable, grace to the unforgivable, and life to those trapped in death. And what did humanity do with such a gift, we rejected it. The very thing we need the most is the last thing we want... the irony.

Irony is the beauty of the story of God. It exists throughout history as a lighthouse calling all those lost to return home, and it’s the beacon that brings me back every time to the feet of the One who has given me everything when I offer nothing in exchange. And so here I sit again, trying my best to do an impossible task, to speak on behalf of God... the only one who deals in irony, who can take the bad of this world and make it good.

He was beaten, he was tortured,

but he didn't say a word.

Like a lamb taken to be slaughtered

and like a sheep being sheared,

he took it all in silence.

Justice miscarried,

and he was led off—

and did anyone really know what was happening?

He died without a thought for his own welfare,

beaten bloody for the sins of my people.

They buried him with the wicked,

threw him in a grave with a rich man,

Even though he'd never hurt a soul

or said one word that wasn't true.

Still, it's what God had in mind all along,

to crush him with pain.

The plan was that he give himself as an offering for sin

so that he'd see life come from it—life, life, and more life.

And God's plan will deeply prosper through him.

Out of that terrible travail of soul,

he'll see that it's worth it and be glad he did it.

Through what he experienced, my righteous one, my servant,

will make many "righteous ones,"

as he himself carries the burden of their sins.

Therefore I'll reward him extravagantly—

the best of everything, the highest honors—

Because he looked death in the face and didn't flinch,

because he embraced the company of the lowest.

He took on his own shoulders the sin of the many,

he took up the cause of all the black sheep.

God’s plan, Isaiah 53:7ff... the irony.

Gather 'round kiddos, it's story time...

2006-12-06T22:36:00.000-05:00

It was mid 30's and raining consistently with a good, stiff breeze. Needless to say it was not the time to go gallivanting through the city streets with neither purpose nor care. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and the inclement weather was threating to ground the balloons for the Macy's day parade. Celebrities were cancelling their appearances on the floats, wary parade goers changed their plans. Again, it was not the time to go gallivanting through the city streets with neither purpose nor care. So what was I heading off to do you ask... gallivant.

I am convinced that reason and logic have and will continue to take a back seat in my decision making process to a great story for my grandkids. I look forward to the day when they sit around and ask about the time I wrecked my boss's truck, or the time I snuck into Madison Square Garden, maybe even kicking pigeons in central park. At this point in time my own children will roll their eyes every time I start mentioning the time we brought home the wild mustangs, but eventually they'll find themselves sucked in again, sitting beside their children and listening, because there's always something that brings you back to a good story, even if it's for the thousandth time. I figure I have another 40 years at least before I need all my stories, and I think I'm making good time, but will no doubt have many great Ben Foster stories, as well as some fantastic "Uncle Troy" stories that will live in infamy.

My thanksgiving was another small point along the long line of stupid things still to come.

I'd seen it on TV. I never really watched it because there was always something better to do; sneak food from the kitchen, help Lankford stretch for the Turkey Bowl, better yet sleep in. I wouldn't say that it was high on my priority list of goals in life, it was more one of the things to do while you're in New York. Why not? So, at 12:15 am Micah and I boarded a very empty train from Ronkonkoma to Penn Station. It was a long train ride in. We spent some time reading the left-behind gossip columns about Michael Richard's racist ranting. Micah likes to kill the time by trying to create new t-shirts sayings. In light of the week's events I came up with Ku Klux Kramer -- it's trademarked, so don't steal it. There was also talk of the "Screw Chicago, how about Oprahoma", it was late at night and it was funny to us.

We made it into Penn, and the majority of people there were already drunk. I now know that Thanksgiving Eve is apparently a pretty big party night in the city, who knew? It was a good 7 hours until the parade started, and there was little time to complete all the tasks at hand, so we continued on our way.

We were informed by a knowledgable source before we left that the upper west side was the place to be because that's where they'd spend all night blowing up the balloons, so we figured we'd head in that direction. Before long we came across my first goal: Ray's Pizza. There are a lot of Ray's Pizzas, and they all say they're the original, but they're not. I could tell you which one it really is, but then I'd have to kill ya.

We were approached by a homeless man with a really good story about needing money for insulin. Micah opted to give him food, by far the smarter decision, considering that's what you need before insulin. I went with the spare change route. This aggrivated Micah, but my rebuttle was that it wasn't that bad, it was more along the lines of diplomacy, in case he hadn't noticed it was cold, and a good trash can fire is hard to come by, maybe when we run into him later on we can catch up on the diabetes story and a little heat. Regardless, both answers were satisfactory for our new friend. Alas, we went our separate ways.

It was cold enough that a good cigar would definitely be in order later when we settled down for bed, so Micah went to his favorite 24 hour cigar shop. It's around 2:30 am at this point. Long story short, he spent a good thrity minutes trying to haggle the shopkeep out of a mid-90's cigar afficianado magazine with Chuck Norris on the cover "Even good guys smoke cigars" it said. It was in the window display outside. I spent the time inside looking at the novelty lighters and trying to find the perfect mild cigar that would last long enough to keep us warm. Micah kept going in and out, always with a counter offer. The debate quit when I walked outside to hear Micah's new friend, the trash man, set the bar. "I wouldn't pay more than $15." Micah went inside with new zeal, but they wouldn't drop below $25. We all have our pirnciples I guess. We left with two cigars, no magazine, and an undaunted spirit. There was still a lot to do.

We stopped by Rockefeller to see the tree before there was anything on it, that joker's huge. There are two NYPD guarding the thing around the clock, which dispelled any previous illusions of a pre-emptive decoration. Undaunted, we continued on our way. Kicking a pigeon was next on the list. On a side note, if you've never done it, it's quite therapeutic. Don't roll your eyes in disgust, you don't haul off and punt the pigeon to kingdom come, it's simply a previously undesired though quickly comprehended aid in flight. Really, it's good all the way around.

Central Park. We're on the upper west side scouting out the bleachers for the parade tomorrow. It's about 3:15 am, we have less than four hours left. Now, Central park would be the ideal place to aid the pigeon in flight, but unless you forgot, it's the middle of the night, 35 degrees now, and still raining. There were no pigeons to be found. There was nothing to be found. I can honestly tell you the most abundant species, inluding humanity, in all of central park, was raccoons. We saw at least three. They're fat as all get out, and have perfected the New York stare. I was actually ready for one to say, "What the ..... are you looking at?" Intimidated, we continued on our way.

The skating rink, perhaps Micah's second largest goal of the night. It costs $11 during the week, and $14 on the weekend. It's always crowded, never serene. Well kids, at 3:45 am it's quiet, empty and free. Micah met goal number two, ripping his pants and getting a nice raspberry along the way. Every goal that was possible had been met, save the most important one, the culminating event of the evening: a good night's rest.

There are a lot of hotels in the city. We had friends in an apartment not too far away. The options were limitless. On a cold, rainy night, soaking wet standing in the middle of Central Park we could have headed in any direction and found a warm, safe place to stay. But how, 40 years from now, am I going to be able to look my grandchildren in the eye and tell them I slept in an apartment after a night like this. No sir, this is what the story's all about.

Micah had a nice bridge picked out. I honestly forgot where it was, but eventually we found it. It was recessed, under the ground, where the rain and wind wouldn't be a factor. It was the perfect place to finally get some rest, except for one thing, it was already taken. Figures, the first person we see in all 843 acres just happens to be in the only place we don't want anyone to be. Slightly disappointed we moved on. We kept travelling north, that is until the Harlem border, in which case we turned back around. We might be crazy, but we're not stupid. I want a story for the grankids, just not that one.

Evenutally we found another nice bridge, above ground, slightly susceptible to the wind, but still a dry place to lay our heads. Still one problem, occupied. 0 for 2 in the bridge picking. This was a significantly larger bridge, some thirty feet across and 70 feet long. Due to the cold weather, rain, and being incredibly tired, we deemed our new home big enough for three people. Apparently we were wrong.

Being newcomers to tunnel dwelling we were unaware as to the powerful acoustic presence a tunnel has. Huddled up with a good cigar this late at night our conversation had moved into complete delirium, debating the colors the streets lamps are when you turn your head, or how exciting a plate of scrambled eggs will be in the morning. Evidently, the idiosyncrasies of the jumbled morning plans were too much for our new neighbor who let out a hearty groan, threw his covers off, and proceeded to grab his two suit cases and find another place of solace. That was officially one of my most awkward moments... ever. It took the man three trips to get all his stuff. I wanted to help, but that would risk pissing him off even more. So I did what any good New Yorker would do, minded my own business, waited for him to leave, then ran over and grabbed his side of the tunnel, because it was better. Micah fell alseep pretty quick, spread eagle on his back. I spent the rest of the night, cold and wet, huddled in a ball, trying to dream about breakfast instead of praying someone wouldn't pee on me in the middle of the night.

I woke up at 6:15 to two Great Danes standing over me, not the ideal wake-up call in my opinion. Apparently there's a large contingency of city folk who walk their huge dogs early in the morning so they don't have to worry about leash laws. Needless to say, I wasn't going back to sleep. I spent a good 20 minutes watching people watch their dogs and listening to Micah snore, all the while shiverring, wanting breakfast like you wouldn't believe.

I kicked Micah until he woke up, reminding him that he promised me eggs in the morning. He mutterred something in his half asleep voice along the lines of "This must be what it's like to be married." I kicked him again. He said, "my point exactly", then he got up. It was still raining, and even colder than before. We started making our way over to where the parade would be, we barely made it out of the park before we hailed a cab and went back to Penn. Sopping wet, shivering, having met all the possible goals for the evening we got on the LIRR and went home.

I would love to say that we set out that evening for some kind of great moral lesson, a spiritual awakening or pilgrimmage of some kind. Truthfully, it was just to say that we spent the night in Central Park. However, I can honestly tell you that never before, and hopefully never again, have I had a more meaningful insight into the idea of Thanksgiving. I went home, took a hot shower, ate a wonderful Thanksgiving meal that I had no part in preparing, and felt a sense of gratitude and thankfulness unlike any other before. I don't care what your opinion is on homeless people, whether it's a series of unfortunate events, bad decisions, or a money-making scheme -- there's not a soul alive that would want to be sleeping beneath a bridge in Central Park in the nearly freezing rain if they had something better to go home to, not a soul. Be thankful for what you've been given, it's a lot more than what you deserve.

Fair warning

2006-10-16T09:35:00.000-04:00

It may not be deep, thoughtful, or even theological, but it's the freakin' truth... A man can only sit in a deer stand so long, not seeing a thing, before something has to pay for his frustration...

Augustus Part III (for the three people interested in seeing how the story ends)

2006-10-04T01:26:00.000-04:00

The entire time, I'm envisioning my emminent death, seeing as how that was the gelding who just went nuts, and all it needed was a self-shutting gate. I had to go and pick a stud, balls and all, and I couldn't shut the rear gate without 4 hail mary's and a lucky rabbit's foot. But I couldn't turn back now, after this big event, everyone had gathered around to see the next circus. So, armed with my crowbar and newfound peace with my maker, I sat atop the fence, ready to take a hoof in the face, my own proverbial polo ball if you will.They looked at me and asked if I was ready, and with all the confidence of a lamb before the slaughter I forced out a very weak "y..y..yeah." ...

With all the authority of the previous horse they popped open the chute gate, and out came my man. That is where the similarity ended. Slowly, yet deliberately he stuck his head out, looked to the left, then to the right, like a five year old who just learned how to look both ways before crossing the street. Confidently he walked with a slow authority to the trailer, where he casually stepped in, turned sideways, placed his butt against the side wall and assumed the position to ride home. We all just kind of stood there, waiting for something to happen. I was standing with the rear gate, not moving an inch, more hoping not to die than worrying about getting the thing shut. He turned his head and looked at me like "Well partner, were you planning on shutting that thing or do you want me to do it myself." I decided it would probably be best if I did it myself, but I did appreciate the offer. He quietly and patiently waited for me to complete the difficult task, while Will's horse is kicking the trailer, discontent with his current accomidations.

Off we went, down the road, stopping at Cracker Barrell, a precious commodity to poor country boys trapped on Long Island, where we sat down and decided what to name these two gentlemen. Selfishly you would love to name the animals, that's a given, after all we were the one's who picked them up, nearly dying in the process. But, they are for the boys, that's the real reason we're there, maybe we should let the boys name them we thought. It was settled, we'll leave it to the boys. We sat down for a well deserved meal.

After some good conversation, and a long anticipated Chicken Fried Steak, we reflected on the events of the morning. Two horses, two very different personalities, two names. Two characters, one hard nosed, unwilling to take direction or crap from anyone, the other more than willing to calmly, steadily do just what he needs to do and nothing more. Two hearty slices of Americana needed two healthy names to reflect their personalities, and ultimately rationalizing the fact that we couldn't have two horses named Cinnamon or Tupac, we decided then and there to take the matter into our own hands. What names would do these two justice? What names would help paint their picture? What two names would carry the sense of meaning these two drastically different yet similar characters? It was never so clear...

Augustus continued

2006-10-03T23:32:00.000-04:00

It wasn't until 1971 that Congress passed the Wild Free-Roaming Horses and Burros Act which "prohibits anyone other than an authorized agent of the Secretaries of the Interior and Agriculture from removing wild horses or burros from the public lands." Before that, these beautiful creatures were rounded up and sold to meat markets and glue factories, for no overhead. Contrary to popular belief, there are still, thanks to the Act, free-roaming horses in America, over 30,000 according to their last count. We were hellbent on making it 29,998.

The Bureau of Land Management offers a strict adoption program where they skim off the existing herds through round ups and gather the extraneous animals together and auction them off starting at $150. They were holding an auction in Ithaca, NY -- home of Cornell University. I didn't know that much about Cornell, I did know that it had a good agricultural program, but let's not get crazy and start comparing it to Angelo State or WT A&M, it's an Ivy League School.

So there we were, Nate, Will and I -- two cowboys and a redneck -- driving over bridges, through the city, off the island, and all the way upstate to an Ivy League school insearch of Mustangs. We pull into town that evening, arrive on campus at their polo stadium, yes I said it, stadium. We walked through the doors, and their they were, well over a hundred of them, wild as the day is long. They had them separated according to gender and age, in different pens in the middle of the arena, and you could walk around the outside and see them all. They weren't like normal horses penned, they all stood in the back of the pens, as far away from the humans an possible. They didn't come up to you, begging for attention or food, they just stood there, looking at you, looking at the fence, confused. Some broke down and ate, some walked around the back, none came up to the fence. Still there were some that refused to let it go, they still sat there, confused. It was a different confusion, not of frustration, but of critical thinking, almost staring at the fences like "there has to be a way to get out of this." They had a depth to their eyes that you didn't see in a tame horse.

Each horse had a make-shift collar around their neck with a plate which had a number for each of them. This was for the purpose of auctioning, identification was already taken care of. Branded into the left neck of every mustang is an identification number, arranged in symbols that wouldn't make sense to the average person.
Within those symbols are sets of numbers informing you of the mustangs identification number, which lets you know what herd he/she was in, in what county,

in which state, and so on. You can also tell the year that the horse was foaled, and finally, on the far left, the US gov't brand. Every horse had it, and, obviously, every horse's was different.

We spent the better part of three hours just taking it all in. The horses, the burros, talking with BLM workers, trying to learn everything we could. We each walked around alone with a pad and pen, writing down our recommendations based on demeanor, confirmation, age, and aesthetics. It must have been a sight to the New Yorkers, we were the only three cowboy hats in the place, walking around checking every horse out up and down, like I knew what I was doing. The locals were there to see the wild horses, like it was an exhibit at the zoo. There were the little kids asking if they could take one home, the others wanting to pet them. The local news was their to cover the whole event, the third string rookie field reporter covering the wild horses then moving over to the mall to get the cat fashion show. I guess I have to appreciate that they saw some value in it, but all I could think was about how they were missing the point. Before there very eyes were animals that literally ran free, this was the first time they'd seen a human, the first time they'd seen a fence. They were standing within feet of an American Icon since 1964 and a half, and it wasn't much more than a dirty pony to them.

They shut the joint down for the afternoon, we registered, then did what any good redneck stuck on Long Island would do, went to Tractor Supply Company. After paying homage we noticed a game of polo being played in a field down the way. If you've never watched a polo match in person, it's a pretty impressive thing. The ball is hard, and a lot bigger and heavier than I thought. They knock that joker around like it's nothing, they hit it up in the air, and pretty high too. We watched one polo pony take it straight in the face, and he was out like a light. Straight to the ground like David Spade in the ring with Mike Tyson. Mid run the horse just crumpled up and went down, then laid there for a couple of seconds and tried to get back up. Not happening. Back down again. If you were just arriving, and came upon this scene, you would have bet some pretty good money that he would easily fail the breathalizer. And may I say that a half-conscious, bewildered and confused horse attempting to stand is one of the funnier things you can ever hope to see, it's a long, humorous ordeal, only compunded by the fact that the jockey was on his back the entire time. I wouldn't recommend kncking 'em out on your own, but if you get in a polo match and your horse takes one in the noggin, do him a favor, just get off. That's my lone advice.

The only way to top that experience was with a good steak, so away we went. After polishing that off, we headed back to the polo grounds at Cornell, where in the parking lot outside the arena where hundreds of mustangs attempted to become acclimated with their fences, we parked the stock trailer and spread the bed rolls, attempting to become acclimated with the woodchips on the floorboard. That's right, we spent the night in sleeping bags and bed rolls in a trailer on an Ivy League Campus.

We woke up the next morning unable to contain the excitement or get the wood chips out of our matted hair. We rushed over to the Burger King for breakfast and shower in a sink, then headed back to Cornell to get the 'stangs. The arena was a little more crowded today, finally other people there to actually bid on some horses; still no other cowboy hats. Armed with our pads and pens, and a day's advantage on the competition, we narrowed our selections.

There were two that caught my eye, both blue roans. What can I say, I'm a sucker for good color. One was a very pretty horse, she actually looked good, pretty face, good confirmation, and what not. Nate had one problem with her -- four white feet. It's an old wive's tale that says white feet are weaker, plus it's not good luck. Bla bla bla. But he's the boss, and knows a heck of a lot mroe than I do, so I went to #2. He was the same color, but that's where the similarities end. He wasn't particularly attractive from a horse standpoint, in fact you could say ugly. He had a huge head, almost unproportional to his body, a big muzzle that made him look like a mule, all in all, not that impressive. But he did something that few others did... nothing. While every other horse nervously moved around the pen, he sat there, stoic. There was that depth in his eyes, something about him that was different, unique. I'm not one to claim that all animals have feelings, but he was either dumber than a bag of hammers and couldn't even muster the mental capacity to move, or something else was going on, almost like the wheels were turning -- and you could see it in his eyes.

Sure enough, ugly as he was, he flew beneath the radar, and we got him without any competition, the flat $150. Suckers.

Will picked out the other horse. He has an eye for a quality animal. Hands down Will picked the most magnificent horse there. Huge chest, great face, huge butt, solid legs -- if it were a women we'd all been drooling. Will's horse had everything going for it, sound feet, great confirmation, it was even gelded already, which meant not only did we not have to cut them off, but we didn't have to deal with his attitude or excessive testosterone. I, on the other hand, picked an ugly faced stud. Smooth move.

The sale was over, time to take the projects home and get started.

There are certain things you take for granted until you are without them. Indoor plumbing, sliced bread, good toilet paper. A broke horse definitely falls under that category. I was under no disalusions when we went, I knew we weren't picking up a calm, gentled horse that needs a little instruction on how to let people sit on its back. It just never clicked with me that they've never really seen humans or fences, that they were forced into a trailer against their will and huddled like cattle all the way up here. I didn't think we were going to walk up to them and put the halter on and walk them into the trailer, but I never really stopped to wonder exactly how we were supposed to get the wild horse from the pen to the trailer.

The BLM spent a good 6 minutes attempting to put a halter on Will's horse, who went ape nuts just at the idea. He hadn't even seen the trailer yet. In a chute 8 ft. tall, a horse barely taller than 4 and a half feet at the shoulder was jumping out the top. It was not his idea of fun. We backed the trailer up to the chute and tied panels to the edge, a good 10 feet from the chute gate. Will opened the trailer, which has a gate in the middle to divide the trailer in half, got out of the way, and then they opened the chute... and the adventure began.

First, I have to explain the trailer. Working for a non-profit agency, you're not always apt to have the newest or nicest of equipment, and this poor stock trailer would qualify under that catgory. We had to cover the floor in wood chips to cover all the rust spots and gaps between the floor and wall. The divider in the middle was the only part that was easy to operate, you only had to reach through the slats in the side and push it shut, and it would latch on its own. The back gate was another story, too long to describe, all I will say is that it involved a crowbar, leverage, solid concentration, and about 35 seconds without any mistakes.

Will's crazy horse went first. BAM!!! The second they opened the chute gate his horse took off running full steam ahead, having nowhere to go and only 10 feet til the trailer. He ran right into the trailer and smacked square into the front, pissed as all get out. He kicked twice, then ran straight back out. Will didn't have a shot at shutting the middle gate. Crazy is all over the place, in the trailer, out of the trailer, then back in again, literally kicking and screaming the whole time. He made it in the trailer the fourth time and threw himself to the ground and rolled over, an amazing feat considering the amount of space it took place in. He got up quicker than any horse I've ever seen. For that quick second he stood there in the front of the trailer where he needed to be. Will reached through the slats of the trailer and shoved the middle gate shut as quick as he could. Twice as fast Will sent the gate forward, that horse sent it back at him, nearly breaking Will's arm. This process would repeat itself a lot, until eventually crazy wore himself down, and Will was able to quickly shut the gate before the horse could kick it back.

The entire time, I'm envisioning my emminent death, seeing as how that was the gelding who just went nuts, and all it needed was a self-shutting gate. I had to go and pick a stud, balls and all, and I couldn't shut the rear gate without 4 hail mary's and a lucky rabbit's foot. But I couldn't turn back now, after this big event, everyone had gathered around to see the next circus. So, armed with my crowbar and newfound peace with my maker, I sat atop the fence, ready to take a hoof in the face, my own proverbial polo ball if you will.

They looked at me and asked if I was ready, and with all the confidence of a lamb before the slaughter I forced out a very weak "y..y..yeah." They popped open the chute gate with all the authority as they did the horse before, and out came my man.

Augustus McCrae

2006-10-03T19:29:00.000-04:00

In honor of a good friend's engagement, and because it's been a while, I offer you a little insight into what God has laid out for me -- see if you can't untangle the mess...

Before I get crazy, before I start attempting to wield fanciful words in an attempt to inspire the slightest insightfulness, I must first acknowledge the complete lack of knowledge I might have in any and every subject I may be prone to rant and rave about. I have always known that fact, whether I chose to express it or not is a different issue, yet lately, it has never been more poignently expressed than through a quote from Kierkegaard that I have been chewing on for a while now: Speaking to would-be ministers he said: "be on their guard lest by beginning to soon to preach they rather chatter themselves into Christianity than live themselves into it and find themselves at home there." (Journal, July 11, 1838) Before we venture any further, please know that all I have to offer is not a sermon, not advice, neither knowledge or philosophy, rather what little insight I have been afforded by the grace of God through trying my best to do my own little share of what He's asked.

There are 3 things currently on my office wall (excepting the clock and gotesquely placed vent), a corkboard full of quotes, cards and pictures; my ACU diploma; and finally an autographed photo of one Robert Duvall as Augustus McCrae. Before you few fans get too excited, it's really a cheap photocopy blown up, placed on carboard and wrapped in cellophane. I purchased it for $3 in San Antonio last Christmas. Yet, there he stands, with that spry look in his eye, reminding me to enjoy the little things in life. Perched high on my office wall, in it's original, frameless, cellophane wrapped state, his legacy of wit, wisdom, weakness and compassion set a standard for my interaction with the young men I work with here in New York, and it's one I've vowed never to forget.

Truthfully it started a long time ago, but we'll skip those details and move to the summer of 2004. It was around 3:30 am, I'd had just finished arguing with the Intensive Care Nurse about whether or not she could release the status of a patient to me, and having waited through Ryan's 6 hour reconstructive plastic surgery, hyped up on a mix of a little caffeine, some adrenaline and a whole lot of worry, I was not in the mood to argue. Hyped up on the good stuff himself, Ryan permitted the very unprofessional and extremely unkind nurse to release his information to me. Having failed to share the "complete truth" with Nancy and Mary Beth, as well as being the closest thing to a family member within a thousand mile radius, there was a sense of responsibility that had to be satisfied. I don't know why, it just did.

I was instructed that he would regain the complete use of his arm, and feeling an overwhelming sense of relief, sat down on the couch to allow reality to synchronize itself with the present. I felt calm and relaxed finally, but still had this nagging sensation that something was missing. I looked at the clock -- then it hit me, I had to be up in an hour and a half, no, an hour now... arguing with early morning hosptial staff helps you lose track of time. It was the event I was looking forward to from the moment I was invited, and it completely slipped my mind.

It was my first extended period of time on Long Island, I had spent my Spring Break there a couple years earlier, but what can you really find out about a place is a week? I wasn't aware how rural it actually was, especially out on the east end. All along the eastern end of the island there are vineyards and farms, doing their best to capitalize on the rampant tourism during the summer and fall. Along with open space and farms comes a pretty lucrative horse industry; people pay a great deal for horses, and then pay a great deal more for someone to break and train them so they can use the finished project. There are horse sales in Jersey, been there, there's even a really fun one in Lancaster PA, where you can mingle with Mennonites and acquire Amish arts and crafts, not to mention a fantastic (and literal, might I add) Smorgesbord--Miller's Smorgesbord--to wet your whistle and quench that appetite. I ate, in one meal, every barnyard animal available on the mass-produced, common market. And Emu. That, friends was a fantastic trip, but it ranks nothing compared to this one.

This trip revolved around the horse industry, but on the completely opposite spectrum. There was no great deal of money switching hands here... and there certainly weren't any well trained horses. We were after horses, true, but the kind that no one wanted, the kind the government had to protect, the kind that our ancestors used to round up and sell, the kind the spaniards left behind, the kind of outcast, disenfranchised, underdog, discount, no-count horse that has been and will be the symbol of the spirit of America. In the words of Nathan Dahlstrom, we were after a hearty, healthy "slice of Americana" -- we were after the American Mustang.

To be continued...

2006-08-17T10:50:00.000-04:00

Long Island National

2006-08-09T11:18:00.000-04:00

"Long Island National takes its place in a setting of golfing wonders on the Eastern end of Long Island. It is a traditional heartland golf course, buffered by sea breezes just off the North Fork, and playing across the open savannah landscape."

-Robert Trent Jones, Jr.

Architect

All I have to say to you, Mr. Jones, is fescue... well done sir, well done.

Boston...

2006-08-02T03:19:00.000-04:00

Cross Sound Ferry, on the way to Boston via New London, Connecticut. We are off the coast of Long Island, far away from the gulf of Mexico, yet, wait... what flag is flying higher than the American flag on this boat?

more wilderness trip pics

2006-07-15T17:13:00.000-04:00

Be Strong and Courageous

2006-07-03T23:42:00.000-04:00

It never gets old. Sure a little stressful, maybe even aggravating, but never old. No matter how many years I do it in a row, even when I'm an old man, full of years, wisdom and experience, this will always be new and exciting to me. It never gets old.

I'm not going to get into a debate of the definition of masculinity, sexual preference, or anything of that matter; I am, however, prepared to offer this blanket and truthful statement: A boy is in his element in the wilderness. I don't care who he is, what he likes, or where he came from, give him a week in the woods and he finds the very thing he's spent all this time looking for... himself.

It's not about the scratching and cussing, the hunting and gathering, or even the lack of showering, it's so much more than that. It' about character, discipline, leadership, confidence, humility, generosity, strength, and courage. It's about taking up a boy and leaving with a man.

This week was our annual Wilderness Trip in Massachusetts, and it was nothing short of amazing. 24 boys, no electricity, no running water, no lights; nothing they want, everything they need. It's a different environment, different experiences, different risks, and all you can do is pray that they catch on as they go.

It's my 2nd year to run the week, and it is definitely outside of my realm of comfort as well. All in all, around 60 people attend, so to plan for all of them as well as the entire week's activities with a purpose behind them requires more planning and administration than I am accustomed to employing, beyond the fact that everyone is without the luxuries of life, which tends to make them less than pleasant. When you have a lot that you want to do, you want to get it all done, and to do that you have to wear an authoritative hat that I'm not used to wearing, hence "Dictator Matt" -- the nickname given me by Ryan Davis' cabin -- seen below

Perhaps one of my favorite parts about being in charge is I get to pick the teams, and I have fun with it. I mix them up so much that no one wants stand in the same room with their team, much less eat, sleep, and cooperate with them for an entire week. You've got guys who hate each other because of this, guys who have never talked because of that, you name it, there was a reason behind every team member, and it rocked their world. Now their personal success was based on the performance of the very people they wish to compete against, not with. I mean teams are hard enough for many people, but how much more so when you've never been able to depend on anyone your entire life? And now you're forced to share your most uncomfortable week with your arch enemy, and the only way to do it is to cooperate with him?

But that is the beauty of this week, what happened in NY, stayed in NY. This is a new place, a new world, a new experience, and a new opportunity to start over again.

There is always a dream you envision for how the week will turnout, how the boys will respond to each challenge, how they will rise above adversity, how they will overcome their fear and self-doubt. You imagine how they will bond together as a team and achieve things they never thought possible. It is a beautiful dream.

With the utmost confidence I can tell you that every year my dream comes true, not because it was such a well planned event (such a fact would be included in the dream), or that it ran without any kinks, or even that there were no problems with the boys. My dreams came true despite all these factors, and many more, because there is a God who desires to make men. To take them at their weakest and make them their strongest, to show them what masculinity really is, not just being manly, more than that, truly being a man.

I have no prouder moment at The Ranch than this week. To watch a young man save another resident who fell out of the raft, the very same resident he sent to the hospital only several weeks ago. To watch two other guys with absolutely nothing in common share a hug of congratulations. To watch a kid reel in a fish, hold a turtle, build a fire, split a log, take responsibility, lead courageously, follow humbly, work diligently, forgive willingly, and succeed honestly. Building character to make men.

It's the highlight of my year, not for personal glory, but for the satisfaction of dreams come true. A grand dream indeed, to send a boy up a mountain and watch a man come back down. I've been there three years, led it twice, and it is as meaningful today as it was the first time. Even when I'm old and grey, when wisdom and experience replace youth and vigor, when I've watched it happen again and again and again, I will never bore of watching God make men, to me, that will never get old.

Blue Ridge

2006-06-13T23:07:00.000-04:00

rocking chair + sweet tea + blue ridge sunset = one sweet week for me

It's a deep burn...

2006-05-24T18:25:00.000-04:00

I guess I'm getting older. I remember the day that Ryan Davis told me that his body just didn't heal like it used to, I thought he was being ridiculous. We were snowboarding in the Catskills, taking video of the boys, relaxing, having a fun time. He was not prone to falling, but after some ill-designed moguls and a hefty body slam to the snow, he began to preach to me on how his body wasn't like it used to be. However, since he nearly killed himself with a router, he's never been the same. He said something about taking life a little easier and not doing stupid things that might result in a serious injury, things about the realization that he is mortal, bla bla bla, and after dismounting his soapbox of safety, we went about our day.

Within 30 minutes I was kneeling next to an unconscious, moaning Ryan who could never back down from a challenge. I actually have video of him, with the same mouth the preached to me about taking it easy, lean over to 3 complete strangers and tell them to watch this jump. Inevitably it was followed by him landing on his head, 30 extremely scary seconds, and one of the funniest moments Ryan and I ever had together. A semi-conscious and very confused and concussed Ryan asking if he was married and began preaching the same safety sermon again, followed by how much trouble he would be in with Mary Beth, who had told him "no tricks!" before he left. He would then forget where he was, and cycle back through the same safety sermon and line of questioning -- a process which would repeat itself about 7 times, all the while with a very confused, yet wry smirk.

After picking him up from the local hospital after the ski patrol transported him all the way down the mountain and to the ambulance, we talked about the safety sermon, about how our bodies were not the same.

I learned my lesson this week. No, there was no trip in an ambulance. No interesting semi-conscious dialogue. Just the naivete of a 24 year old body, who's been sitting in an office, deciding it could run 6.2 miles.

Yes, this weekend was the Shelter Island 10k Run, on a beautiful, small island between the two forks of Long Island. It helps to benefit the Ranch, and naturally, we are avid supporters of the event. At the last minute I decided, "Heck, why not give it a try?" And there I was, standing in the middle of well over 700 people thinking it was possible to finish this race. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't naive enough to think I would win, much less even place, but I thought I could at least muster up enough mental discipline to fool my body into 6.2 straight miles of calm and consistent running. After all, I had kept to the strict training regiment of ho-ho's and yoohoo, and to top it all off, I watched "Without Limits" -- a movie about Steve Prefontaine -- the night before. I wasn't going to pull a Pre and be the front runner, but I sure as heck could gather the brain power to successfully navigate the course without stopping... and I couldn't have been more wrong.

The plan was this: take it easy, 9 minute miles for the first 6 miles and give it everything I've got in the last two tenths. It started without a hitch. My pacing partner was one of my boys, Terry. I'll admit it, I knew I was overmatched, but I thought if we could stick together for the first 3 or 4 miles I would be in good shape. Terry was kind enough to stick around, knock off his place a little, and run with me. A great kid, he always has something funny to say, and felt the need to talk the entire time. It was no doubt the combination of boredom from the turtle-like pace and the excess of oxygen from the lack of necessary energy expulsion -- point being, I was too slow. He would make a comment about wishing he would have done his hair, or worn better clothes if he knew all these good looking girls were going to be running all around us. Running along with us was an older gentlemen in his 70's with an Australia hat on. Through labored breath I made a joke about judging the success of our time versus him. We didn't think much about it, and continued on our way.

We hit the 1 mile marker, 8:58, right on time. I felt a little winded, but pretty good. The plan was working. Then came the hills. Holy crap, the hills. They weren't even that bad, but whatever meager amount of mental preparedness I had mustered struck up a labor union and went on an indefinite strike, and thus the battle within my head waged. Mile two, 17:32, actually a little ahead of schedule, no doubt thanks to the downhill. Then my mind kicks in "A little ahead of schedule, maybe we could slow down a bit, you know, catch some energy before this big hill, then make up for it on the down side." Lashing out quickly, whatever small force of discipline was left broke through my mental picket line and began to work, "No, we have to keep the pace, if you slow down now you'll never finish." Agreeing with what would be their final response, I kept going, only to come around the corner and discover an even larger hill. A quarter of the way up, I personally killed off the last of the discipline and honored the strike, mainly out of laziness, but partly because I was losing the sensation in my arms. I sent Terry on his way, chasing after the girls, and pulled over to the side and began to walk, apologizing to my body for not listening before. People are passing me right and left, many in worse shape than mine. But I stood my ground, walked up the hill, and ran down the back side.

This strategy continued through mile 3, until, while walking I heard a lady in her mid 40's blow by me, casually explaining to her friend how she had lost precious time already after pulling over to pee. My pride took a huge shot, "An old woman can stop, pee, start again, and still outdo you?" I was ashamed, but I committed to my plan. I waited till the next hill and ran down the back side. Several other incidents of much odler and more disciplined people inspired my pride to make a final effort towards a strong finish, taking me all the way through 4th mile without a stop.

But it was right after the 5th mile line, when the 50 year old accountant from the Ranch patted my back as she ran by that even my pride gave up on the running. It was pronounced dead several minutes later.

Late in the 5th mile everyone was passing me. There was a kid no older than 13 leaping by like an antelope, with his father right beside him. I like to think that I had the opportunity to appreciate the scenery, as, at this point in the race, everyone was staring at the ground, plugging ahead. Then a phenomenon occurred. It was at the moment when the group of parents pushing their toddlers in the strollers came running by, that I realized the entire new level of laziness I had achieved. Pulling out the mental defribulator I gave a solid charge to my wounded pride and gave it a final push.

After gaining a significant lead on the babies, I pulled off to the side again to find Fern Hill pushing her granddaughter Ellie, and we had a casual conversation. Something to the effect of my wanting to push Ellie out of the cart and get in myself, or at least that's what she says, I personally don't remember, admittedly my brain was not receiving much oxegyn.

Unknowingly, all the baby pushing parents wizzed past me again, and it this point I was okay with it, I had come to accept my weak fate. Walking there, in my pool of self-indulgence I looked up to see my worst nightmare. No, not another hill, rather, the man in the Australia cap, a good fifty yards ahead of me, about to cross over the 6 mile marker.

Unannounced, with all the fury of a bat out of hell (but none of the speed) I booked it for the finish line, refusing to lose to Australia. And I am proud to say, that with the speedy time of 1:07:25 I won my own personal race against the land down under by almost three minutes.

If you don't believe me, just ask Ryan, he was smart enough to take it easy, and not even run at all.

My man Terry, still chasing after the girls -- 51:46

The woman is telling on me to her grandchild, "he didn't start running till the end." Snitch.

Suit yourselves.

2006-05-16T22:17:00.000-04:00

Delightfully tacky, yet unrefined

There was no flashed used in the taking of this picture, my complexion offered enough light for us all. Yes, this is my best attempt at looking tough.

Why?

2006-05-03T17:52:00.000-04:00

Growing up I always thought that shrinks made money off of their ability to correctly use the question "Why?" I thought that all they did was sit around and dissect your every action into it’s deeper meaning by asking the question "Why?" I had no real clue what they do, I’d never seen one, I didn’t even know one. I never took an official psychology class in college, just the Introduction to Ministerial Counseling and Counseling Adolescents, both serving the same purpose as Greek, to dangle my feet in the water of psychology just enough to realize that the pool was far too deep for me, not to mention the fact that you never use a "Why" question.

Today I am a state recognized therapist, I’m not an Licensed Mental Health Professional – I won’t ever be one, I don’t want to. I work with young men in a therapeutic setting, conducting sessions, attempting to meet their physical, emotional, and spiritual needs. I meet with other members of my team, discussing each patient’s prognosis, their direction, our strategy, etc. The more I kick around in this water, the deeper the pool becomes. The only thing that I have come to know is that there is a reason for everything, if there wasn’t, why would we spend so much time trying to figure it out?

I don’t have the answers for all of life’s questions, but the more I experience in this short time that I’ve been here, the more I believe there’s a reason for everything. This isn’t a debate into why natural disasters happen, the presence of evil, or the depth of God’s direct interaction with mankind; they’re all matters to be settled another time. Like I said, I don’t have all the answers, only increasingly convinced that there is a reason for everything. There’s a reason why God created the fart, it’s not necessary, He could have made us differently, but He didn’t. Chalk it up to Divine humor or creativity, but there is a deeper reason I do not presently understand.

There is a reason why our present canon includes Esther, and it’s more than for the saying "for such a time as this." There’s a reason why Job made it in, even though we’re not totally sure; there’s a reason for Song of Solomon, though no one will ever agree; and there’s a reason for Revelation, though no one will ever totally comprehend. And there’s a reason why we as Christians still read the Old Testament.

Some would say it’s because it shows us how a perfect God interacts with imperfect people, a sort of snapshot into the holiness of God. They are no doubt correct, but not completely. Some might say it’s the indication of the measuring stick God holds us to, and how short we fall without Jesus, again, true in a sense, but not completely. Others might even show that it contains all the prophecies which help prove that Jesus is the Christ, again, true, but not completely. On and on I could mention the examples of why the OT is there, but none would be complete.

There’s a reason why God chose Jacob, and I for one will never understand. I’ve wrestled with this for a while, and still the answer is lacking. The historical ramifications of this one man are too innumerable for me to comprehend, much less put into words. Why would God choose to name the "chosen people" after a con artist who tricked his way into the blessing of God? Why shift the entire course of history over a bowl of stew? Why would God allow that to happen? Why would God reward him? Why? So here I sit again, on the edge of the pool, dangling my feet in the water, knowing just how deep it is, yet this time I find myself wanting to dive in.

Why? Because there is something about the story of Jacob that intrigues me, it has for a long time. Maybe it’s because I’m a sucker for a good story, no doubt, but there is something about Jacob that I connect with, something that relates to me, something the draws me in.

I don’t look good in an apron. You can kiss this chef if you want, but it won’t be because of the cooking. If it wasn’t already frozen, then I haven’t cooked it. I can grill pretty well, don’t get me wrong, but culinary mastery is not my forte. Yet, in some strange way I find myself connecting with Jacob. On paper this wouldn’t make any sense at all. I’m not a twin, I’m the firstborn, I like hunting, fishing and being outdoors, and I sure as heck can’t cook. I’ve got pretty hairy legs and feet to boot; I mean, I’m no Esau, but I’d say I’m more on his side of the boat, if you know what I mean. I don’t recall conning my brother out of anything, and if there is a lick of con artist in me, then I learned it from him in the first place. Just about any way you happen to look at it, I don’t match up with Jacob, yet I increasingly find myself attracted to his story, as if there is some sort of connection I have not realized.

So let me set the stage for you:

Jacob’s just stepped out on his own for the first time. He wasn’t ready. It wasn’t his choice. He had to – has was forced to. The problems that he’d started were catching up with him, and it was time to hit the road. This wasn’t the first time he’d run from life’s problems. He took off when he was younger, left his home, the mother that loved him, the dying father, and the brother waiting to kill him. He spent 20 years side-stepping that battle, countries away from the brother whose heel Jacob grabbed for the last time. I’m sure if you asked Jacob, he would have rather been home, hanging around the tents, talking with his mom, cooking up something nice. But this is where he had to be, it wasn’t his choice.

Sure everything turned out pretty nice. He’d met the girl of his dreams, and she became his wife. Of course that goes without mentioning the 14 years of work and the consequential bride that accompanied this deal. Yeah, so his home life wasn’t the best, between the warring wives and the furious father-in-law it couldn’t have been too pleasant at home, yet God had truly blessed him. He showed up at their tent door with nothing but the staff in his hand, and now he was leaving a wealthy man. Sure, he was deceived by Laban, but let’s face it, in the end Jacob always wins. He was running away with the man’s two daughters, all the grandbabies, the majority of his sheep, and a bunch of his stuff, all without ever saying good-bye.

But we cast Jacob in a bad light, like he was the only family member to ever deceive. His father and grandfather did the same thing, lying about their wives, and ended up wealthier because of it -- heck, Abraham did it twice it worked so well. Not to float around in the psychology pool, but after all, he’s simply a "product of his environment."

So here we find him, running again. Behind him is his father-in-law, from whom he took just about everything, and in front of him, his brother, for whom he left nothing. Jacob’s back in the middle again, between the rock of a hairy, angry brother and the hard place of a father-in-law done wrong.

He’d seen this middle before when he ran the first time. He had the blessing, but never really known what it was. And along the journey to his new life he laid down to sleep one night only to experience God for the first time. Standing there, atop the ladder, Jacob’s ladder, God gave him the reminder of the Promise, the affirmation of the Blessing, the connection between God and man; his first real experience with God.

So why is it so strange that he find himself in the middle again? Amidst the chaos of his life, trying to protect his family from his enraged brother and rectify the animosity with his wives’ father, we find this quick, nondescript incident about another Divine experience. Yet, this time, it’s much more. What was once a dream in years gone by, an experience of the mind, turns into a first hand encounter, a literal brawl with the Living God. All night they wrestled, until the break of day. No one knows what style they used, whether or not Jacob had God in a submission hold, or if God ever got Jacob in a half nelson. All we know is this: the sun was rising, and God had apparently forgot the lesson that Laban learned the hard way – in the end Jacob always wins. Pinning down the Creator of the universe, Jacob demanded a blessing. Why? Could it be that he forgot the blessing from the ladder? Could it be that he couldn’t see a blessing through the turmoil surrounding him? Could it be that the man who had it all already wanted just a little more? Who knows? All it says is that God had to pull a cheap shot to get His way, wrenching Jacob’s hip, but even that didn’t help. Finally God caved in:

The man asked him, "What is your name?" "Jacob," he answered.
Then the man said, "Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel,
because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome."

Then God blessed Israel.

The questions are endless: Why would God choose to come to earth, take on flesh, and wrestle with a man? What was so important? What is the meaning? Why name your chosen people after a wrestling match? Why let their name, their identity, the very people whom God recognizes as His own, be the people "who struggle with God."

This has revolutionized the way I view ministry. I see Jacob in my boys. I see a kid who just stepped out on his own for the first time. He wasn’t ready. It wasn’t his choice. He had to – has was forced to. The problems that he’d started were catching up with him, and it was time to hit the road. This wasn’t the first time he’d run from life’s problems, but it’s the first time he’s had to face up to them. There were no more opportunities to side-step this ordeal, they had to meet it face to face, just like Jacob.

Just like Jacob they’ve been in the middle, not knowing where to turn. They’ve experienced times of ambiguity, times of uncertainty, and times of despair. They’ve had moments or experiences in which they’ve "seen" God, be it getting ripped out of their homes, watching friends suffer, fail, even die, or just losing a year of their life. There have been positives too, escaping poor environments, negative influences, and hurtful people. These are their experiences with God, they want to give Him credit, good or bad, for their live’s circumstances, but they’ve never encountered God... until now.

Now they’re here, in the night of their lives, surrounded by looming pressures, wrestling with life, wrestling with God. He’s more than a story they’ve heard about, or an unfulfilled promise from years gone by. He’s an acting, moving, loving force impacting their lives, and they’re not sure what to do with it. In turn they ask the question He’s been waiting for: "Why?"

Why would God bring me into a world where I would be criticized for who I am? Why would God make me pay for the mistakes that my mother made? Why would God take away my brother? Why would God bring me to this place? Why don’t they have to "learn from their mistakes"? Why did he make me this color? Why would he send my father away? Why would God allow that to happen to my sister? Why won’t God listen to me? Why won’t He answer me!? Why would he love me?

There I stand, just outside the ropes of the arena, towel and water bottle in hand, watching the fight. After every round they come back to my corner with a "Why" question, and there was a time in my life when the naive part of me thought it should be answered. Now I know better: it’s not my fight. I’m not the contestant, that I should be in ring wrestling for them, that offers no help. I’m not the referee that I should lay down the parameters and rules, I have no such authority. I simply the man in their corner, the Mickey to their Rocky, setting down the stool of direction, telling them where to punch next. And as I wipe away their blood, sweat, and tears... I doctor their cuts, slap them on the black, and send ‘em back in again, praying that they step back in for another round, hoping every moment that they will make it till sun up, and limp away with God’s blessing.

I’m helping people encounter God, many of my guys are doing it for the first time, and the fight is on. Make no mistake, it’s a fierce fight; not because there’s a God sick of questions, but questions sick of remaining unanswered, ignored, or even forgotten. They battle with a God who welcomes the fight, not out of vindication, but love and support. His self-worth is not based in their opinion of Him. Instead He appreciates, like Jacob, an honest seeker, an earnest traveler, a sincere heart. He beckons questions, like little children at His feet, that they might come unto Him and find in Him their fulfillment, their completion, their answer.

So what does the Jacob story mean to me? A lot. A lot of great, incomplete ideas. Like I’ve already said, there’s a reason why God chose Jacob, and I’ll never understand. I’ve wrestled with this for a while, and still the answer is lacking. The historical ramifications of this one man are too innumerable for me to comprehend, much less put into words. Why would God choose to name the "chosen people" after a con artist who tricked his way into the blessing of God? Why shift the entire course of history over a bowl of stew? Why would God allow that to happen? Why would God reward him? Why would God come in the flesh, wrestle with man, and from that experience birth a new nation? Maybe because several hundred years later He’d repeat it again, in the flesh, and once again wrestle with man, and from that experience birth a new nation. Who knows?

So what does the Jacob story mean to you? Why should I know? It’s not for me to answer. I’m just here to get you to the next round.

Bachelor Day 2006

2006-04-28T16:28:00.000-04:00

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.

Are You Kidding Me?

2006-04-25T22:23:00.000-04:00

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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Welcome to NY

2006-04-21T14:16:00.000-04:00

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.

Entitlement

2006-04-15T22:23:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-04-01T00:49:00.000-05:00

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

When Silence Speaks

2006-03-05T01:49:00.000-05:00

One of the joys of being a Youth and Family Ministry major at ACU was that you know that for the rest of your life you would never be without a multitude of $15 paperback books involving some new twist on Youth Culture. Apparently, you collect them all for your "library", and I am no different -- I have a bookshelf literally full of them in my office. Slowly and surely the collection grows, some books are there because they were gifts or class requirements, never to be opened or used again. Others are there just for the fact that you feel you should have a copy of it, but will probably still fall in the previous category. Yet there are others, books that you find yourself constantly opening, relentlessly referring to, never to fall to waste or decoration. Why? Because they are the special, handpicked tools that shape not only your ministry, but your relationship, your image of the One True God. I have no doubt that both categories will continue to grow and blossom in their own respect, but for now I'll leave you with this one: a small, one day read that will change the rest of your life: When God Is Silent by Barbara Brown Taylor. Read it, I will not even attempt to summate it's poignant brilliance, but I will leave you with an intriguing conversation it stirred in me... the idea of silence.

Maybe it's because I've literally never lived by myself. Maybe it's because the guy who lives in the room next to me is the loudest person I know, or maybe I'm just getting old and cynical, but I have begun to cherish the rare moments of silence. It wasn't always that way. When I made it into 6th grade I received my first alarm clock. My mother had deemed it time for me to wake up on my own, not by the spraying of a water bottle in my face or the singing of an annoying song. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a simple device with one alarm and a built in radio. It was the beginning of the end of silence for me.

I used the radio all the time. Whenever I found myself in the room, the radio was on. It wasn’t because I was belligerent and wanted to annoy everyone. It was to keep myself from becoming bored, because where there was silence, for me there was discomfort. I learned to drive, and everywhere I went the radio went there with me. I saved and saved to purchase a nice Sound System for my new car, 3-way speakers, a Clarion CD Player, all to ensure there would always be high quality sound. I went to college and bought a computer to reap the benefits of a free napster and fast internet connection. Well over 3,000 songs, and probably twice that many viruses, kept a constant barrage of musical distraction circulating through my room. I actually went to bed every night with the radio on, not because I listened to the music, but because I didn’t want to listen to the silence, because the silence spoke to me, and silence could not prevail.

I have relied on an alarm clock every day since then. It has become a welcomed noise amidst the silence. I now need a clock with two alarms, because I have become so adjusted to only one. I need the noise, I must have it, because without it there is only silence, and I don’t want to go there.

Silence in the final frontier, the last of the unknown. You cannot navigate or understand silence without breaking it, without introducing sound. It makes us uncomfortable because we don’t know what’s going on, the silence speaks in a language that we cannot understand. You cannot grasp or control silence; you can only exist in it. It is a world full of, built with, unknown.

This is why we have awkward silences, because we believe something should be said or done to not allow silence to prevail. We disarm silence with witty comments or clever sayings to beat it back down. Radio stations fill our time with noise; all in the avoidance of their arch enemy silence they call “dead air”. Noise dominates our society, who we are, because we are afraid of silence, silence cannot prevail. Everywhere we go there is noise, in the car we need the radio, it has to be on even when we choose to talk with each other instead. Silence cannot prevail. In the house while we do our chores we need to have the radio blaring or the TV on while we eat dinner. Silence cannot prevail. In the gym there are TVs by the treadmills and MP3 players attached to everyone’s arms. Silence cannot prevail. On the train or subway, around every corner in the city there lurks an I-pod, silence cannot prevail.

We will not permit silence to prevail because in silence there is discomfort, the discomfort of knowing that there is only one place to turn in silence… inside. And looking inside is one of the scariest places to see. Silence speaks, it speaks to us in ways more powerful than words can ever hope or describe. The silence after a bad joke speaks infinitely more than the laughter following a funny joke. The silence of waiting, the ticking of the clock or humming of computer can’t even fill that void. The silence after a death carries a life of its own. Silence carries a power, a void that noise can only hope to fill.

And it was never more beautifully illustrated than by a simple silent story: On a hill, 2000 years ago, hung the Son of the Living God, the God who spoke this world into existence, who shattered silence with His own voice and brought life, brought creation. The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we chose to sentence him to die, speaking the words that brought death to the author of life. And at that moment, when the Almighty God could have given the command, spoken the single word that would end the pain of His suffering Son, He chose instead to be silent.

Through that silence the Loving God literally spoke for us, for eternity, that no longer would silence need to be uncomfortable, no longer when we searched inside ourselves would we be scared of what we find. That in the moment of greatest noise during our spiritual warfare, when all of creation clamored, even the sun itself stopped shining, The Word was silent – and in that moment, silence prevailed.

Maybe it is because I'm older and more cynical, maybe that’s what allows me to appreciate silence. Or maybe it's the fact that I have finally realized that silence isn't such a scary thing at all, because there is a God, who through his most uncomfortable silence eliminated my discomfort with it. Now, when I look inside, I don't see who I was, but the person I've been redeemed to be. That is how silence speaks to me

Home Going Service

2006-02-14T15:33:00.000-05:00

There are plenty of moments while working here when I have been disappointed by the young men. Whether it was a fight in the local church yard or the food free-for-all at a fancy play, at times, their complete social inept and lack of respect can be almost crippling. There are times when they pull some stunt so mortifying that you don't even recognize the kid who just accomplished the horrible feat, you just sit perplexed, wondering if he even has a soul. There are some fantastic stories from those very rare occasions, but today's was far from one of them.

You see, what outweighs the dim moments are the incredible ones in which their light truly shines; where the capable, loving, successful young men they truly are inside comes shining through for the rest of the world to see, not just me. These moments are the pegs on which I hang my joy, my satisfaction, my drive. Today was, by far, the biggest peg yet.

On February 8th, at the age of 43, Mark Douglas Pettit passed away from this life. I would love to be able to describe for you how much he meant to the Ranch, but my words are hardly adequate. In short, he was a huge man, both in stature and in heart. An avid fisherman, Marine, wrestler, and boxing enthusiast he was no doubt 100% man. He embodied masculinity -- no one, whether you knew him or not, ever doubted his masculinity. He came to make men, and he did for over 17 years. In the days when there was no 24 hour staffing he lived in the boy's houses, raised his two children there, and shared not only his family but his life with literally hundreds of young men. All in all, he was a man's man.

Yet, it wasn't that inherent masculinity that was ultimately his strongest influence. Although he was a mammoth of a man, he carried a gentleness about him like none I have ever seen. He was more than capable of holding his own and dishing out a well deserved plate of tough love, but it was the moments so soft and serene that made the real man shine through. And those soft moments were the ones that changed lives.

I burnt well beyond the midnight oil last night with a young man reflecting on the years of influence "Mr. Mark" had. Yet, what he will ultimately remember about Mr. Mark was the soft moment when Mark casually pointed out the successes the young men was experiencing, however small they were in his own eyes, and said the words the young man had never heard before, "I am proud of you." To you and I that is a sweet gesture of some kind of significance, I'm sure, but to this young man it was a life changing event. He still vividly remembers that day, five years ago, when Mr. Mark "gathered all of my individual successes together and forged the key to open the door to a better life." In five seconds he shared five words that still ring true five years later, and will continue to do so for many years to come.

Today at the funeral were those same boys from the first paragraph, who could have taken this opportunity to do what the outside world would expect from them, creating another story to add to my now, many months later, humorous collection of social faux paws. Instead, dressed in suits, looking and acting like men, they gathered on their own accord, because they wanted to, because they wanted to honor a real man, Mark Pettit. And when the time was offered for those who wished to share, they rose to the occasion again, standing tall, big, strong, yet speaking in the same meaningful, soft voice as the giant they were honoring. Before a packed house each young man came forward, and, with Mark's combination of gentle strength, not only recalled memory after gentle memory, lesson after heartfelt lesson, and comfort after sincere comfort for the family and friends of Mr. Mark, they created for me peg after powerful peg on which I hang my joy, my satisfaction, my drive.

That way tonight, when I take them all out to dinner after three hours of basketball, I can pull each one aside and tell them the truth, maybe for the first time in his life: "I'm proud of you." And with Mark's strength and God's help, maybe that will be the moment that unlocks their door to a better life, after all, it's what they've already done for me.

Mark Douglas Pettit

1962-2006

"The Fisherman"

I stand on the edge of the ocean

And cast my line to the wind and sea

--Joan Rice

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Quote of the day:

A former resident from ten years ago at the funeral

(as if that wasn't testimony enough) --

"I continued to come back because I wanted Mark and Rose to be my little girl's god parents... [pause, tears, tissues]... because I wanted them to be my parents."

Wow. That was a funeral.

Fear.

2006-01-28T01:55:00.000-05:00

"Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear."

--Mark Twain

I'll admit it, I'm afraid. I'm afraid of a lot of things. I'm afraid of frogs, yeah I said it. I can hold a fish or snake without a problem, but frogs terrify me. I'm afraid of getting shots and going to the dentist. I'm afraid of my next dental bill. I'm afraid of losing my keys and someone driving away with my truck. (I'm afraid I was only searching for a reason to show a picture of Sherebiah, as handsome as he is). I'm afraid of heights. I'm afraid that a masked man is waiting beneath my truck with a pair of tin snips ready to snap my Achilles tendon, not because of the pain, but because of the fact that it can't be fixed. I'm afraid of what people think of me. I'm afraid of giving something my all and it still not be enough. Even more than that I am afraid of not giving something my all and wondering what it would have been like if I did. I'm afraid of settling for anything. Yet most of all, I'm afraid of letting God down.

I attribute it to another fear of mine: wasting things. That's why I'm cheap and never throw anything away, there's always a use for something. I am surrounded by people who are neat and tidy, whose anthem for cleaning is, "When in doubt throw it out." I on the other hand will hold onto anything and everything in the odd chance that it might be used again. I kept a leaf engraved with my dog's name for a good three months until it rotted and crumpled into nothing, all because a little girl from the neighborhood gave it to me after my puppy was born. I collect tacks, paperclips, blank paper, rubber bands, and any pen in the odd chance that it might find use again somewhere down the line. I have to eat all the food on my plate (within reason, meaning if I like it) and refuse to throw it away, even if it causes "discomfort" further down the road. There's always a use for something -- even me.

But the Voice of Truth tells me a different story.
The Voice of Truth says "Do not be afraid."
The Voice of Truth says "This is for My glory."

Out of all the voices calling out to me,
I will choose to listen and believe the Voice of Truth.

-- Casting Crowns

I love that song, it speaks to me, it inspires me, but it doesn't describe me. I love the artistry with which they describe the "other voices" that remind us how we've failed; the giants of this world who spit in our faces and remind us we're nothing but little boys with a sling, the waves that keep us from stepping out and following Jesus. Genius, poignant genius; but it doesn't describe me. Yes the waves and the giants get to me, but they're not my greatest fear.

Marianne Williamson wrote: "Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others"

I'm afraid of letting God down, not in my mistakes along the way, though they are inevitable, not in His disappointment, though it is uncomfortable, and not the consequences as they are unavoidable. Rather, my fear is myself; not who I wouldn't be, the burier of my talent, but who I could be, the owner of ten talents -- the good and faithful servant (Matt. 25).

There will be moments when I am concerned about how the world perceives me, when the giants, frogs and waves of this world beat me down, and I will be afraid. There will be occasions when the Devil waits beneath my truck armed with snips of deceit hoping to cut my life in two, and I will be afraid. I will no doubt have my own Moses incident, when scared of the height God has brought me I will take the staff of His talent and beat it against the Rock of his glory, taking the credit for myself. My mistakes may keep me from an earthly Promised Land, but like all that is said before, I will be afraid, but it won't be my greatest fear.

My greatest fear is that I never encounter these smaller fears, that I live a life so consumed with the avoidance of fear that I neglect to participate at all. So, I'll admit it, I'm afraid. I'm afraid of a lot of things, and in doing so conquer my greatest fear: A life without it.

Thank You

2006-01-21T23:59:00.000-05:00

Many thanks to all who thought it possible that i wrote the Chuck Norris facts. I am honored that you would give me that kind of credit. I put a little disclaimer at the very bottom, but apparently it wasn't clear enough. I received it as an email, and have no idea who truly wrote it, but like CBlair I was the office idiot laughing uncontrollably. I put it on the old blog to get someone else to laugh at it, because none of the residents knew who Chuck Norris was, and I was feeling alone in my appreciation. I take that back, one kid knew him through the info-mercial that he did with Christy Brinkley. After I told him that he was almost 65 years old he responded with "65! D%#@, cuz is diesel!" True... true. Anyway, after 25 minutes of attempting to explain Chuck Norris (an impossible task to begin with) , I gave up and came to the computer.

Thank you Cody, for the shout out on your blog, unwarranted as it may be, and thanks to Daniel Carlson, for his exhaustive research which found even more true facts about Chuck Norris. Finally thank you Nathan Dahlstrom for sending the email that made my day.

I'll take these last few moments to pick on Nathan, a. because he is a good friend and mentor, and b. because I know he never reads this. In fact, when I sent out the email notifying everyone that I had a blog, his exact response was:

"That was great Matt. a site dedicated to you and the odd chance one of the 10 billion people you mailed it to are interested in an unpersonal tribute to yourself.

Just kidding, but no really.

Nah just kidding, but no really.

Nathan"

Nathan Dahlstrom was the man that got me started in this Boy's Ranch Industry, or more importantly the business of "making men". Long were the hours we spent around a campfire discussing guns, horses, ministry and everything in between. From baling hay to cooking bacon, catching fish to roping calves, boys learned. They learned new skills, new hobbies, new escapes, new identities, and a new definition of masculinity. A man, defined not by what he did, but what he could do; a man after God's own heart, and that man for us was Nathan Dahlstrom. I always knew that ministry existed beyond the official title, but it was never more truly personified than through him. Together we would watch as God worked on the hearts of His "boys" at the Ranch, molding and shaping them into His own, into more than boys... into men. And it is because of his investment in not only the boys, but in me, that I have found an industry, an occupation, a "business" that I love and hold dear, a front row seat into God's business, the business of making men.

It's been a while since Nathan has been on this Ranch, but he's still in the business. As we speak he's listening to the calling of a gracious God who desires for His "lost boys" to become men after His own heart, and Nathan is willing to be that sharpening tool. Whetstone Boy's Ranch, based on the Proverb, "As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another" (27:17) with God's help will accomplish just that, sharpened tools ready for the world ahead. Leaving not with the confusion and timidity of the boy who entered, but the strength and courage of the man he's become.

Currently he resides in Lubbock, with his heroic wife and precious daughters, 8 horses, lab and pet coon. If that's not a man after my own heart, I don't know who is. Thank you, Nate, for all that you've done and will continue to do.

www.whetstoneboysranch.org

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In true Cody Blair fashion I will conclude with a pic of the day:

Here's Soren and Liv, two of the most entertainingly precious little girls you'll ever meet, Huck the lab and Lily the coon.

"The Eyes of the Ranger are Upon You"

2006-01-17T14:41:00.000-05:00

There comes a time in every man's life when he must acknowledge his heros, the people who have passed down the rights of manhood and masculinity, reaffirming your identity and squelching all insecurity. Now is not that time.

Last night, a resident here at the Ranch asked me "What is Truth?" After hours of endless modern/postmodern debating, this was the piece of truth that swayed him -- the TRUTH about Chuck Norris...

Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.

If you ask Chuck Norris what time it is, he always says, "Two seconds till." After you ask, "Two seconds till what?" he roundhouse kicks you in the face.

Since 1940, the year Chuck Norris was born, roundhouse kick related deaths have increased 13,000 percent.

There are no disabled people. Only people who have met Chuck Norris.

There is no chin behind Chuck Norris' beard. There is only another fist.

It was once believed that Chuck Norris actually lost a fight to a pirate, but that is a lie, created by Chuck Norris himself to lure more pirates to him.

Those aren't credits that roll after Walker Texas Ranger; it is actually a list of people that Chuck Norris roundhouse kicked in the face that day.

If you unscramble the letters in "Chuck Norris" you get "Huck corn, sir." That is why every fall, Chuck travels to Nebraska and burns the entire state down.

Chuck Norris' tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried.

Chuck Norris once roundhouse kicked someone so hard that his foot broke the speed of light, went back in time, and killed Amelia Earhart while she was flying over the Pacific Ocean.

Rather than being birthed like a normal child, Chuck Norris instead decided to punch his way out of his mother's womb. Shortly thereafter he grew a beard.

When Chuck Norris plays Oregon Trail his family does not die from cholera or dysentery, but rather roundhouse kicks to the face. He also requires no wagon, since he carries the oxen, axels, and buffalo meat on his back. He always makes it to Oregon before you.

Chuck Norris built a time machine and went back in time to stop the JFK assassination. As Oswald shot, Chuck met all three bullets with his beard, deflecting them. JFK's head exploded out of sheer amazement.

Chuck Norris sold his soul to the devil for his rugged good looks and unparalleled martial arts ability. Shortly after the transaction was finalized, Chuck roundhouse kicked the devil in the face and took his soul back. The devil, who appreciates irony, couldn't stay mad and admitted he should have seen it coming. They now play poker every second Wednesday of the month.

A man once asked Chuck Norris if his real name is "Charles". Chuck Norris did not respond, he simply stared at him until he exploded.

Chuck Norris recently had the idea to sell his urine as a canned beverage. We know this beverage as Red Bull.

Chuck Norris does not sleep. He waits.

Chuck Norris once shot a German plane down with his finger, by yelling, "Bang!"

After much debate, President Truman decided to drop the atomic bomb on Hiroshima rather than the alternative of sending Chuck Norris. His reasoning? It was more "humane".

Chuck Norris often asks people to pull his finger. When they do, he roundhouses them in the abdomen. Then he farts.

Chuck Norris is currently suing NBC, claiming Law and Order are trademarked names for his left and right legs.

If you can see Chuck Norris, he can see you. If you can't see Chuck Norris you may be only seconds away from death.

Aliens do exist. They're just waiting for Chuck Norris to die before they attack.

Chuck Norris appeared in the "Street Fighter II" video game, but was removed by Beta Testers because every button caused him to do a roundhouse kick. When asked bout this "glitch," Norris replied, "That's no glitch."

The chief export of Chuck Norris is pain.

So there you have it folks, the truth. May it set you free.

**The previous information did not originate with Matt Foster; absolute truth finds it origin not with the one who communicates it, but with the creator himself. If in anyway this "piece" has "spoken to you" or have needed to change your pants and wipe your eyes, take the time to thank the real man, Mr. Chuck Norris. I am but a conduit of information... please, I don't want to end up as another credit at the end of Walker Texas Ranger.

Conspiracy Theory

2006-01-13T22:05:00.000-05:00

I don't own a television. Ok, I do have one that sits at the foot of my bed, but the coaxial connection is busted, so even though, technically I do own a TV and the previous sentence is a lie, you get the picture. I live with 4 other people, we don't have cable. Once you eliminate cable, there's really no point in getting regular television, so we never even hooked up an antenna -- perhaps one of the best things we've done for ourselves. Basically, other than movies, NO TV!

Without a television you become numb to society, in fact the only news that I receive comes from Austin Henley's blog, which has now become my daily newspaper/sportscenter. I missed out on a lot of pressing news events, hurricanes, assassinations, political scandals and debates, you name it, if Austin didn't cover it I didn't know it happened, which is why this story came as the biggest shocker of all...

The famed Director of Youth Ministry and professor extrordinaire Robert Oglesby Jr. was arrested and now plays a secondary role in some reality show about breaking out of prison...

Seriously though, Prison Break, did that not freak anyone else out. A gay inmate killing people all the time, but looking exactly like the same man that taught me everything that I know about budgets, planning middle school retreats and becoming your secretary's best friend.

If you got to watch the show Prison Break, then you know what I'm talking about. You also know how aggravated I was that they didn't break out this season, or that there wasn't an end to the show. I would have been fine if the whole thing ended with a bang that didn't go the way I wanted it to, but that's just it, it didn't go anywhere at all. No bang, it was absent of banging.

Which is why, if you're like me, you won't be going back to watch it again next year. Beyond the hours of counseling and deja vu that crippled my memory of Robert Oglesby, was the fact that FOX lied to me. You can't call a show "Prison Break" and never "break" -- you should've just called it "Prison" and given me the last 12 hours of my life back. Oh FOX, you'll miss me, you know you will, just ask Major League Baseball and Burger King.

Smiling's my favorite

2006-01-09T19:26:00.000-05:00

There are certain activities or tasks that you perform for you employer that create a great sense of accomplishment and pride upon completion. Then there are activities or tasks which call into question whether or not you have any pride at all. Depending on the time of day and what I've eaten, the Christmas Party at the Ranch could go either way...

"He's an angry elf!"

My roommate James on Jamel's -- I mean Santa's -- lap, seated on the throne of lies. "You stink. You smell like beef and cheese! You don't smell like Santa." After they worked out their differences, Santa told James three things that he needed to know about New York:

1. You see gum on the street, leave it there. It's not candy.

2. There are, like, thirty Ray's Pizzas. They all claim to be original, but the real one's on 11th.

3. If the sign says "Peep Show" it doesn't mean that they're letting you look at your presents before Christmas.

Valuable information for everyone to know.

And of course that leaves me to spread the joy to the masses. I've found that the best way to spread Christmas Cheer is singing loud for all to hear.

After moonlighting as an elf for a night, there were several things that I learned:

There are only three jobs available to an elf:

1. Work at nights making shoes while, you know, while the old cobbler sleeps.

2. You can bake cookies in a tree. As you can imagine, it's, uh, dangerous having an oven in an oak tree during the dry season.

3. But the third job, some call it, uh, "the show" or "the big dance," it's the profession that every elf aspires to. And that is to build toys in Santa's workshop.

Getting there was another difficulty: I passed through the seven levels of the Candy Cane forest, through the sea of swirly twirly gum drops, and then I walked through the Lincoln Tunnel.

So, if you're feeling lucky, do me a favor... call me an elf one more time.

These Little Town Blues...

2005-12-13T20:25:00.000-05:00

They're not really melting away, but I will admit that I am beginning to grow in my appreciation for going into the city. Usually a trip into the city felt like a taxing three day journey that took twice as long to recover from, but after the last couple of visits I am beginning to appreciate the value of making a random, unplanned, non-touristy trip into the city. Is it still taxing? You bet, getting up early on a Saturday just to walk around all day in the freezing cold is never anyone's idea of a relaxing day off, nor is the crowded ride home on the train, looking over my Rabbinic friend's shoulder to read a little Talmud because I can't sleep on a plastic chair at a 90 degree angle constantly jolting about.

It is the best time of year to be in the city without a doubt; Christmas time that is. The whole place is hopping, people are everywhere, just like the decorations. They take it pretty serious there, as is indicated by the countless decorated shop windows, unending side shows, the naked cowboy still... well... naked, even in 20 degree weather, not to mention the huge tree -- as if it wasn't indication enough.

But if you really must know the secret to my fun in NYC -- kicking pigeons in Central Park. Not really, but that would be fun, not that such a feat wasn't attempted or even achieved during my time there, but there is more to it than that. There's something about being in Central Park in the snow, watching kids sled down a hill, parents slipping on the ice, the animals at the zoo doing what they do, and above all, finding peace in the middle of chaos. Even the squirrels are friendly, and the pigeons too friendly for anyone's liking.

Meeting up with friends means so much more in the city, maybe it's because you're excited to finally see someone you know, or maybe it's just because you know you're done running around, regardless, it is a special

occassion. Whether it's meeting for lunch at Bubba Gump's, coffee at a bookshop, or a cigar in Bryant Park, to me, the secret to a successful trip in the city is the ability to surpass the chaos and find the peace, the rest, the relaxation that the city that never sleeps can offer. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere -- true words Frank, true words.

Time Well Wasted

2005-12-11T15:43:00.000-05:00

I've redeemed myself. I paid this time. That's right, I went to another concert in NYC and --despite my knowing people -- paid full price for a ticket. No it wasn't U2, nor was it Madison Square Garden, yet it was still amazing. Friends, I was again on the floor next to the stage in my new favorite venue in the whole world: The Nokia Theater in Times Square. a 2100 capacity theater with an open floor, limited seating, without a bad view in the house. It was a unique and intimate setting, and I was loving every minute of it.

Who was it? The Man. The Myth. The Legend. Mr. Brad Paisley himself. Not only is it meaningful because he is my favorite artist of all time, but because let's be honest, country music is pretty hard to come by in NY. There are no radio stations on the island, in fact the closest thing we have is a station across the Sound in Connecticut which comes in most of the time. So Brad, in his wisdom, brought Sara Evans with him, as well as Sugarland (whose lead singer may have vaulted herself into my new celebrity crush because of her incredibly adorable accent, my apologies to my ex: Jennifer Garner, but Ben Aflek, come on). Regardless, whether you want to know or not, this is what Brad looks like up close, and no, Bryan Brokaw, he has no desire to be your friend, sorry.

On a side note, it has been a rough go the last couple of months as far as animals go here at the Ranch. "Sometimes it seems like grave digging is the only thing we do around here." (What famous movie?) That may be an overstatement, so I will just say that we've had to bury a couple things: 8 turkeys, several ducklings, some ferrel cats, 3 chickens, 2 puppies, and a partridge in a pear tree, ok maybe not the bird, but most recently my favorite goat.

I don't know what you might know or think of goats, personally they're not my favorite, but they are very interesting animals. I haven't spent much time with sheep, but I've been in charge of these goats for a year now, and may I say they're as tough as nails. They can and will literally eat everything (including plastic bags, which doesn't always turn out for the best). The people I know who care for sheep are always talking about how fragile they are, how much attention they require. There's always something that needs to be taken care of with sheep, but goats, just feed 'em in the morning and occasionally check their water and they'll be fine. They're very self-sufficient and independent, and in the same way mean. Goats are mean like junior high girls; relentless, never ending. Every morning when I toss them their feed they are ramming each other out of the way; Darwinism at it's finest.

Even my favorite goat, who sounded like he was saying "Matt" every time he bleated, was caught up in the rat race that is this life. Every morning there he was, wrestling pointlessly with the rest of them, pounding each other out of the feed trough and then ramming their way back in. All the while I would quietly hold a second scoop of feed, the good stuff, behind my back, just waiting for one of them to come and get it from me. It never happened.

The more I think about it, the more Jesus' comparison to us as sheep makes sense. Sure it's not flattering to be compared to just about the stupidest animal in the world, who can, at times, barely fend for itself. But I would rather be the stupid sheep who has it's every need met, than the independent goat whose every thought is bent towards self-preservation. I would rather look like a fool in the world's eyes, relying on the Good Shepherd, than to spend the rest of my days butting heads with others around me only to be a frozen, trampled obstacle impeding other's "progress".

Make no mistake, God will separate the goats from the sheep. And in the end, whether you're a goat that's been trampled along the way, or one that has pounded your way to the top of the food chain, your fate won't differ. During the life-long struggle to meet your immediate needs, you missed the opportunity to find the one who could give you even more, more than you ever hoped or imagined. Sure, you would have been one of those stupid sheep, sitting on the side of the pen of life, looking helpless and lost, wondering when the shepherd would come, but what does that matter now?

Whether your bumping professional heads with people, attempting to achieve great heights, pounding your financial horns against the worries of life, or ramming head first into an emotional wall -- stop. Stop worrying what others will think, stop living for immediate gratification, stop ramming everyone else in your path. Stop looking out for yourself and start looking up, looking stupid, looking helpless and hopeful.

I don't know about you, but I don't want to look like a sheep; it's not that flattering. In fact, I can pretty much count on the world looking down on me. Yet, despite my desire to goat my way through life, ramming everyone in my path, I will continue to look up -- no matter how helpless, pitiful or naive it may seem. Because the Good Shepherd is waiting for me, with a hand tucked behind his back holding the keys, the good stuff.

Happy Leftover Day!!!

2005-11-25T16:27:00.000-05:00

There may be few things that I am am more excited about as a single male than quality leftovers, and today is the crowning jewel of the leftover season. It goes without saying that no other holiday can truly compare to the culinary value of Thanksgiving. In America we've been instilled with the idea that you should NEVER have too little, and few do on this fine day. But who really eats all of their holiday leftovers? Not you? Well, send 'em on down to me; I'll take care of it. Like sarcasm, it's just one of the many free services I offer. If I play my cards right, I can very easily make it all the way to my Christmas vacation eating nothing but leftovers and oatmeal, and loving every minute of it.

While many of you are currently praying over my soon to come gastrointestinal issues, I will take this time to point out the fact that I recently bought another camera. I say another because it marks the third camera in the past year and a half, the last two coming within the last several months. The first, I would like to point out, was destroyed by my brother Ben, who in an act of genius knocked it out of The Adam's Apple, my boat (pictured with Will on it's midnight maiden voyage, fish finder and trolling motor sold separately but most definitely included). Of course if you wanted to see a picture of Ben, I guess this one sums it all up: the self proclaimed "Pocket Tee Model"

The second camera was bartered for so that my friend Ty could by a bow for the upcoming hunting season. It was a mutually beneficial transaction, I needed a camera because some idiot dropped the first one in Lake Wildwood, Ty needed a bow in order to legally kill a deer. Within the week after my new acquisition, it fell out of the ATV in the middle of the hayfield on the ranch without letting me know where it was going.

Ty found the camera several weeks later, having been run over by both ATV, truck and horse, and trapped under a pile of manure (why he was looking there only he can explain) and 13" of rain... AND IT STILL WORKS.

I know what you're thinking, "After such an ordeal why on earth would you want to purchase another camera? I mean, you have the perfect camera, especially for you, Matt; it survived alone under the worst of circumstances and the first thing you want to do after the prodigal camera returns home is to replace it with something nicer?" Yep. Why? Because I can. Because I was in Best Buy with Ryan and he had to call Mary Beth before he made his purchase, and that has to stop. Not on my watch. Just try and stop me, tell me I can't do it, tell me I c... sorry, a little carried away.

So I guess I have a leftover camera here on Leftover Day, but to celebrate this day I will share some leftover Leftover Day Pictures from the new and leftover cameras, enjoy:

Broken Bama...

2005-11-20T13:50:00.000-05:00

I am by no means a horse expert. I may whisper to them at times, but I'm no Robert Redford or Monty Roberts. I have, however, watched a wild mustang run free and may I see that there is truthfully very few things more beautiful. When we first got two mustangs a year ago, one was entrusted to me. I was given the task of introducing this animal to humanity, to people, to life outside the open range of Nevada. You take for granted the simple pleasures like a halter broken horse, one that knows when you have the rope it is supposed to listen to you. We forget that such things have to be taught, that every animal is wild until proven tamed. I could tell you the many fun stories of trying to load an animal that has never seen humans into a tiny stock trailer, or trying to get him out and into a barn. Hours upon hours were spent trying to get a free-thinking wild animal to bend to your will. I could tell you of time when the horse got out and ran through two fences because it had never seen one before, or how it drug two of us for yards because it didn't know that when we have the rope he's supposed to listen to us. Story upon story could be told about trying to break the horse, who we can now saddle and ride without running through fences, much less hold him with a simple rope.

Instead I want to focus on the brief moments when he was running... free. A symbol of America, of freedom, the Wild Mustang captures the mentality we all hope for: no fences, no restrictions, no demands; just unabated freedom. We took his freedom, his masculinity, both in metaphorical and literal ways, and to be able to ride him in a controlled and tamed fashion is amazing, but he will never be as beautiful as the day he pushed me out of the way and busted through two fences, refusing to be held by any rope, running free.

The 2005 Campaign of Alabama Football ran free, unwilling to be tamed by any opponent they encountered. They ran through a couple fences along the way, Tyrone Prothro and JP Closner, two strong heartbeats of the offense ending their seasons too soon, but the Tide rolled on. At times there were opponents who entangled them in ropes, dragging Tennessee and Ole Miss behind as they narrowly escaped, but the Tide rolled on. Through major setbacks and narrow escapes the Bama kept it's pride in Tuscaloosa, even after the sting of LSU. Yet last night, the second set of Tigers in two consecutive weeks brought a proud, free-running Crimson Tide to its knees, effectively breaking Bama.

Now Bama will play in a decent bowl, celebrating a season we could have only dreamed of a year ago, and hopefully end up a very respectable 10-2. It was a more than productive season that redeemed a program that was once thought dead, and hopefully many will remember that fact as well. But we would all be liars if we didn't admit that deep in our hearts, even though we are happy with the successes, there was no more beautiful moment than when Bama was running free -- when the Tide rolled on.

"You're Dixie's Football Pride, Crimson Tide."

In contrast to those who would call into question the ability of Brodie Croyle, the heart and soul of Bama Football, I leave you, Austin Henley, with the words of Theodore Roosevelt:

“It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”

Here's to you Brodie; stand tall, roll tide.

2005-11-09T23:41:00.000-05:00

2005-11-09T21:49:00.000-05:00

I am reminded of the great philosopher Kenli Shea Edwards who once wrote: "Halloween is like the world's Grub." Truer words have never been spoken. What are the basic, universal elements of Grubs?

1. costumes
2. food
3. entertainment

All encompassed by the holiday we affectionately refer to as Halloween. There are random requirements that must be met as well, however, in order to truly attain "grub status."

1. There must, at some point, be someone dressed in 80's attire.
2. An obnoxious personality should and will overthrow the previously planned powers at be to steal the show, or at least in their own minds.
3. There must, at some point, be someone dressed like a Redneck.

Friends, when you hand Matt Foster cut-off wranglers, aviator sunglasses, workboots and a megaphone, he meets all of those requirements. So in an attempt to only reinforce the North's already preconceived notion that because I have a Texas Driver's License I am a Redneck, I present to you... DeWayne: The reason New Yorkers believe we think as slow as we talk.

Complete with the "Redneck and Blue Collar" shirt as well as the official Larry the Cable Guy "GitRDone" camouflage hat, these are all official Redneck items found at... you guessed it -- none other than Wal-Mart itself. It would be a crime to settle for anything less. "If it's not at Wal-Mart, you don't need it." Yet, perhaps my favorite costume at the party with the boys was Ryan and Mary Beth, as the overzealously excited about Halloween grandparents:

Don't be too surprised if you see this picture again as their Christmas Card.

A couple other pictures from the evening:

A shout out to Max and Nicole (right) who let my boys and I come over and wreck their house for a night, which they allow all the time -- as well as Lauren, for meeting the previously stated 80's garb prerequisite.

Two of my favorite ladies here at the Ranch, Fern and Ellie.

And finally, for an explanation of the evening's events: That's what happens when you gather 3 Foster generations together in the same room -- just look at Chief's face...

2005-10-26T18:47:00.000-04:00

The Ryan Davis Seal of Approval.

This hereby attests that the following post regarding U2 was completely 100% true, neither altered nor exaggerated in any way, shape, or form. Therefore, any doubting Thomases (believe me, that's how you spell it) can put your worries to rest and bask in the fact that Matt and I witnessed what could be one of the best bands of all time, in the world's most famous venue, from six feet away.

2005-10-16T23:44:00.000-04:00

I know people.

I dedicate this post to Pistol Priest and the others for whom certain and intense envy will result from reading:

Perhaps one of the largest lessons that I have learned in NY is that the secret of life is not always what you can do as much as it is who you know. Friends, let me say: I know people.

Actually, truth be told I know people who know people, and that works for me. This past Friday night I had the opportunity of a lifetime, and I will now share such an experience with you.

For the past week the illustrious band U2 played every night in the world's most prestigious venue, Madison Square Garden. As one might imagine, tickets for such an event were extremely rare, in fact hard to come by falls short in describing the absence of availability. There were none, zero, zilch, nada, SOLD OUT... months in advance. If you were not in the fan club, a prestigious celebrity, or a person of exorbanent wealth, there was no way to get tickets. Since I meet none of the previous three requirements there was absolutely no way for me to get a ticket. The average person would have settled with their eminent fate and gone on with their pathetic lives, but not me, I know people.

After beseeching my contacts, a plan was developed. As it was obvious at this point that tickets were out of even our reach, and therefore "alternative" options were discussed. Upon further review, a game plan was developed, and the rest is history.

After taking the train into Penn Station, "we" met together at an undisclosed location several blocks away. At that point I was handed a "ticket" (which was dated Feb. 24th) and given careful instructions about which side of the ticket to expose and which to hide. Written on the ticket was a small, meaningless message that would tip off the second, unnamed contact on the inside of our deal. I was then supposed to wait on the outside of the Garden until I received the phone call to give me further instructions, and finally reminded to "stay cool and just act normal". Famous last words was the first thing that crossed my mind, how could I act cool when told to do so? Just like a wet paint sign or the words "don't look down" the odds of my "acting normal" had greatly deminished.

At this point I am now semi-anxiously awaiting the phone call, standing outside MSG trying my hardest to look inconspicuous. Then came the call, which I kid you not started with these words, "Don't talk, just listen..." I was then given one chance to hear, remember and follow the instructions from "the voice" on how to bypass the two security checkpoints prior to the ticket booth, and then the general description of the contact on the inside and how to approach him with the "ticket". Of course, the conversation was ended with the words: "Remember, stay cool and just act normal." Yeah, sure...

Acting as "naturally" as possible, I follwed the directions through the bypasses all the way to the ticket booth and looked for my man. Naturally, as fate would have it, there are several guys who meet the description of the contact. This is the piont where doubts and second thoughts come racing in: "What if this isn't the right guy? What if it's a sting and he was put up to this? How long will it take those three police officers to get over here once they figure out what's going on? Where are my exits? Where can I run? What the heck am I doing? Screw this I'm going back! Heck no, it's freaking U2 concert, forget the consequences... what are the consequences?" Acting cool is a difficult task indeed when all of these thoughts plague your mind. It was at this point when I was reassured that I was not born for a life of crime or espionage.

So, all thoughts aside, I just went with the flow, tucked me head down, and walked as normal as I could to the supposed contact and prayed for the best. Acknowledging no one, including him, I flashed the secret ticket and he ushered me through -- no problems. Then it hit me, what was I worrying about, I know people.

That's right folks, I was inside, and at this point there was no way out, because were I ever asked for my ticket stub I would tell them the truth, "It's not on me, I'm just trying to get a better view." At that point I was instructed that they would just ask you to go back to your seat, and you would drift off to another place to try again, or go to the top and find a seat that no one wanted anyway. Who can complain about that, I mean hey, I was in, that was cool enough, right?... Wrong. You, the average reader, might have settled with the fact that you made it into a sold out U2 concert in Madison Square Garden without a ticket to your name, but alas you forget, I know people.

The original contact came through once again with some knock-off yellow bracelets that allowed us access to the floor. The bracelet then became our golden ticket that allowed us, without a ticket stub, to meander through the entirety of the Garden. So down we went, past all the fan club members, exorbanently expensive seats and prestigious celebrities, all the way to the floor. Yes my friends, believe me when I say Woody Harrelson literally attempted to use his ticket to get to where I was standing, and his attempts fell pathetically short. Apparently he forgot that I know people.

So there I was living every sports fan's dreams, standing on the floor of THE Madison Square Garden with all 20,000+ people looking down at me, dreaming to be in my shoes, saying to each other, "Man, he must know people". While that experience in and of itself was all I could ever ask for, I would hope that you have not forgotten one very simple and obvious fact: on the floor of the arena is where THE STAGE IS. And naturally, where the stage is, there you can find me also. Sure enough, with only two rows of tightly packed and thoroughly excited fans separating me from music history, there before me stood Paul Hewson himself, or Bono to the layman. Finally, the moment that you are waiting for:

Drum roll...................................................................................................................................

Sweat and spit flew from Bono as fire flew from Edge's fingers, and I was there to witness it all -- only six feet away. So as you wipe the jealousy-colored green sweat from your brow, rest assured, after having read this you too can say, "Hey, that's Matt Foster... I DO know people."

2005-10-13T18:45:00.000-04:00

It's been a long time coming, but I can't help but gloat a little... nay, a lot.

Yea Alabama!

Drown 'em Tide

Ev'ry bama man's behind you:

Hit your stride!

Go teach the bulldogs to behave,

Send those Yellow Jackets to a watery grave,

And if a man starts to weaken,

That's a shame!

For Bama's pluck and grit have

Writ her name in Crimson flame,

Fight on! Fight on! Fight on! Men!

Remember the Rose Bowl, we'll win then.

So roll on to VICTORY!

Hit your stride!

You're Dixie's football pride,

Crimson Tide!

Yeah, pretty much added the last picture just for me

2005-10-13T17:58:00.000-04:00

First Blood! Though similar to the infamous Sly Stallone's box office wonder, let me take a little time to update on the status of this deer season...

Let me start with the fact that I was required by the state of New York to take an additional class on bowhunting safety, of which I was quite skeptical. First of all because there was already a class on "How to Hahvest a Deeah with a Spuoting Ahm" which when translated out of New York and back into English means How to Shoot a Deer, not with a gun or a weapon -- as that instructor hadn't used weapons since he was over in 'Nam (trust me, I wish I was making all of this up) but with a sporting arm. We were failed if we referred to a gun as anything other than a sporting arm, as if the semantics would change the public's opinion on guns. Second, because we had to drive all over the island two nights out of the week right after work until 10pm to listen to Angelo ( I won't even try his last name, as there were two sets of C's and three I's strung together), a large and quite robust Italian man talk to me about bowhunting and all the strategic apologetics I should use to sway the 86% of the population who does not either hunt or actively oppose hunting (our enemies as he so sensitively put it). Digression aside, he spent a good 10 minutes talking about what you should do in the extremely odd chance that you should shoot the deer in the spine, and I just happened to be paying attention.

Lo and Behold, several days later, perched in my stand in the beautiful woods of Long Island, attempting hahvest a deeah, my friend Ty comes running through the woods, "Dude, I killed my first deer!" We give the allotted and respectful time to allow the deer to die in peace, which is also there to calm us down and keep us from chasing a fatally wounded and adrenaline filled animal throughout the neighborhoods of Long Island, disrupting the peaceful breakfasts and stealing the attention of the bored school bus passengers. While we were waiting, Ty was telling the story of how it all happened. Traveling through the woods to push the deer to me, he came across a doe and yearling, and without a release, he manually draws the compound bow and lands a slightly high but quite effective shot on the doe, and she drops like a brick.

Our first inclination was to assume the obvious, a spine shot. But I would be remiss were I not to remind us yet again of the seeming impossibility of such a shot according to the esteemed Angelo. I mean, come on, it was obviously a big deal to him, he spent forever and a day of his self-proclaimed precious time mindlessly lecturing on the impossibility of such a shot. Doubting the evidence, but not my partner's archery expertise, we cautiously approached the deer's original location -- the point of impact. Sure enough, not even a foot away from where he left her, there lay the man's fist deer. An "impossible" shot with half the equipment -- where you at now Angelo?!?

Ladies and Gentlemen, the man, the myth, the legend... Tyler D. Lewis and his first kill:

2005-10-11T16:58:00.000-04:00

There are certain creatures in the animal kingdom that convey not only messages but identities. When you picture a lion you are immediately filled with a sense of dignity and majesty, there is an aura of pride, no pun intended, that you associate with a lion. When you witness an eagle in flight soaring high above the earth, peering down in all its effortless elegance, you mind escapes to places only the image of an eagle can take you -- the lofty heights of freedom and superiority, far away from the ground you find yourself returning to. We begin to associate certain activities with animal's characteristics, such as referring to an uncooperative person as a "jackass". Whether positive or negative, there are reflections of the animal kingdom in our every day activity.

The other day I was a vulture, and it was one of the lower moments of my life... at first.
Let me preface this by saying that the Ranch has an amazing opportunity to team up with antique dealers and acquire items from estate sales and repossessions, etc. This opportunity has allowed us to gather many valuables free of charge that we can sell at our thrift store on campus and turn the proceeds into immediate profit -- having no overhead. This is an amazing blessing to the Ranch, and I am grateful that we have been afforded the opportunity. That having been said, personally, that day I did not feel such a blessing.

Earlier in the week an elderly woman had passed, and the majority of her possessions were somehow uncovered by her will, which then allowed the antique dealers to come in and swarm about her property. Like Hyenas on a new kill these ladies were hauling beautiful end tables and exotic lamps out of the garage door past the deceased's expensive car -- all while we stood by, waiting, circling overhead so to speak. Once they had their fill, we were allotted a specific amount of time to peruse through the house and gather any items we might be able to use. Naturally, pressed for time as we were, we rushed through the house picking and choosing through the leftovers; rummaging through a lifetime of belongings and taking only a few seconds to proclaim their worth. About thirty minutes into the process, after using the woman's own screwdriver to take things off of her wall, feelings of guilt and insensitivity plagued me.

On the floor of the room were her memoirs, the collection of her life. There you could find her daily journal, awards and accomplishments -- the things which truly mattered to her. Though I couldn't bring myself to look through her journal, I felt compelled to stop and find out just exactly who this lady was; who spent her entire life to accumulate all of this, and now complete strangers are casually, if not frantically, gathering these "knick knacks" to sell for a couple of bucks in a garage sell. A graduate of Harvard, she was a very successful International Businesswoman who had worked across the U.S., from Los Angeles to Wall Street, as well as several corporations in South America. Her accolades went on and on, along with her belongings. I spent a while sitting there, soaking it all in, until a neighbor poked her head through the door, and witnessing my reflection commented, "It's sad, isn't it."

I could help but agree with her, I was upset that we were there cheapening her life by breezing past 80 years of experience and success for a couple of couches. My heart was upset that we were there, having to do this... I wanted to leave. But of course, I dared not speak; only assume that her heart was in the same place as mine as I nod in agreement, never looking up from the book.

And in one foul swoop my new compatriot in sorrow crushes my personal pity party with a simple yet insightful comment, changing not only my attitude, but my day: "I think it's so sad that she worked so hard to gain all of this and never had anyone to share it with." Whoa, whoa, whoa, that's not what was expecting to hear, but it's what I needed. What was I thinking? Here I am feeling sorry for a woman who could have cared less for anything that we took, sorry for the fact that we were cheapening her life, when really I should have felt sorry for her cheapened life. For the years that she spent in vain alone, gathering meaningless possessions in search of something so much deeper, so much more; literally traveling across the globe in search of meaning, and as far as we know never achieving it.

After several minutes with my new friend, a casual associate of the deceased, reflecting on the life laid out before me, a collage of emotions collected within me: sorrow, not for the life lost but for the lost life; peace, not in this place but in my heart; wealth, not in the possessions that I have gained, the limited success that I have had, or the insignificant accolades I might have received in the 23 short years that I have been here, but a wealth that the world is searching for, and seldom finds.

Countless are the lessons that I learned from that day, tangent upon tangent could be traveled down. Whether it reminds you the importance of family, the pointlessness of gathering wealth, or the responsibility to share true wealth with the world, I pray that her life will influence yours as much as it has mine, and that the years you have left here will not be spent in vain.

2005-09-11T21:37:00.000-04:00

Simply Deep.

I have many friends furthering their education in graduate school. They are soaking in the thoughts and ideas of minds far exceeding my own, and walks of faith that have inspired generations to know the Living God. In many ways I envy their position, at the feet of the great men and women of God, expanding their spiritual horizons, opening their minds to the depths of the faith that we share. I wish I were there to soak it all in.

But then there are moments when I am pulled from the wishful clouds of daydreaming back down to the concrete sidewalk of reality. As I was partaking of communion this morning, my mind flew away to Grad School, to the desire to learn exceedingly more. Albeit a righteous ambition, it was hardly appropriate. I have longed so many times for the depth of understanding that I overlook the simplicity of the story. Convicted, I shamefully returned to my communion reflections last April:

"Some might say that I have a fairly romantic, Jewish-esque view of the Lord. Though I would beg to differ, I can see where they are coming from. When I look back at the Old Testament I see a God who desired justice and righteousness, who longed for them to roll like a river, like a never failing stream. I see a God who delivers consequences for the actions of the people, the God who swallows rebellious men with the earth, or the God who laces their drinking water with gold dust that once resembled a calf.

Yet more than that, I see a God who delivers his people time and time again, from the bondage of slavery, from the constant raiding parties of the Midianites and Hittites, from the persistent pestering Philistines to the captivity in Babylon and Assyria. Despite the failing love of his people the unfailing love of their God never failed in redeeming them from whatever their circumstance. When I read the old stories, I do not see two separate people, I cannot see a God waiting to move, waiting to act, but a God continuing a story, a story set in motion before the beginning of time. We have a heritage, whether we choose to see it or not, if we want to understand the present, we must first understand the past.

So maybe we shouldn't be so quick to find ourselves nailing the Old Testament to the cross by limiting its study to the Great Sunday School stories or quick glimpses into the Holy character of God. Instead, perhaps we should find ourselves in the middle of April, several thousand years ago among the community of Israel, trapped under Pharao's heavy hand, listening to Aaron and Moses as they give the explicit directions from the mouth of God. "Take a lamb for each family, a year old male without defect. Take care of the lamb until the 14th day of the month, when we will all slaughter them at twilight. Then take the blood and put it on the sides and tops of the doorframes of the houses, where you will eat the lamb. That night eat the lamb, made in haste over a fire with bread made without yeast. This is how you are to eat it: with your cloak tucked in your belt, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand. Eat in haste; it is the Lord's Passover. The blood will be a sign for you on the houses where you are; and when I see the blood, I will pass over you. This is a day you are to commemorate; for the generations to come you shall celebrate it as a festival of the Lord -- a lasting ordinance. And when your children ask you, 'What does this ceremony mean to you?' then tell them, 'It is the Passover sacrifice to the Lord, who passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt and spared our homes when he struck down the Egyptians.'"

In finding ourselves there we more completely understand the meaning when we find Jesus, with his Apostles gathered around the table in the middle of April, several thousand years later, celebrating the Passover, and completing the story. Perhaps we can better understand the real significance when in his own haste the Lamb of God offers his body to eat, and his blood to be poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.

So as we find ourselves gathering around this same table for this same feast, again, in the middle of April thousands of years later, we come knowing a little more of the great story. That despite our failures, the unfailing love of God offered us his perfect Lamb to be slaughtered. It is his body that we eat through the bread made without yeast, and in haste it is his blood that we put on the doorframe of our heart. So that when the God of justice and righteousness comes rolling like a river, like a never-failing stream, he will see the blood of his perfect Lamb, and pass over us, redeeming us yet again."

How many times have I gone through the motions of faith seeking the door to something deeper, all while holding the key in my hand. Too long have I overlooked the enormity of the "little" things we do -- and if that is what God intends for me to learn before Grad School, may I be a willing pupil. For true depth can only come when you have first understood the simple -- only then can my faith be simply deep.

2005-09-11T20:32:00.000-04:00

"I don't know how to say this, but I'm kind of a big deal. People know me. I own many leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany." That's right folks, yours truly was on the WB11 News here on Long Island, and looking good -- at least that's what they tell me. Apparently a camara man will tell you anything to get you to do what he wants, which is a valuable reiteration of a previously learned lesson during some of my steamier photo shoots while moonlighting as an underwear model.

But the real truth behind this story is the incredible amount of airtime that my dog received. No joke, my dog Eve was the focus of cameras, reporters and anchors alike for a solid 3 minutes... and the majority of the footage was her back end (which may I say is the Foster family's finest foot forward, so to speak -- except Ben). So yes, to awaken any buried insecurities I might have previously squelched let it be known that the camera and general viewing population would prefer to watch video of a pig and my dog's butt over me.

Let me tell you one thing that you need to do before you die: take horses swimming. You would be surprised at their aptitude in the water, and by the fact that even horses blow bubbles when they fart underwater -- a fact that caught me off guard as indicated by the picture below. Smooth move Cisco...

And finally, to complete the randomness of this "catching you up" blog, I would like to apologize to all of those who I have neglected to contact within the last several weeks, especially those like Josh Lankford who call my work extension and leave threatening messages. Again, my deepest, sincerest, heartfelt do-it-again-and-I'll-get-a-restraining-order apologies. Josh Lankford -- this picture's for you:

2005-08-30T19:03:00.000-04:00

1-2-3 NOT IT! Yes my friends, I put my finger to my nose before anyone else and declared that I didn't have to answer the Top 10 call, but because I have felt guilty for not answering the challenge as well as the fact that tonight is my fantasy football draft so I'm stuck on the computer for hours on end, you are subjected to my list...

So, from the home office in Wahoo, NE, my Top Ten:

10. "You Need a Man Around Here" by Brad Paisley
9. "Crazy" by Pat Green
8. "He's My Son" by Mark Schultz
7. "Pancho and Lefty" by Willie Nelson (feat. Merle Haggard)
6. "5 lb. Bass" by Robert Earl Keen
5. "I'm Gonna Miss Her" by Brad Paisley
4. "Whistle Dixie" by Darryl Worley
3. "How Great Thou Art" performed by Yours Truly on a Tractor or riding Lawn Mower
2. "Waiting on a Woman" by Brad Paisley (also works as a duet with Matt Foster in the shower)
1. "Redneck Yacht Club" by Craig Morgan, my personal summer 2005 anthem...

I tag the five lonely sould left on the planet who have not already been tagged.

2005-08-09T21:00:00.000-04:00

Waterballoons: God's gift to summer. We have been without rain here for around 4 weeks, and as the man in charge of cutting the grass, I have found this weather to be a bit trying. However, the hot weather is good news for my other job -- Recreation. Yessir, twice a week there are trips to the beach, running through the never sleeping sprinklers, or diving into the cold pond after a frisbee. There are plenty of opportunities for us to get wet and stay cool, and you would think that could keep us happy... but I was wrong. Apparently, the staple of summer, waterballoons, are not available at any major store here in Riverhead, NY. So before I vault directly into the weeping and gnashing of my teeth, I will share with you a quick collegiate story of revenge, character and history.

There are few things more precious to a male college student than a nap. It is worth more than it's weight in gold. Were you to give a college male the opportunity to come into a 15 minute, non-scheduled class period in the middle of the afternoon to watch a video clip in lieu of the final exam, he would pass on the opportunity and choose the immediate hour of rest over the 6 hours of sleep he would lose during finals week studying for an exam he should hever had to take in the first place. Naps are important, nay, necessary to the collegiate experience. So when you choose to rob a man of his nap, there will be a price to pay. My sophomore year, the Big Purple paid that price.

It couldn't have been more than three weeks into school. You know what I'm talking about, the weeks when there are no difficult assignments, if there's any homework at all. That is to say, there was nothing that couldn't be put off until later in the semester, which falls directly in line with my scholastic anthem: "Why procrastinate now when you can procrastinate later..." At this point in the semester you are so busy catching up with everyone, seeing how their summers went, hanging out until all hours of the night, playing full-contact fooseball in our dorm room -- you know, the usuals. We didn't have time to sleep at night, there was too much to do. The only available option was after lunch, in the peace and quiet of an empty dorm... kinda.

Our parking lot for the dorm (used by those who actually bought parking passes, I for one find pride in the fact that I survived all 4 and 1/2 years without wasting that exhorbanent amount of money for a crap shoot at an unguaranteed parking space when you could park closer to the dorm on the street for FREE) I digress, anyway, the parking lot for our dorm was painted like a football field without the end zones (makes no sense) with a huge platform on one of the sidelines. I had no clue what it was for, that is until the third week of school. Having been accustomed to three weeks of quality nap time I was naturally looking froward to my routine, but starting that Monday I was rudely awakened 20 minutes in by the noise of tubas "warming up" directly beneath my second story window. NO NO NO, this has got to stop. I gave them two days of my patience, gritting teeth beneath my pillow, praying that the torture would end. Come day three, we had to do something about it.

Now we all remember the necessity of afternoon naps, there's no need for me to reopen that can, mostly because I am getting frustrated thinking about it as I type, and partly because that would be pretty redundant. So to squelch the newly arisen obstacle in the path to sweet serenity we devised a plan. Strategically we picked apart the Big Purple Marching Band, tubas on the left flank, French Horns on the right, one by one they fell out of rank until their commander with his megaphone, once standing so tall atop his conductor's platform, was now frantically running in our direction, screaming for a cease fire.

Our location had been compromised, he had an ID on our room and came running up the stairs banging on our door as he screamed about the consequences that would follow if we did not bring an end to our hostilities. Though it was difficult not to open the gate and allow the enemy breach our fortress, making our demands for the discontinuation of their intrusive "practice", we found it best to just lie there in silence, doing what we would be doing were they not out there -- napping. After several more minutes of useless threats from beyond our door, their commander found satisfaction in his address, and proceeded to walk back down the stairs and out the door, believing that he would never have to deal with this riff-raff again. He couldn't have been more wrong.

From a different window on a different floor the Big Purple faced our wrath every day until our demands were met. The battle of course always began with the Tubas, as they were the easiest target and the party that started it all. For days the battle pressed on, we would sneak from window to window, room to room, trying to be ever conscious of the would-be informers, spies, or sympathetic parties for the other side. Everyday battle would end the same, some delegate of the other side banging on our door demanding the desisting of the carnage while we quietly "napped" in our rooms, minding our own business.

Let history note, that were you to go to ACU this fall and wait outside Edwards dorm anticipating the afternoon practice of the Big Purple, you would be a lonely, lonely man. For all that you would find that afternoon would be a restful, calm atmosphere, the kind ideal for an afternoon nap. No my friend, if it's the band you want to see, try the other end of campus down by the Performing Arts Center, the band moved their practices there sometime during my sophomore year -- we still don't know why.

2005-08-06T01:08:00.000-04:00

Where have all the Cowboys Gone? Paula Cole wasn't messing around, and her words ring true today. Yes, today I find myself asking the same question, because for the first time here at the Ranch I find myself without my foundation, my sounding board, my best friend: William R. Hale.

For those of you who don't know Will Hale, you are missing out on one of the joys of life, to watch it atually being lived to its fullest. BTTW. Hard Core. 110% every time, nothing less. He took life by the horns and forced it into submission.

Countless are the stories of where Will truly lived, and allowed me to be a part of that journey. Many were the adventures we had together. Driving to the middle-of-nowhere Shickshinny, PA to trailer five horses through NYC for a lady we've never met. Three cowboys sleeping on bed rolls and saw dust in a stock trailer outside of Cornell University, dreaming of the wild mustangs they were about to take home. Sneaking onto a private lake we'd never been on after midnight in a brandnew, nameless boat, with an untested motor and no paddle, only a shovel as "plan B" -- just to fish for catfish... and coming away with a 3 ft. eel. Not informing the boys what Double Black Diamond really means, and watching them slide head-first through the snow. Again and again, there we were, looking dumb but having the time of our lives.

Our story starts in the summer of 2004; he could have gone back to school after the summer internship like Ryan and I, but he stayed, just because he could. There was no, "Just let me go back home and grab my stuff..." he stayed. For an entire year he worked here just as he lived, with everything he had. His dream in life being to fight fires, and so he did while he was here, the fires of abuse and neglect, and rescued struggling boys from their burning lives. Now he leaves to fight real fires in Ft. Worth, and he takes a part of us with him. So we send you off with the only fitting blessing, the words of Chris LeDoux:

"Sit tall in the saddle,

Hold your head up high.

Keep your eyes fixed

Where the trail meets the sky,

And live like you ain't afraid to die.

Don't be scared, just enjoy your ride."

Here's to you, William Ray Hale, last of a dying breed; not just a cowboy, but a real man -- a hero.

"My God Woodrow, it's been a hell of a ride."

2005-07-31T13:00:00.000-04:00

The emptiness of life. Everyone is searching for a fulfilling lifestyle; they want to know if what they are doing is making a difference -- if it really matters.

There are times when I question the move to New York. The reasons against it are endless, so far away from family, limited peer interaction, the "Christian" atmosphere is weaker, the Yankees, missing out on friend's weddings... you name it, there are plenty of concerns that take a toll on being 28 hours from "home".

Even more than that, why? Why did I move here? What if it doesn't work? What if I pour all this energy and time into a boy only to watch him fall once again? Even worse, what if he never gets it?

But then there are moments in the middle of the wilderness in the pouring rain, pointing at a map with a wiffle bat, watching individuals become a team. Sitting in a church service with a mother and her disrespectful son, seeing the boys you mentor doing a little mentoring of their own. Sweating in the middle of a hayfield knowing that the young man by your side who at one time never broke a sweat will be there until every bale is gone. Or wading in a lake to help a guy land his first fish. Waiting, acting, loving, hoping, learning, watching... watching boys become men.

And it's at these moments when all the "why's" and "how's" fly out the window, and you sit back only to watch and learn. Because the Living God is acting, waiting, loving, hoping, teaching and watching... watching his children grow. So yes, you can have questions about the purpose of your life, whether or not it makes a difference, if what you're doing really matters, but know this: the fullness of life comes not from the moments when you witnessed God working, but the moments when you participated in His work. The Omniscient Father has work going everywhere -- anywhere -- wherever you are. My prayer for you is not that you will witness God work, or ask him to bless what you're doing, but rather, ask to help Him in whatever He's doing. That's the fullness of life.

2005-07-23T16:44:00.000-04:00

It's hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night! That's right folks, it's summer here in NY and believe it or not it gets hot here too. I don't remember it being this humid here last summer, but I can't walk outside without condensing. You heard it -- not sweat. Sweat? No, that would mean that I would have done something that would require my body to perspire. I don't think so, Scooter, because before I can do anything that would even warrant an ounce of sweat, my body is covered with moisture, and I feel there is no other explanation other than condensation. It's like walking through a sprinkler up here.

That having been said, let me catch you up on the last couple of weeks with my boys. Lots of exciting stuff has been happening here. I've been waking up at 5:30 in the morning to work out at the local high school with my boys, and I don't think my poor body can take it. The boys can work out in the morning, spend the first half of the day working hard here on campus, and then choose to spend the rest of the afternoon working out! Not gonna do it, wouldn't be prudent at this juncture.

We went to see Batman Begins last night, riding the entire way in the Mattmobile, which is really just a 15 passenger van with the seat tipped back, my hat cocked slightly to the side, one wrist casually resting on the steering wheel, with the classical music station blaring as loud as the speakers will go while yelling at "shorties" out the window. This usually lasts 7 to 8 minutes, which is usually the point where they are all too embarrassed to even place their heads above the window level, and then it just looks like I'm all alone looking stupid in a big van -- and we can't have that.

For the next 20 minutes to the movie theater we play the wave game, which is much more interesting in New York than in the South. The purpose of the game being who can get the most people to wave back at them, and may I say that it is much more challenging here, and because of that simple fact, much more fun. The best part about it is that here people need to figure out if they are supposed to wave back at you. If they can figure it out in time, which is difficult when you are traveling at excessive speeds, they usually have furrowed eyebrows and an intense questioning face as they passively wave back to you as you fly by. Truth be told I usually win, as I have a concrete hold on the migrant farm worker demographic which requires only a sing song face and an excited wave to warrant a response.

We get back from the movie and go directly to the woods to camp out around a campfire at the log cabin. While there we are reflecting on the movie, talking about what we liked and didn't like, what we learned, etc. (you know, all the "ministry stuff" bla bla bla). After an intense discussion regarding our dislike for the way Christian Bale's voice while Batman sounded like a chainsmoker trying to act tough, we shifted to embarrassing moments in light of the excursion in the Mattmobile. So, for your reading pleasure, and for my personal humility, I will share with you the same story that I shared with them.

In my collegiate days there was a young lady that I would occasionally see around campus and always found very intriguing. Our paths would rarely cross, and we never spoke to each other. I never thought that much about it until my second senior year and some friends and I were reflecting on the years spent at ACU. I thought back to Josh Tardy and his comments on the things that he regrets not doing while here. One of which was to ask a particular young lady out, I won't say her name, but it rhymes with Peth Bender. That led us to a conversation about who we would regret not asking out, and much to my chagrin, everyone in the conversation was already dating someone very seriously and thus had no regrets. That left only me.

Not knowing the end of the this story, I told some of my closest friends who that would be, and Brandon Booker forces me into a commitment that the next time I see this girl (we will call her Jennifer Garner, to fulfill both my dreams and the restraining order) I would have to ask her out. Lo and behold, within the week I was in the library, a small miracle in and of itself, and there she was sitting at what should have been the busiest table there, all alone. It was the perfect situation, there was no excuse that could get me out of this one -- I made the commitment, I had to do it. I knew that if I didn't just go up there and spit it out it would never come, so building on the suspense and pressure I walked right up to her and said, "Excuse me Jennifer, we haven't met, my name's Matt and I was..." Immediately, with that same confused look as New Yorkers forced in to playing the wave game, she interrupts me, "Your name's Matt? Is it really? I thought it was Casey."

At this exact moment time stood still, the library came to a complete stop, exegesis students stopped rifling through their lexicon, sophomore boys playing online poker in the computer lab ripped their attention away from a full house, everyone stopped to see just how this poor soul was going to recover from such a setback. And in this timeless moment, all my options began to race through my head; The little devil of rationality on my shoulder screaming "Abort, Abort, just run, there's no way to rebound from this." On the other end, my angel of creativity dressed in a white suit, a pink tee, and blue suede shoes, whispers, "Remember the old Philosopher Buck Owens who once said, 'I got the hungries for you love and I'm waiting in your welfare line." After an eternity of looking back and forth listening to the two argue, with an equally confused look on my face, the silence broke as they agreed, screaming "Say something, say anything!"

Instantly the earth began to spin again, the silence broke and there I was again with nothing to say. After fighting back the thoughts which wondered if indeed I looked more like a Casey, I found her still sitting, and still confused. And so in all my creativity I broke the silence with, "Uh-uh-um, No. (still looking side to side for a little help) It's Matt." Having now abandoned all hope for creativity, I left it lying cold on the floor and forged on, knowing that if I didn't say it now it would never come out. "As I was saying, I was just wondering if you wanted to have lunch sometime." And with all the sensitivity of a stomach pump she rightfully answered, "Wow, hmmm, that was awkward."

And The End, well I'll just leave that for me.

2005-07-18T21:20:00.000-04:00

Opening lines are always the hardest. I would love to think that everytime I could come up with something creative, some life-shattering hilarious joke that makes you say, "After I change my pants, remind me to check this thing out more often..." but let's face it, in all my allure and humility even I'm not that creative.

In an effort to squelch the nagging frustration of my lack of creativity, I offer you the top 10 lessons I have learned while here in NY:

10. It is easier to shave a running bear than to get a New York State Driver's License. Hell could freeze over, and they would only give me a provisional license.

9. Ignorance is not limited to south of the Mason Dixon Line, it's alive and well here. I have several young men who refuse to eat eggs because they just discovered that they come out of the chicken's butt... they thought the super market made them in the back of the store.

8. I'm going to miss NY pizza whenever I go.

7. A fellow Southern friend was pulled over by a cop because "he didn't love his dog." Apparently people can ride in the bed of trucks, nobody cares, but dogs -- no this has got to stop.

6. Sarcasm is the language of love.

5. You can sell puppies here with no papers for $350, and people will buy them just because they're cute!

4. Riverhead NY has the world's worst Wal Mart. Today I considered giving Target my business (you don't know how hard it was for me to say that -- also let the record state I only "considered")

3. Digression is one of my greatest gifts; note the many parenthetical and disruptive statements both currently included and remaining to be written. There has yet to be a church service here that has not, at some point, experienced some random movie quote mostly revolving around the Monty Python/Jim Carrey genre. I believe that Digression is my ministry.

2. Accents are addictive, everybody has one, and I end up copying them all. Between my time in NY, Mass., Maine and the rest of the New England area, I have concocted a strange mixture of everything, which ends up sounding like a drunk Aussie trying to use Ebonics in Creole.

1. I'm cheap and haircuts are $25.

So there you have it, life's most precious lessons of the past six months.

2005-06-24T23:53:00.000-04:00

I know what you're thinking, "What a jerk! He can't even take the time to sit down and write me a personal message." And you're right, not only am I a jerk, but I also don't have time for you. So there you go.

That having been said, welcome to my blog thing; I don't know what it is or how to use it, but it's easy enough for me to talk to all of you at the same time so that's a plus.

For those of you who are out of the loop, which may be the majority of you, let me give you an update on what's going on: I live in Riverhead, New York and have just completed my first six months as Recreation Coordinator at Timothy Hill Children's Ranch. God has blessed me here, he has surrounded me with mentors and people to mentor, he has given me great friends and helping me to be a better one, and he's offering challenges that make me grow. I have found the passion of my life, and it's in a beautiful place surrounded by awesome people. I am blessed.

So before you go and check to see if I have added another handsome picture in the profile page, please stop and take a little time to pray for me. Pray that I am Strong and Courageous. Pray that I grow, not only as a man, but as a man after God's own heart, so that I can live out my dreams and mold men after God's own heart. Pray for the Ranch, for the hearts of the boys, and that the Spirit of God would move so powerfully in this place that the lives changed here can only attribute their praise to the God behind it all. Pray for balance, pray for peace, pray for wisdom and understanding. Pray for me, I need all the help I can get.

My prayer for you is that you will seek out your dreams, find them, and hold on.

"Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go."

Joshua 1:9