Parenthetically Yours

Further explanations as to why men do what they do

GPS receivers make me an emasculated idiot. I used one recently on a trip to Seattle and had several near-mishaps because of the thing. I nearly drove my rented minivan into several vehicles, up a service ramp, exited a parking lot going the wrong way on a one-way street and nearly missed ramming my vehicle into Nordstrom—the actual structure.

I must be too literal of a person because when that soothing woman’s voice (I call her Claire. Reminds me of a sweet British nanny who’s only here to serve me) coming from the gadget tells me to turn left, then I’m going to turn left. NOW. There’s a scene from an episode of last season’s The Office where the hapless boss Michael Scott drives into a lake because his GPS was telling him to turn. I thought it was an absurd scene but now I get it. At some point I realized I was no longer looking for signs or landmarks but rather staring at the tiny digital map for navigational clues. It was like cheating on a test and I LOVED IT!

But after a few wrong turns and bathroom exits I wanted to strangle Claire. She wasn’t so soothing anymore. The word recalculating never sounded so arrogant and condescending. I know what you’re saying Claire. I made a wrong turn and you’re having to go back and figure out a way to get me out of this mess. I’m pretty sure I heard her sigh after the fourth or fifth wrong turn, as if to say, “Here we go again. I’ve done all the work for you and continue to get it wrong. You’re doing this to yourself, you know.” Pompous Brit.

If a gadget company wants me to buy their GPS unit, they need to do something about the little voice inside spewing out directions. Give us some options. For instance, who wouldn’t want Sam Elliot telling you how to get home? I’d respect that voice. Plus it would feel like maybe we’re on horses riding through the prairie. Or maybe Luanne from King of the Hill. That way if you get lost she would blame herself. Or Robert DiNero. I’d simply do everything he said and not ask questions, even if the directions included knocking off someone on the way to the mall. Just do what he says and no one will get hurt.

But Claire? By the time I got to my destination, she had me so flustered and emasculated that that I was craving a soy chai latte while discussing my favorite era of Meg Ryan haircuts. It took three hours lifting weights and a rare T-bone just to shake the effects.

No wonder men don’t ask for directions.

(rw)

As per usual, today's entry is part of Watercooler Wednesday over at ETHOS.

Perception is Reality - Conclusion

When we left our story yesterday, Katie and I had two very different stories about the white vehicle we saw on our way to her office. What she perceived was a cop car, with all the usual markings: lights, decals, etc. She was so convinced of this she put on her seatbelt for fear of being pulled over. Again, I’ll make the point to my love that it should’ve been on anyway (smiley face). What I perceived was something that looked similar to an unmarked cop, but definitely NOT a public service vehicle.

How can two people with such similar goals, desires, and interests see things so differently? Welcome to marriage, I suppose. I never want to come across controlling, but as a general rule, we should do things my way because I just happen to be better at decorating, financial planning, entertainment, cooking, healthcare, magazine ordering, shopping, organizing, cleaning, gardening, reading, writing, ‘rithmatics…you get the picture. You see, I’ve been on the planet 13 more years than my young, beautiful wife. I’m kind of an expert at everything, right? Right?

Sigh. The inconvenient truth is that I’m not. I can look at my own finances, eating habits, shopping budget, organizing skills, etc and realize that I’m lucky to have met someone who a) wasn’t repulsed by me at first glance, and b) wasn’t repulsed by me at second and third glances. I’m thankful to have someone who perfectly complements my lack of skills and someone who doesn’t mind taking a backseat when we’re working in one of my areas of expertise. Unfortunately (for her) my skill sets can be summed up in parallel parking and hooking up the DVD player. And belching the alphabet.

So yeah, we come into this thing from two different perspectives and it’s a miracle from the Lord of Hosts on High that two separate entities can mesh their lives together, form a team (GO TEAM WILLIAMS), and conquer life together. But we will always have moments where our perspectives are crazily different. Like yesterday and the cop car.

Turns out, I was looking at the car facing us on the left side of the car, she was looking at the one on the right. We experienced something so uncommon, so stupifyingly rare that doctors, psychiatrists, and molecular biologists still don’t have a name for the phenomenon.

We were both right.

(rw)

Perception is Reality (part 1)

I was driving Katie to work this morning and something happened along the way that, quite frankly, is making me question everything from whether or not I am at this very moment sitting on a brown couch to the Second Law of Thermodynamics. Until now, both have been uncontested and thought of as “truth.” What is truth? I knew before this morning.

We were driving along and I was defending my reasons for listening to Soundgarden at such an early hour (because they’re awesome). “Yikes, there’s a cop,” said my beloved as she reached to put on her seatbelt. I would like to pause our story to make the subtle point that KATIE DOESN’T WEAR HER SEATBELT BUT SHE REALLY SHOULD BECAUSE #1 IT’S SAFER AND #2 IT’S THE LAW!! Subtle message to my wife out of the way, back to our story. She puts on her seatbelt and I drive through the intersection slowly. As we passed, I looked the car over and realized it wasn’t a cop—just a guy in a white Crown Victoria. My first impression was that he was a sales rep of some sort because he had on a white oxford, a tie, and there were some cardboard boxes (samples perhaps?) stacked in the back seat. There were no lights hidden in the grill, no markings, and most importantly, no public service license plate. Yeah, in that second or two as we passed, I noticed all of those things. I’m curious that way. It’s a debilitating condition and it’s annoying. I drew my conclusion and said, “It wasn’t a cop after all.” Katie looked at me in horror, confusion, and pity and said “It was too, it had lights on top and said Franklin Police on the side.” To which I politely replied, “You’re insane. It was just a dude in a white Crown Vic.” To which she calmly rebutted, “Are you out of your mind? I looked in the mirror and saw the writing as he was turning.” Me, “You’re on crack.” She, “You’re old.”

So now I can’t do a thing for fear that what I’m seeing either doesn’t exist or my eyes only perceive part of the whole. See how this changes everything? I don’t know what to believe anymore. As convinced as I am of what I saw, she is equally convinced of what she saw. Maybe all those Bigfoot people really are seeing something. Most likely it’s their drunk uncle in a homemade Chewbacca costume—but they see it, so they believe it, even to the point of ridicule and public humiliation. I know what I saw (or didn’t see), though, and I’ll risk ridicule and public humiliation to defend it. Thankfully I have a healthy ego coupled with an overblown sense of self-importance so I know I’m right.

What was that? Something passed by the house that looked a lot like a chupacabra chasing a goat. Let me investigate this further. Oh, wait, that was just the neighbor pushing his kid in a stroller and walking their black lab.

Or was it?

Tune in tomorrow for the not-so-thrilling conclusion to the mystery of the changeling Franklin cop car.

(rw)

Christopher Laurie

Sorry for such a sobering post to get your weekend started, but a good friend of mine Greg Laurie lost his son Christopher yesterday afternoon in a car accident. We all knew him as Topher. Please pray for Greg and Cathe as they've lost their first born son (I can't imagine how this will change Greg's illustrations of the cross and our Heavenly Father's sacrifice of His Son). He was a son, a brother, a husband, and a dad (another daughter due in November). The fingers of death stretch far and grip so many. Pray for comfort and for God's glory to be revealed. But also pray that healthy, deep grief could run its course and lead the family back to joy and wholeness, via the Spirit of God.

www.harvest.org

You give and take away,
My heart will choose to say
Blessed be the name...

(rw)

Dream Weaver

I just woke up from a ridiculous night of dreams. But first, the back story.

I flew to Seattle last night. Five hour flight. We left Nashville at 4:45 p.m, squarely between lunch and dinner. When we landed, it was 7:40 in the Emerald City. That’s 9:40 back home. Short story, I was hungry as a hostage. We all were. So naturally there were problems getting checked into the hotel. By the time we sat down at a table, it was 10:10. To my body it was past midnight at this point. The better parts of our temperaments won out, though, and we stayed fairly jovial throughout. But we were hungry. Crazy hungry.

When you’re Crazy Hungry you crave things you’d never consider putting in your mouth. Last night I would’ve devoured a cold Mediterranean pasta salad, cherry tomatoes and all. That may not sound shocking to you, but when Katie reads it she’ll drop her fork and pass out (I don’t know why I’m assuming she’ll be holding a fork). Cold, vinegar-y pasta salad makes me shudder. The damp, squishy pasta, loud tart flavors…I’m getting a little nauseous just describing it. The truth is that it’s not the taste that does it for me, but the combination of temperature, texture, and taste. The three T’s (yeah, I just made that up). If you have a 3T combo of cold, squishy, and vinegar—well, that a recipe for vomit, not a salad.

But I digress. I would’ve eaten it last night. Crazy hungry makes you crave bad food too. I’m on a bit of a healthy kick lately…cutting down on breads and sugars, making better choices, taking vitamins/supplements every day, etc—but all I wanted was deep fried bread and melted butter to wash it all down. I settled for a cheeseburger and garlic fries. Hit the spot. That is until around 5 a.m.

That’s when I woke up from this dream. I swear on the grave of Duane Allman that I’m making none of this up. I was with the band doing a show in some far away place. It seemed foreign but everyone spoke English so it had to be Canada. (Eh?) While we were there, two older ladies who were driving us around wanted to show us this incredible phenomenon that their town was known for. The next thing I remember is we’re in this beautiful field overlooking a waterfall and a serene, picturesque lake. The only other people that were gathered for the event, which happened every night at sunset, were the families of around 200 little girls (between, say, 5 and 12 years old) dressed in their prettiest, frilliest, girly-est pink princess dresses. They all had little white dogs too. Small ones. Scotties, shih tzus, pomeranians, yorkies, pugs, etc…but they were all white. We sat around for a few minutes waiting for sunset and right as the sun began to hide itself behind the curve of the horizon (directly behind us, opposite our view of the lake), the far edge of the lake caught fire. I was both beautiful and frightening. Then we noticed the fire was moving toward us. At this point all the little girls and their dogs lined up like they were getting ready to take a group photo with the lake of fire as the background. Their parents seemed calmly oblivious of the fire blazing closer and closer as they watched their daughters with pride. Then, before any of us could react, the fire engulfed the girls and dogs. I was freaking out but couldn’t do anything. It all happened so quickly. My heart was racing, some of the guys were crying, but the parents started clapping as if it were a masterpiece performance. Then as quickly as it started, the fire burned out as the sun fell completely below the horizon. There were the girls, completely unharmed, along with the unsinged puppies. They were clapping, jumping up and down, hugging their parents, celebrating. I looked at the two ladies who brought us to see such a thing and they said, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Canadian do things differently.

(rw)

Redemption Songs

I mentioned this tour a few days ago, but this weekend I saw the actual show. One word: I’m blown away by the talent in this city. Ok, so that was more than one word.

A few weeks ago I posted about the real Nashville Stars. Five of those I listed are part of an unprecedented tour over the next 16 days called Ten Out of Tenn (genius title). What I love about this tour isn’t necessarily the artists, although they are all incredible. Artistry aside, what I love about it is the community among the artists. All of them are already friends and from the first song to the last, everyone serves as part of the backing band for the other artists. There was a genuine sense that they weren’t competing against each other, but rather were co-conspirators in something bigger than themselves—that is, the making of beautiful, redemptive music together. It was great to see K.S. Rhoads jumping from bass, to electric guitar, to piano and Butterfly Boucher putting down the guitar to pick up the bass, and to watch Erin McCarley and Katie Herzig and Trent Dabbs standing together singing harmonies with the other artists. I can’t stress enough how genuine it all seemed. You could tell they spent a lot of time learning each other's songs and had worked hard to come up with a great set list that complemented each artist yet still flowed nicely. Everyone did two songs each throughout the course of the evening and every song was epic.

A very successful businessman friend of mine says “a rising tide lifts all ships.” What he means is that if we’re working together at something, your success benefits me and visa versa. There can be no room for selfish maneuvering and dysfunctional competing. It helps no one. That’s what I saw on the stage Saturday night—everyone was a fan of everyone else, they each selflessly promoted each other, and it was all done in a spirit of community.

In summary…GO SEE THIS TOUR if it comes your way!

(rw)

...and yes, this is part of Watercooler Wednesday!

Unsolved Mysteries

So I’m sitting here watching Weird Travels on the Travel Channel and the entire episode is dedicated to Sasquatch/Bigfoot sightings around the country. They spent time in the usual spots—Oregon, Washington, northern California—including a humorous segment on the Skunk Ape of southern Florida. I was quite surprised to learn that there are hundreds of sightings a year in Texas. The mystery here isn’t that there may or may not be a large hairy creature skulking about the east Texas woods. If you’ve seen large hairy creatures skulking about the east Texas woods, you’ve simply come face to face with my father-in-law and his deer hunting buddies.

That’s no mystery. The real mystery is that there are actual Texans who believe such nonsense.

(rw)

Southern Discomfort

You want to hear a bad idea? An outdoor mall in Louisiana. Have you ever been to Louisiana? In the summer? There are several adjectives one could employ to describe the heat. Sweltering is one. Oppressive is another. Hellish might be the most fitting, but I don’t think hell will have this kind of humidity.

I was in Shreveport not too long ago and spent an afternoon at the aforementioned mall. It was July 4 and they had music, attractions, fireworks that evening—a big family event. You’d expect that with the holiday, the place would’ve been packed. Not even close. It was a humid ghost town from 2-4 when I was there. Of course, that was primarily because children were spontaneously combusting from the heat rising off the asphalt. There were little charred circles encircling the merry-go-round. Poor things.

My dear readers who live north or west of the southern United States cannot relate to what I’m talking about. Sure, I’ve heard you complain about Detroit or Cleveland summers. To my yankee friends (and, yes, those of you out west are yankees too. I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do about this), come spend any July day in Mobile, AL and by 10:45 a.m. you’ll be longing for the refreshing breezes and asphalt tundras of Greenwich Village. Can’t compare. The dry heat of Death Valley is a fall New England day next to the hot wet blanket that is Orlando.

This kind of heat does something to a person. Slows them down. Way down. I’m convinced this is why Southerners have attracted the unkind reputation for being lazy. The oppressive, impossible heat south of the Mason-Dixon makes you move molasses slow and draws all good men to the shade of the front porch. You can’t do anything until after 6 p.m. Showering in the morning? Forget it. That is, unless you enjoy drying off with a damp towel. The moisture may be wicked from your skin, but it is immediately replaced with sticky, salty sweat as soon as you leave the house. Can I get an amen?

Despite this, I love summertime in the South. Summer always reminds me of my childhood. Probably because children make so many memories during their summer breaks. So much has changed from my youth, but these things remain—honeysuckle, fireflies, sunburns, box fans, lemonade, faith, hope, love, and porch swings. Let the laziness commence.

(rw)

The best thing about the South THIS summer: TEN out of TENN

I'm not a cynic, really

I don’t like feeling cynical about anything, especially my fellow faith journeymen, but my first trip to the International Christian Retailers Association’s convention (also known in the industry as CBA—or Christian Booksellers Association—week) did nothing to lessen my inner cynic. I don’t want to bad-mouth my good-intentioned brethren (and sistren), because truth be told, there are some unbelievably talented people among the aisles of this trade show. My problem with most Christian art (including music, writing, film, design, artwork/crafts, etc) is a profound lack vision and/or purpose. Or a business plan.

It’s quite a spectacle, the CBA trade show. There are several rows of booths featuring everything from major record labels to the the tiniest mom-and-pop start ups hoping to peddle their wares to the major and minor Christian retailers. There are some amazing things and some full-on gringe-worthy embarrassments. Or should I say embarrass-mints? There was a booth for children’s books and videos that featured a guy walking around dressed as Jesus. I suppose he was there to suffer ye the little children, but he more or less looked like Barry Gibb in a toga. When I saw him—sorry, Him—there was a gaggle of 20-something girls lined up to take photos with Him. I was hoping they wanted the pics for cheeky, ironic reasons, but I’m afraid they just thought He was hot. You could tell Jesus liked the attention. There was a big display for a new book coming out called “Lord of the Flies,” which is apparently a devotional for fly fishermen. Call me crazy, but that seems like a pretty small niche. Why not open it up to all fishermen and just call it “Hooked on Jesus”? Or “Thy Rod and Thy Reel, They Comfort Me”? There was an entire booth dedicated to hawking a bad, melodramatic poem and, of course, the awful parody t-shirts were everywhere. Things like Ourapostle instead of Aeropostle, or Jesus died for Myspace in Heaven, or Church Girls Gone Wild, and so on. And they will know we are Christians by our t-shirts. Ugh.

To be fair, there was some cool stuff too: a new book called “Evolution: A Fairy Tale for Grownups” by Ray Comfort (Darwin’s 200th Birthday Special Edition. Genius.) debunks the theory of evolution simply using quotes from many evolutionary scientists and experts without “quote mining” (using quotes out of context). And Hayley DiMarco has a new set of short books for teen girls and if nothing else, she has some of the best designed books in the CBA market. Most of the Christian publishing industry could learn something from the modern design of her books and the understated booths of Oxford University Press and Penguin Books, two of the mainstream publishing houses in attendance. By far the thing that got me the most excited, though, is the announcement of Crossway’s English Standard Version Study Bible. I’m feeling so nerdy right now, but I’m kind of obsessing about it. Who gets that excited about a study bible? Me apparently.

As much as I hate to say it, though, the bad outweighed the good. It’s just that so much of what I saw was simply a reaction or response to something offered up by the general market. I’m not one of those people who say Christian art shouldn’t exist in the first place, though. I totally believe in "the industry" and that there’s a place for it. I think some people have a gift and, if you will, calling to the church to encourage, uplift, and lead. BUT I also believe that they should be doing things in such an excellent way that when the un-churched come in contact with their work, they’re drawn towards belief, not repelled by it.

(rw)

Unfamiliar Territory

I don’t mean to brag, but the only time I’ve woken up to an alarm clock in the past 13 years is for an early flight or a breakfast meeting. Being a musician, I've been afforded a very, um...relaxed (?) schedule. Well, this was all prior to January. My beloved has an 8-5 job, so I’ve been waking up to her alarm clock for the past six months. She has an incurable addiction to the snooze button. I wake up at 6:29, 6:37, 6:45, 6:53, 7:01, and finally at 7:09 when she rolls over and groggily mutters “I have to get up.” I’m not bitter, though. I figure it’s karma’s way of catching me up on all those alarmed awakenings I’ve missed. I don’t believe in karma, but this is giving the whole notion some wheels.

This morning, however, I woke up alone in a hotel room. I flew to Orlando yesterday to play a show and slept at a hotel, alone in a bed, for the first time since getting married. Sure, I’ve spent several nights away sleeping on a tour bus since my nuptials, but these were the first motionless quarters I’ve been in since. It was weird. I went to sleep fairly easily, but woke up several times thinking Katie was turning over or reaching for my hand. I went to reach for the familiar, but the familiar was missing. Then this morning, when I should’ve been enjoying deep, late slumber, I woke at 7, then at 7:15, then 7:20, an so on. I used to never see daylight before double digit hours but now my body wants to wake up early. Not just to wake up early, mind you, but to come in and out of consciousness as if some great silent snooze button is continually being reset. Because that’s what is familiar.

Usually, if I toss and turn in the early morning and can’t go back to sleep, I get frustrated. Sleep is one of those rare activities that the more you try, the less likely you’ll be able to do it. It ranks right up there with making someone fall in love with you in that it becomes exponentially more impossible as the expended energy increases.

And love is why I can’t go back to sleep this morning. I fell in love with someone and she fell in love with me. We share a bed now and, for the first time in my life, alone is no longer familiar. Her very presence—her breathing, her gravity beside me, her unconscious there-ness—isn’t with me this morning but what I have is her absence. A piece is missing. Yet I’m grateful to have someone to miss.

(rw)