NOT-SO-LIVE BLOGGING @ THE DOVE AWARDS

What a day.

I am here, in Gnashville at GMA Week, and the Steelehouse team and I had a morning meeting at a downtown hotel with a big muckety-muck (I don't know what this term means, but it has something to do with success). While waiting, we observed a dozen pageantish girls with crowns and sashes (I kid you not. Sashes.) wandering around the hotel lobby. I finally read one of the sashes: Miss Christian USA. Then, I heard a little squeak. I looked down at my feet. There, a little ball of all that was remaining of the the good and holy inside of me was attempting to roll away. I stepped on it and forced it into my pocket for later.

After running into a couple dozen random people we knew, we went for coffee. There, at the barista counter, was Rupert. Rupert. From Survivor. Tie-die-shirt. Robinson Crusoe beard. Rupert. He has started a music label. Again. Not kidding.

Then, we saw three American Idols and two contestants from The Biggest Loser. I'm beginning to think I've come to the wrong gathering. I'm half expecting Jeff Probst to show up at the Doves and vote someone out of the Christian Music industry, which would be sad because we all already know it would be Carman.

Once at the ceremony, we sat through the pre-awards, which is a two hour session of awards they do not think need to be televised. I am surprised when our award is not in those awards. And then, the broadcast begins. That is the moment I began live-blogging for Relevant.com. Here are the excerpts:

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6:55 pm OMG - I’m seated in the third row of the Grand Old Opry theatre sitting behind Disciple, who just won a pre-show Dove. Just met Disciple’s manager and found out we both dated the same psycho chick. The GMA really IS a small world.

Thought we missed our award in the pre-show. We’re up for Best Short Form video for David Crowder Band’s “foreverandeveretc.” Just found out from Crowder that we did NOT miss it, but instead have been bumped up to the live broadcast. I should've worn a more slimming pair of pants.

7:05 pm Mandisa just tore it up. There are all these American Idols in the audience and they all just said to themselves, “oh, THATS how you sing.”

7:09 Best New Artist just went to Brandon Heath, which makes me think of chocolate and toffee. Mmm. Hungry.

7:10 First commercial break. It is so hot in here. Mostly because Mandisa hit a note that broke the air conditioner.

7:16 Can I just say that I LOVE Matthew West who is co-hosting backstage. Phenomenal legendary songwriter and very funny. Somebody needs to send him fruit baskets.

7:15 Natalie Grant. To put that big voice in that tiny lady, God had to compress it into a zip file.

7:19 Natalie Grant & Wynonna receive the award for the first Standing O of the evening. Well deserved. And male vocalist of the year goes to…Chris Tomlin. Phil Stacey of American Idol keeps standing. Glad I’m not behind him. The stagehands, by the way, just wheeled a huge wardrobe out on stage. Or maybe it’s just a door. Looks like the one on Sesame Street. Nope. Its Trinity 5:7 doing zydeco. Sure. Be obvious.

Wouldn’t you know it? I’m running out of battery. I’ll blog the rest after the show. Peace out!

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And THAT'S when my phone ran out of juice. After the awards, I came back and wrote the formal wrap-up, which I present to you now without commercial interruption:

11:24 pm Well - darn all this new technology to heck. My iPhone battery gave out a mere half-hour into the live broadcast this evening, and I was unable to blog live from that point on. However, due to the fact that no more than two of you would have been following these posts as they were written, I think we’re all good.

HIGHLIGHTS:

* Casting Crowns performing “East to West” with a full string section. WOW. This is a powerful song. I need to occasionally listen to Christian radio.

* Phil Stacey of American Idol - still standing. Starts just about every Standing O. His bald head looks like an O. Coincidence? Not at all. But nifty, nonetheless.

* Switchfoot’s new song from Prince Caspian: Pfft. Lame. And out-of-tune. I wanted to like it - because, you know: Switchfoot - and Narnia - and you’re not supposed to go Pfft at Christian songs. But I did. And I cannot take it back. and I cannot lie. And I do not like Foreman’s hat this evening. He’s never going to read my books, is he? He will never frequent my podcasts. Jon, I love all your other music. I swear. Just didn’t dig this one tonight. Perhaps later, when I hear the studio version - or am unconscious. Pfft. I almost fell asleep during the performance. Hey, maybe it will win Song of the Year in 2009.

* Female vocalist of the year: Natalie Grant. Yeah, I’ll buy that. She’s pretty doggone amazing. She hit some epic notes tonight. High notes. So high, the homeless guy sitting near me kept ramming his head repeatedly into a dumpster. Wait. That wasn’t a homeless guy. That was T-Bone. My bad.

* New worship song from MWS, Israel Houghton, SCC, Chris Tomlin, Paul Baloche, and Christy Nockels. Me like. They sound great together - and very genuine.

* By the way, if Casting Crowns is up for any specific award tonight, they win. Song. Group. Alliterative Band Name. Best Casting. They win it all. Well deserved.

* David Crowder Band LIVE! My homeboys rock and rule. “Everything Glorious” with a team of youth in hazmat suits (?!) dressing the set in springtime foliage as they perform. LOVE IT. Just absolutely LOVE IT. Yes, I produced his music video, but it was animated - so I didn’t actually meet David. I hope to someday be more than just Facebook friends. Do you think Jon Foreman will let Steelehouse do Switchfoot’s next video? Do you? Answer: me neither.

* The Clark Sisters & Marvin Sapp - WOWZERS! These Gospel Greats do NOT get the accolades due them. When did the Relevant generation stop listening to these classic juggernauts called Gospel Songs?

* And the short form video of the year winner IS - not us. TobyMac wins (also winning Artist of the Year) and you just can’t argue because he’s so darn awesome and Godly and talented and likeable and boomin’ and - hey, there’s Jon Foreman’s hat. So, we lost - but they played clips from our video about a half dozen times. And we made DCB happy. And we lost. I really wanted one of those sharp, threatening statues. Right before Toby beat us, he was standing directly by our seats. We made brief eye contact and I think he secretly stole the part of my soul that had a chance of winning. He put it in Jon Foreman’s hat. I will never see it again. I hope Jesus is still all right with you, Toby. Because I’m done with you and your voodoo soul-stealing stares. I’m just done. Unless you want to do lunch or something.

* The American Idol tribute to 25 years of Michael W. Smith. Who comes up with this stuff? I have a soft spot for Michael. His music influenced me in profound ways. And, I thought the Idols (can a Christian show have Idols?) sounded very good, but I would have expected it to be more honoring of MWS to have some other legends performing his songs. No venom intended. Just a suggestion. Something to change for the next airing. I know it’s already aired live - but, let’s face it. Only three people saw it.

*Grand Ole Opry Country Music Gospel Finale with Charlie Daniels and Mac Powell of Third Day. As JJ Walker might say, DY-NO-MITE! Unbefreakingleavable. This ruled. You must watch it instantly. Oh. It’s not on right now. Then, Tivo it. Or YouTube it. Or, download it to the nanotechnology in your left retina. They can do that now, right?

All in all, a grand time. The live broadcast streamlined the event and was accomplished extraordinarily well. The evening made me proud to be a part of this grand Christian subculture, but not as proud as I would have been had we WON the sharp bird statue. I suppose I will have to rely on Toby’s portable sounds to lift me up and take me higher.
Thanks for hanging with me. It was grand fun. I’ll talk about it more on this week’s Steelehouse Podcast available at iTunes or on www.halflifediealready.com. But, for now, I’ve got Christian music to listen to. And an apology letter to write to Jon Foreman.

GNASHVILLE

So, I’m on my way to the land of a thousand steel guitars. Where every country artist dreams of being on a horse in the mountains and every Christian artist dreams of being a country artist (they make more money and get to work with Dann Huff).

It’s GMA week, which stands for Get More Aspirin - the week every single famous Christian in the world waits for a table at the same pancake house. It’s like Eureka Springs after a revival. There are new bands being showcased, new authors snubbing their noses at new bands, old solo artists wondering how all these eleven-year-olds got recording contracts, and twelve-year-olds wondering why last year’s recording contract ended so quickly. It’s Circus of the Saints. And it all goes down in the wonderful world of Nashville.

I’m going this year because I’m actually up for one of those Doves. I produced David Crowder Band’s “foreverandeveretc” video, which is up for short-form-music-video-of-the-year alongside the other four Christian music videos that were produced in 2007. If we come out victors, we win an extremely dangerous-looking statue and a slightly shorter wait at the aforementioned pancake house. We here at Steelehouse are very proud of the video, but do not expect to win because we are up against Switchfoot and they’ve scored seventeen Relevant cover stories. Their video features slo-mo underwater explosions and, though ours has animated rodents at the end-of-the-world, it’s not exactly a po-ta-to/po-tah-to comparison. HOWEVER, we are thrilled (as Coolio says) just to be nominated and will consider the trip a success if Crowder recognizes us from a distance. One of my writers (Jeff Huston) and I will probably broadcast our Steelehouse podcast (now available on iTunes for the low, low cost of nothing (animated rodents not included) from down there, just to celebrate the spectacle of it all.

I used to frequent these sorts of gatherings: Christian music festivals, NRB (which is now ICRS - an acronym that sounds like the answer to an off-color knock-knock joke), conferences and whatnot. It’s been a while since I was surrounded by the faces of the Christian music elite, at least it’s been since I was last in the media section of Wal-Mart. So, here’s hoping for a great Dove Awards ceremony. I will blog all about it, blow-by-blow well before you are able to view the edited version on CMT or Lifetime, or the Home Shopping Network (whoever won the contract). It will be just like the afterparties in Hollywood where all of the beautiful starlets get drunk - if you substitute “starlets” with “artists” and “beautiful” with “balding” - and “drunk” with “free mints.”

I can hardly wait. Meet me here, at my blog, after Wednesday evening. I’ll be giving out my own honorary Doves - just because I can.

STEELEHOUSE PODCAST

If you haven't checked it out yet, you really need to subscribe to the Steelehouse Podcast. Jeff Huston and I discuss God in pop culture every Friday. You can subscribe at iTunes by typing in "steelehouse" into the search bar.

Here's what you've been missing:

Podcast 01: A debate about what entertainment spoilers and internet music leaks have to say about our impatience and overstimulation as a culture. Also: Modern Orthodoxy, the A-Team movie, and a discussion of the spiritual themes within the five Best Picture Oscar Nominees.

Podcast 02: What Britney Spears' attempted comeback has to say about the need for true community as opposed to the lie of fame and fortune. Also: 80's Thursday Night TV and "Lost" Season Four Spiritual Themes.

Podcast 03: The media uproar surrounding Miley Cyrus' love for Jesus. Also: R.E.M. "Accelerate," "Battlestar Galactica," and "Half-Life Die Already" by Mark Steele (interviewed by Jeff Huston).

Podcast 04: The cultural shift from mass media to personalized media and what it means for the church. Also: "Sunrise Earth," the Muppets, and out choices for our Top Five Most Personally Influential Albums of All Time.

And...coming this Friday on Podcast 05:

Has "American Idol" become our new mid-week church service? Also: #1 Most Influential Album and Television Season Finales Sneak Preview

Tune in and tell your friends! You won't be disappointed.

HALF-LIFE / DIE ALREADY is HERE!

Three important pieces of news:

1. The BOOK is IN STORES. It hit stores a few days early. You can find "Half-Life / Die Already" by Mark Steele in your local bookstore. Border's, Barnes & Noble, and most Christian retailers all carry it. You can also order a copy at Amazon.com.

If you have already read a pre-release copy, please do me the favor of reviewing the book on Amazon.com as that really drives traffic to the book.

2. The NEW WEBSITE is UP. It's lots of fun and has a lot hidden within it's nooks and crannies. Check it out at www.halflifediealready.com.

There are audio chapters, mix-tapes, a photo gallery, a guide to ninja points, and much much more.

3. The STEELEHOUSE PODCAST is now avaiable on iTunes. It takes a while for new episodes to upload to their site, so the best way to hear the new episodes fastest is to subscribe in your browser as directed a few posts below. But, the easiest way to enjoy the Steelehouse Podcast is to subscribe on iTunes (just search for "Steelehouse" and you'll find it.)

Podcast Episode 2 is now available and features Jeff Huston and myself discussing God and pop culture. Enjoy! You can let us know any podcast feedback you might have by writing to Jeff and I at podcast@steelehouse.com.

That's all for now! I'll keep you posted with bookstore readings and speaking engagements as they come along. In the meantime, look for new articles from me in the upcoming issues of both Relevant Magazine and Collide Magazine.

And ENJOY THE BOOK!

HLDA Sneak-Peek #3: chapter two "JANUARY 16"

Enter Charlie.

My third-born is my second son. His name is Charlie, he is about to turn five and he reeks of awesomeness. As I lay in my cold, dark, January-morning bedroom, I am reminded that he was born here. Right here in this bed – a few inches from where I lay right now. Kaysie had been on bed-rest because of a bout with pneumonia at the beginning of her ninth month that left her constantly coughing. Suddenly, one night in the dead of winter, her fits launched her into labor.

And, pop. Charlie was born.
Okay, the pop took thirty-two hours.

He is named after my maternal grandfather, Charles, who died when I was in high school. It was the first death in my life that authentically rattled me – confused me. He had always seemed so young in his old age. The suffering had gone on for some time and I just assumed he would pull out of it. But, the same afternoon I expected to climb into the car and hear he was doing better, I instead heard I would never see him again.

My grandfather was the first to tell me I was a writer before I had written a single word. And now, Charlie – as tiny as he is – continues to be that sort of fuel for my life. He is filled with joy. It is virtually impossible to drag him down. This is because, regardless of where Charlie may be at the moment, he is always able to make himself at home. This is more than likely due to the fact that he entered the world inside of one. Laughter and camaraderie follow Charlie like mice to a piper, and I am grateful that for some reason, I have been given the opportunity to be his father.

Charlie is adventurous, which can be frustrating to a boy whose backyard is fenced. It should be no surprise then that he has developed quite a kinship with Hero, the other prisoner of the family. He spends a great deal of time with her, most of the time in dialogue.

I’m not kidding. Actual conversation. More than likely regarding the wide open spaces that they are both missing. Kaysie or I will look out the back window and will see Hero, laying in the sunshine as Charlie sits on her back, discussing the day while dumping a cup of dirt on her head.

I don’t fully understand why he feels the need to dump dirt on the dog’s head, but she doesn’t seem to mind. As a matter of fact, she seems to fully understand. She will lay there, panting in that breathless sort of smile that insinuates the dog has discovered her best friend in this boy smothering her with earth. Of course, to you or I, dumping dirt on one’s body would be considered intentionally insulting. But, to Charlie, this is his love language. Because Charlie lives for the cold, damp, filthy layer just below the epidermis of grass. When we do check on him in the backyard, if he is not dumping it on a living creature, he is more than likely eating it or rolling around in it naked.

Charlie spends a lot of time naked.

We try. We really do. But, he has disrobing down to a science. That kid can get every item of clothing off his body before you hear the zipper. He understands he has to be stealth, because that’s the only way he can get away with running through the living room au naturale while we hold a group Bible study. It’s very embarrassing. We’re debating Ezekiel and suddenly BAM! Naked child, right there next to the appetizers. He’d be an awesome NavySEAL if they ever go nudist.

And everyone loves Charlie.

That’s just the way it is. Some people are born with it, and Charlie is the king. He always gets the laugh or at least the smile. Me? I can’t theorize plot points on “Lost” without friends audibly rolling their eyes, but Charlie could yell “come wipe me” from the top of the stairs and people would send him fruit baskets.

It’s all because of the joy. Unbridled, passionate, fervent joy. He embraces the ridiculous. He skips instead of running. He makes me kiss his face in fourteen different places before we finish saying goodnight.
He is in every way wonderful.

But, right now, there is a problem.

Charlie is currently at that age where he loves to run at his father in head-butting stance. He is also at that height where the top of his skull is just below my belt buckle. We’ll call it the perfect storm. This would be bad enough without the fact that I am still reeling in pain from the damage suffered six months ago when I fell through that roof.

And there it is.

I lay in bed in the cold and stare up at the rectangle of drywall that has been inserted where so much epic sorrow came to pass. Just glancing at it, I feel a phantom bamboo chute of agony pulse up my leg.
I have not gone to the doctor concerning this.

Because I am a moron.

Also, because I am a Dad and to be honest, I get thumped in my Dadhood so often by my children that I can’t imagine being inspected down there of my own free will.

Plus, I am afraid.

I mean, this is my manhood we’re talking about. If there was trouble down there – well, it would affect an awful lot of things that I would prefer not to think about.

As we all know, if it has not been diagnosed, it is not actually happening.

Instead, I limp a lot.

A few days after the ceiling debacle, I actually thought perhaps I was fine. There had been some lingering pain, but really more numbness than anything as if the member in question had been removed entirely. But, then a few days later, I was driving and realized that a mosquito had gotten caught inside my car. I swatted at it hard in a downward motion and realized my mistake only after the unfortunate trajectory had been established. I attempted to stop my arm, but the velocity of my hand was unwavering. I tried to pull it back, but the tiniest tippy-tip of my hand made contact.

Thub.

You know when Frodo puts on the ring and all of the world gets sucked toward that eye made of lava as hooded undead kings scream like banshees?

Yeah. Just like that.

I practically drove into the median.

Not since Men at Work released their third album have so many disappointing things happened down under.

But, six months have passed and I have done a fine job of ignoring the warning signs. The ceiling has remained irreparable, and most days I wonder if I am. The current state of the ceiling is no one’s fault in particular. Multiple friends rallied to fill the chasm (the Mark-shaped hole, as I like to call it) the very same evening the accident occurred, but we kept running into roadblocks. Matt, his wife Molly, and Kaysie took up the slack first as I was curled up into the fetal position on the bed with an icepack muttering something about a happy place. At least, Matt took up the slack for the first 45 minutes until he sliced into an artery in his hand while attempting to shape the drywall to fit with a retractable blade. A fountain of blood later, there was more to clean than fiberglass. So, my best friend Jason showed up.

I think best friends are important. It’s a concept that most leave behind in junior high, but for me, there is value in deciding that someone has the right to open a can, to know your junk and hold you responsible for it. I never had a best friend growing up. I always had my brothers’ best friends. I was a default friend. A second best. This was fine when all I needed was someone to compete against on the Tron Arcade game on Friday nights, but it didn’t do much for my level of honesty and accountability. I know now, as an adult, that I desperately need to be known. Without that, it is virtually impossible to walk out faith with integrity. We each need to be significant to a few someone elses. We need to be priceless and indisposable. Jason is that individual in my life. He and his wife Sarah consistently help push us closer to God. And as I have aged, I have found myself less and less willing to know or be known by anyone else. It’s too much work. I have to say that I am fortunate. I have Kaysie to open up to, but when what I need to process would be unfair for her to help me wade through, I go to Jason. I am not surprised that he showed up tonight. I am not surprised that he took up the slack while Matt sat next to me bleeding like a Monty Python sketch. But, none of us have ever fixed a ceiling before, so we took it as far as we could and what remained is now staring me in the face.

Charlie is awake now. This is clear to me because I nodded off again and when I awoke, he was laying on top of me.
It’s Monday. January 16th to be exact. One of those dreary, bitter, rainy days when you simply cannot believe the weekend happened already. They say it may snow. People assume I am a snow person because I get so excited at the first snow, but let’s be clear. This does not make me a snow person, it makes me a first-snow person, as in a pre-Christmas-snow person. I love thematic snow, but in my mind all precipitation needs a quantifier. I like rain if it’s “sit-at-home-with-a-book rain.” In other words, all meteorology should be required to fall in line with my moods. That would be nifty. But, today is not one of those days. I would love for it to practically blizzard from November first to New Year’s, but come January 2, I’m ready for the pool to be opened.

Charlie is asking me something.

CHARLIE: Daddy – can I feed Hewo?

Charlie hasn’t learned his r’s yet.

ME: Sure. Go feed Hero.
CHARLIE: Can I give Hewo hew watew?
ME: No I’ll give Hero her water.

So, Charlie gets up to go feed the dog, not rolling off the bed like adults have learned, but rather standing on my nether regions and vaulting off them as a gymnast might at the top of an Olympic routine.

I’ve been concerned about Hero. She has been sleeping inside due to the cold, but she hasn’t been eating very much, just drinking. We’ve tried moistening her food, but she just doesn’t seem interested. She’s getting up there in years. Thirteen. They say that’s ninety-one to you and me and I’ve always wondered who the first guy was to do that math. I hope I get to chew as many tennis balls when I’m that age. Listening to Charlie feed her brings a dichotomy of emotions: warmth because I hear her wagging tail thumping against the floor as Charlie communicates how much he adores her, and stress, because I also hear a mountain of dog food spilling all over the linoleum.

Ergh.

This is one of those moments where I feel the frustration rise up and I sense myself wanting to get angry. It’s ridiculous – and I don’t know why the anger is there. I’ve never struggled with anger before. Not even when drivers cut me off. They’ll flip the finger while I smile like I’ve been cast in a Mentos advertisement. I’ve always been such a jolly individual – VERY jolly – the sort of attitude that Santa Claus and Kelly Ripa’s lovechild might have.

But, lately, I’ve felt the blood randomly boiling. I’ve never flown off the handle at my wife, but just a few months ago, we were at a group party playing one of those games involving colored dice and a random toss did not go my way. You would have thought I was Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Disturbing even for me. I’ve never been much of a rager. I’ve even found that things that rile others don’t tend to get me going all that much. And, that’s what is so bizarre about the recent anger: the bile rises over the most inconsequential things. It’s as if anger is seizing me for anger’s sake.

And I have no earthly idea why.
I’ll probably need to look into that fairly soon.

As I climb into the shower, Charlie is continuing his canine conversation.

CHARLIE: What did you do to your watew, Hewo? Stank!

This is Charlie’s new word.
Stank.
He invented it and utilizes it in places an older individual might reserve for a casual obscenity.
He doesn’t even know what an obscenity is and yet he has invented a temporary replacement.

KAYSIE: When do you think we might fix that ceiling?

It is now Kaysie talking.

And there goes the bile again. Because I know that “when” really means “why not already” and “we” really means “you” which really means me.

It is a fair question, of course, because it has been six months and the ceiling looks horrible. An atrocity of décor. I would prefer for her to ask me a different way, but she has already asked me a different way seventeen times in as many weeks and I still haven’t done it.

I don’t know why I haven’t done it.

I don’t feel particularly capable of fixing the ceiling. I don’t really know where I would start – but I want her approval. So, instead, I fix something else around the house where I am confident I will succeed. I believe this should bring me accolades, but she never asked me to fix that. She asked me to fix this and this is not fixed. So while she is busy pointing to this, I am busy pointing to that.

And the bile rises.

So, our house is currently a series of broken things that I have been asked over-and-over to fix mixed with areas I have upgraded that were not a problem.

I’ve never really known what to do with broken things.

Something over time fooled me into believing that to touch something broken without all the answers would leave it worse than I found it. That I am simply not qualified enough to attempt to mend.

It has developed a state inside of me where I stare at the leg that has been lopped off and reply, “It’s just a flesh wound.”

I’m not certain how it developed, but I have a deep need to be just fine. To not rock the boat or disagree. To convince myself that all despair is fleeting and that all gaping wounds are mere scratches. Band-aids for the bullet holes.
Not for others, of course. If I see that someone is hurting, I will comfort, I will do my best to console, to counsel, to matter.

But not for myself.

I feel that this is wrong and I desperately do not want to pass it on to my children, but I haven’t the foggiest idea how to address the problem. So, I see the cracks.

In my ceiling.
My body.
My marriage.
My faith.

And I put on another band-aid.

As I shower, I sneeze up wood chunks.

This coming Saturday is the Cub Scout Pinewood Derby: the yearly competition where all the Scout Dads carve blocks of wood into tiny automobiles and spit lava out of their nostrils while cheering on their son’s entry to victory. I have spent most of the weekend attempting to fashion rectangles of termite-food into champion racers. It isn’t exactly working. I’m like Gepetto without the fairy. When announced, I assumed this event would be a charming little January diversion. I had no idea the only way to place would be to engage in massive quantum physics. To see some of the fathers put winning entries together, you would think it had been their doctoral thesis. Where did they learn this? Did I miss a retreat? This is the sort of father/son event I longed for when our children were born. However, I am neither mechanical nor crafty so my miniature automotive creations tend to drag a little in the race. They don’t win anything. And everybody wins something. If you don’t win one of the ribbons for first through twelfth place, there are always the awards for “most creative,” “most colorful,” “clearly built by a child,” “remained intact,” “smells slightly like wood,” and “well, it was a nice thought.”

We win none of these.

But that doesn’t keep me from making my best effort. Jackson wanted his car to look like a rocket with a little man seated in the cockpit. I tried to explain that this would slow the device down. He stated that he did not care. I retorted that the whole point was to win the race so that he would be happy and other children would exchange their father for me. This did not seem to matter to him, though I’m certain it will matter more come Saturday when the same family that won last year walks away with eight ribbons and a signing-bonus with NASCAR.

Morgan and Jackson are awake now. I know this because Morgan, my 8-year-old, is singing at the top of her lungs in the living room and Jackson, my 6-year-old, is verbalizing his every thought while following me around:

"Guess what Dad you know what you know what you know what I figured
out level seventeen on my game my video game that I’m going to invent
from my movie my movie that I’m going to make when I’m grown up and
I work for you and you die and I get your office the Everythingman movie
about the superhero who can do everything except he gets weak when he’s
around electricity and his enemy is made of electricity and it’s just like
cool movies only Everythingman’s got a Bible verse on his shirt and level
seventeen is a BOSS level and the BOSS’ name is “Dark” and Everythingman
beats the BOSS and it’s all in a volcano can you believe that guess what."

The story then loops back to its beginning and continues infinitely like a snake swallowing its own butt. Jackson is truly imaginative and I know this because it is rare that I am able to pull him out of his imagination. I do love this. After all, he is the spitting image of his old man in this regard. I mean, yes, I could do without his continual excitement over seizing my office when I’m dead, but other than that, I am flattered that he wants to pursue the same creative profession. I’m certain he won’t change his mind. After all, he is six. The career path heavy-lifting is clearly complete.

Morgan, on the other hand, has a new career path every seventy minutes. Right now, she is determined to be a country singer. Last night: a gymnast. By lunch, a missionary. There may be a way to maximize all three into the same occupation – and if there is, Morgan would love to star in the reality series.

KAYSIE: Honey?

Kaysie is calling me. Normally, she would be asking me if I would like for her to make me something for lunch. She is a bit of a superwoman this way. On top of all the other details she needs to take care of each morning as a home school mom, she continues to take care of my details as well. However, today her tone does not sound like it is suggesting soup or sandwich. It sounds like something is wrong.

KAYSIE: Honey? There’s something the matter with Hero’s water.

I make my way into the garage to see what all the commotion is about. My wife and three children are standing over the dog bowl. Hero, on the other hand, is laying peacefully beside it.

The water is red.
We circle around it and stare.
Red.
Red water.

Which means, either the ten plagues are making a comeback, or something is desperately wrong with my dog.

------------------------------

One year from now, I will be momentarily hopeless.
I will be reeling from the chain of events that began a year prior.
Yet, I won’t be able to pin-point an exact moment, an apex or half-life where it all turned around.
I will make great attempts to find this moment in question, but it will be futile because, to be honest, the moment doesn’t really matter all that much.
I will believe that it matters a great deal because I will reach a point of despair
where my life path seems irreversible – where I will be unable to drudge through the black cloud and see any chance of change.
But, that is because the change on the other side of the ice storm looks unlike anything I have seen before.
For a moment, however, it will seem like the very end.

And in many ways, it will be.

The clock begins now.

------------------------------

The real sign that something is wrong with Hero comes when I make my best attempt to load her into my SUV. Normally, the moment I open the door, she leaps inside before I can stop her – but this time, she cannot muster the strength to pull her body weight up into the vehicle. I try to grab her, two legs at-a-time (she is not a small canine), loading her front, then back. Not only is this ineffectual, but I now have to explain to my neighbor why I was holding up the back legs of my pet while her front half clung to the car. As I grip her entire torso, she yelps in pain. I am assuming that the bleeding from her mouth is some sort of gum disease, but find this inexplicable as we just took her to the dog dentist a few weeks back and he said nothing about any major damage. If her teeth are hurting, it would certainly explain why she has not been eating much the past few days.

Finally, Hero is in the car. She sits in the backseat, happy to be along for the ride. I roll the back window down half way so that she can eat the breeze. This is what she does. As the wind comes whipping at her face, she tastes at it with her mouth as if she loves the sensation so much that she just has to take a bite. Either that, or she’s catching bugs.

I arrive at the veterinarian and explain what we have discovered. She agrees that this is more than likely gum damage and that they didn’t catch it when they last cleaned her teeth because she could have cut her gums on a bone or chew toy. She is, after all, getting up there in years.

Ninety-one, I remind them.
Yes, they concur.
This seven-years-to-one ratio thing has really caught on.

I drop her off as one would the kids at the pool and I make my journey to work.

As I get my computer bag out, I see that there are droplets of blood all over the back seat of the car. I try very hard for this not to exasperate me. I tell myself that her suffering is far more important than my anal-retentiveness. I also tell myself that her important suffering could have just as easily dripped on newspaper instead of my upholstery. I am internally spazzing. I scrub for a good fifteen minutes before I finally get inside the office (an hour late due to all of the dog business) and start actual work.

My business resides in a four-story red brick locale on the periphery of downtown Tulsa. Across the street from the park where the city launches its annual Fourth of July fireworks, it provides an excellent view out of my office, which is windowed on three of the four walls. I face out toward the window to write, just like I did in my bedroom growing up – only back then, it was a manual typewriter and gazing at a greenbelt. One of the two walls houses a myriad of music and books from which I gain inspiration – the other: a collage of artwork from my children intermingled with design elements from projects past, present, and hopefully future. I am often asked what I do, and this is a complicated question. The obvious answer is that I create media for all sorts of reasons, but the real answer is that I am searching for meaning through the things that make me tick. As is true for anyone, I have very specific talents. I daily throw these talents at opportunities, hoping that at some point one or a few will stick to my heart. I don’t really know what satisfaction is supposed to feel like. I’ve never felt it before. I’ve just been told that I must feel it. For example:

It must feel very satisfying to have accomplished that.

To which my answer is:

Sure.

Many projects I have worked on over the years have resulted in thousands upon thousands coming to know Christ and in this, I am honored. But, I don’t personally witness or experience this occurrence, so more often than not I am left wondering if it is real. The side I tend to experience are the arguments and disgruntled individuals that pound the table to get what they think that they want. Somehow, on my end, this doesn’t feel like ministry.

So, the question arises: does effective ministry really have anything to do with how I feel about it? For something to work, do I have to glean benefit? Do I need to be fulfilled?

It’s Monday, which means incessant meetings: producer meeting, production meeting, project meetings. I scurry to get my reports together and am just about to exit my office for the conference room downstairs when the phone rings.

THE VET: Mister Steele?
ME: Yes. This is Mister Steele.
THE VET: This is the vet. We’re terribly sorry.
ME: Why are you terribly sorry?
THE VET: We missed something when we last checked Hero.
ME: Missed something?
THE VET: She does not have gum disease.
ME: Well, that’s good.
THE VET: No, it’s not good. It’s not good at all because she has something much worse.
ME: What does she have?
THE VET: Mister Steele, Hero has throat cancer.

There is an interminable silence on both sides of the phone. I am confused. I had not thought through this sort of result.

ME: I don’t understand. You said it was gum disease.
THE VET: We said we thought it was gum disease, but it is not gum disease. It is throat cancer.
ME: Maybe you just think it’s throat cancer.
THE VET: Mister Steele, we are certain.
ME: Well, you just checked her out a few months ago. It must be in the early stages.
THE VET: I know we checked her recently, but it was not there then and it is there now.

I think this is all a ploy. Like when the guy fixing your car says you need a new carburetor when really, there’s a branch stuck in your undercarriage.

ME: Fine. I get it. How much money are we talking?
THE VET: Money? We’re not talking money, Mister Steele. She cannot be fixed.
ME: I don’t understand.
THE VET: Any surgery we do would only make her more comfortable for the time being. But, she is very old, and probably would not make it through the surgery anyway.
ME: Are you telling me that she is not going to make it?
THE VET: We’ll make her as comfortable as we can here until the end.

I stare at the phone. Literally stare at the phone. As if time will stand still or the words that escape me will appear momentarily printed on the receiver – or as if the words spoken will be taken back, afraid from my cold stare, forcing their way through the phone line back into the mouth of the veterinarian who will suddenly realize the lie that those words were and will state instead that my dog is fixed and ready for me to come pick up. But, the staring does nothing.

ME: Forget it. I’m taking her home.
THE VET: Mister Steele?
ME: We’ll work it out some other way.
THE VET: Mister Steele. Please. She may not make it through the day.

She went on to tell me that there were three ways of doing this: 1) letting nature take its course at home, 2) letting them put her to sleep immediately, or 3) letting them give her drugs so that we could come and say goodbye before they put her to sleep. I can’t imagine never seeing her again but, neither can I imagine taking my children in to see their beloved pet with full knowledge that it is the very last time.

This isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen. I’ve only been this emotionally connected to a pet one other time in my life. As a boy, we owned a collie named Lady and she lived with our family for over eleven years. When it was her time to die, she didn’t let us say farewell. Instead, she ran away to never be seen again. This was incredibly difficult, but at least the last time I laid eyes on her, I had no idea it would be the last time. I was not required to deal with parting words.

I call Kaysie and we discuss the options, all negative in our opinion.

We realize there is no other way to do this than let the kids know and allow them to make the decision themselves.

I hear sobs.
Absolute sobs in the background.
They want to see her again, even though it is just one more time.

I go back home and pick up the family. We ride to the vet in relative silence until Morgan speaks first.

MORGAN: Dad?
ME: Yes, sweetheart?
MORGAN: I’ll bet she gets better.
ME: Uh.
MORGAN: I’ll bet they’re wrong.
ME: Morgan, Hero is very old and she’s in a lot of pain. It sounds like it’s her time to go.
MORGAN: But, they could be wrong. We should pray for God to heal her.

And there it is.
Things begin to get very very sticky.
Charlie just stares out the window. Gazing into the cold rain.

How does one explain this to a child – and where does the theology indeed need to go? I wrestle. Can my sweet innocent children grapple successfully with the fact that the dog may not be healed by a desperate prayer and yet that does not cancel out God’s goodness? For most, the answer is simple: she’s just a dog. But, in my kids’ perspective, she is so much more. She is of grave importance. And the thought that what is of enormous significance in their lives would not be valuable to God is an awful lot for their single-digit minds to wrestle through.

I tell myself that this is the only problem.
That the children cannot process this well.
But, it might as well be myself.

What do I do with the idea of death and loss? Yes, in the literal “physical life ends” sense, but also on a much deeper level: the kind of loss where one lives to suffer on. And a large part of the lump in my throat comes from seeing Charlie in the rearview mirror. Happy, unwavering Charlie cannot pull the corners of his mouth up. And I think to myself…

No. It is too soon. This damage is too soon. I want the unpolluted Charlie at least a little longer. I don’t want doubt and fear and sadness to ease in just yet. I’m not ready for him to start becoming me.

I remember being Morgan’s age and laying in bed awake for hours, the fear of death throttling me by the throat. I was never really afraid of dying myself. I was terrified of significant others being torn away from me. What if I woke up and my mother or father were gone forever? What if one of my brothers was killed? I began to picture Jesus standing outside our front door at night, guarding the entryway as death snuck in a back window I had forgotten to close. Faith had become a protection against the scenarios found in those horror movies we would watch by jamming the cable knob while Mom and Dad were at prayer meetings.

And now, as an adult, time after time my family has been forced to address major crisis. Crazy wild stuff. These are fresh on my mind because I’ve been doing a lot of radio interviews this month for my last book, which chronicles bouts I’ve had with some of the most bizarre physical maladies in recent memory. Most of the radio interviewers ask the same thing:

When did you first realize that you have bad luck?

Bad luck? I had never seen my life that way. In my opinion, all lives are filled with lame and glory and some people just choose to see one or the other instead of the collision of both. I have made my best attempt to see it all in order to figure out how it can all make me a better man.

But, bad luck? Hmm.
I don’t believe that.
But, it has caused me to doubt a bit. Especially in moments where my beloved dog, who just had a mouth check-up a matter of weeks ago, is suddenly dying from throat cancer. And so – I pray.

I have the sort of prayer life where I talk to God constantly – all day long, in fact. This must come from my childhood and it means that I have a comfortability with God. It does not mean that I have new information. I’ve spent a great deal of time praying for things to happen or to not happen – for situations or events or people to be fixed. Of course, the definition of fixed was mine. I understood that I was not the best barometer for what needs to be done in this life, but I also believed that if it was important enough to me and if I was belligerent enough to God, the answer to that algebraic formula would mean that God would feel obliged to do something about it.

Sometimes He did. Sometimes He didn’t.

Once, when I was about seven years old, I needed ten dollars for something. I have no idea now what it was, but the ten dollars might as well have been ten unicorns. I prayed anyway. A few days later, I found my baby book under a stack in my closet. As I flipped through, I found a card that a family friend had written to me the day I was born. When I opened the card, ten dollars fell out. This was an extremely formative moment in my faith. It did not convince me that Jesus wanted me to have more material things, but it did make me believe that God could see and hear me. To me, that ten spot was God saying, “I notice you.”

He always says something back.
But, it isn’t always what I want.
So, I don’t always believe it is Him speaking.

This is the concept I have the most difficult time with. It is the concept of complete surrender. I have, in different seasons, subscribed to one of two camps: the first being what I would label “surrender plus”: a version of what appears to be complete submission to God mixed with moments of doing what I want to do anyway. At other times, I have resigned myself to “surrender anyway.” My wife and I have a very close friend named Susan who lives this credo. Her son, Logan, died as a teenager of leukemia and we had all prayed so hard and shed so many tears, it was a literal shock when rescue did not come. If anyone in my life has ever had reason to deny surrender, it is Susan. But, she has chosen a different path. It is a path of daily wrestling, yes. But somehow that wrestling match has changed Kaysie and I as we have observed in awe. Susan doesn’t serve God because everything has gone her way or because He has answered all of her crises-laden entreaties. She serves Him in spite of the chaos, tragedy, and unanswered conundrums. She surrenders anyway. And we are not the only ones watching her.

It doesn’t help the dilemma to see that my daily Bible reading is a passage from the book of Job. I wouldn’t normally recommend such a despairing portion of the Bible during the bleak midwinter, but I am attempting to read the entire Bible through chronologically this year. Whoop-dee-doo, that means Job comes early. And right now, I am in chapters 20 and 21, smack in the middle of ultimate misery. Every earthly thing that held value to Job has been stripped away and Job’s friends are trying to make sense of it. But, some things just can’t be made sense of. His friends keep attempting to get him to chipper up, making their best attempts at explanation, but as Job exclaims at the end of what I just read: “How can you comfort me? All your explanations are wrong!” (Job 21: 34 NLT)

Fortunately, these chapters are balanced out with my daily New Testament assignment, which today is Matthew chapter 11. Jesus has been healing the sick and the lame and raising the dead and needless to say, it is causing quite the commotion. But the people keep doubting anyway.

So, in Job, people just like me doubt because God is doing nothing.
And in Matthew, people just like me doubt because God is doing everything.

But, there are other people besides the ones who doubt and question. There are also the ones He heals. To those He heals, Jesus says this:

“Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke fits perfectly, and the burden I give you is light.” Matthew 11: 28-30 NLT

But to those who doubt, He says this:

“O father, Lord of Heaven and earth, thank you for hiding the truth from those who think themselves so wise and clever, and for revealing it to the childlike.” Matthew 11: 25 NLT

So I ask myself the obvious question: Am I the doubter or the weary? They both go through the exact same life crap, but some find answers while others find disillusionment – and the difference seems to be found in their own personal take on the matter. A provocative thought, yes – but it does not bring me any closer to knowing what I should say to my children about the impending death of their dog.

The problem in the crux where prayer meets tragedy is that so many people claim to have the utmost teaching on the subject. But, it seems that those individuals find the Scripture passage that best reinforces their own belief and then ride that sucker to the ground. As is true of any subject, what the Bible has to say in regard to it is not neat and tidy. It is not one-dimensional. Yes, the Bible states the following clearly:

"…When two of you get together on anything at all on earth and make a prayer of it, my Father in heaven goes into action. And when two or three of you are together because of me, you can be sure that I'll be there." Matthew 18: 18b

And also this:

“But Jesus was matter-of-fact: "Yes—and if you embrace this kingdom life and don't doubt God, you'll not only do minor feats like I did to the fig tree, but also triumph over huge obstacles. This mountain, for instance, you'll tell, 'Go jump in the lake,' and it will jump. Absolutely everything, ranging from small to large, as you make it a part of your believing prayer, gets included as you lay hold of God." Matthew 21: 21

These are very exciting. “Anything at all” and “huge obstacles” are exactly what we want our prayers to change. But, that isn’t all the book has to say. It also says this:

“Going a little ahead, he fell on his face, praying, "My Father, if there is any way, get me out of this. But please, not what I want. You, what do you want?" Matthew 26: 39

This changes things a bit. For we would rather keep the part about praying for “anything” but discard the part about “not what I want, but what do You want.”

And there is much more…

"The world is full of so-called prayer warriors who are prayer-ignorant. They're full of formulas and programs and advice, peddling techniques for getting what you want from God. Don't fall for that nonsense. This is your Father you are dealing with, and he knows better than you what you need.” Matthew 6: 7a

So perhaps the big question is not “Why does prayer work sometimes and not work other times?” or “Why do bad things happen to good people, even though they pray?” Perhaps the big question is “What is prayer really for?” We are quick to believe (hope) that prayer is for all of the magical things that prayer does if we think we can figure out the secret code. But, all of these passages (and all of the others on the subject in the Bible) would insinuate that these are mere by-products of a healthy prayer life. That prayer is not, in fact, FOR getting and solving.

Prayer’s purpose is for me to know God.

Real relationship. Real communication. For me to have this unprecedented two-way conversation with my Creator for the purpose of understanding Him better. Because the more I know Him, the more my prayers will coincide with His business. And the more the words out of my mouth are His heart, the more they will have results. So, how do I pray in the mean time?

“Meanwhile, the moment we get tired in the waiting, God's Spirit is right alongside helping us along. If we don't know how or what to pray, it doesn't matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans. He knows us far better than we know ourselves, knows our pregnant condition, and keeps us present before God. That's why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good.” Romans 8: 26

This is me. My pregnant condition. Pain and turmoil without a visible conclusion. But, something is growing – and God assures that it will be worked out for good.

I trust and believe that the Bible knows what it is talking about.

But right now?
As we park the car and begin walking into the building to see our dog for the last time?
It doesn’t seem so good.

MORGAN: What are we supposed to do?

I assure Morgan that Hero will not know. By the time we see her, the veterinarian will have given her pain-killers and she will simply be glad to see all of us.

MORGAN: Can we tell her that she was a great dog?
ME: Yes.
CHARLIE: Can we tell her she was the best dog ever?
ME: Of course.
JACKSON: I think we should thank her for protecting us.
ME: That’s a great idea.

We step inside a small room where Hero is about to be brought in. It is a cold antiseptic quarters, and there are only two seats for the five of us. We are uncertain what to do with our hands. They are suddenly clumsy orbs of stone at the end of our arms. A lump forms in my throat.

WHY?! Why is this rattling me so deeply? For crying out loud, she’s a dog!
But, I know she is more than that.

She is the love I did not have to work for. She is the certain affection that would remain unchanging regardless of how much I changed. That reliable comfort that I would never need give a second thought. Like a footstool. And yet…

A door opens and suddenly, with a burst of joy, Hero trots into the room.

It is as if we have loaded the family up into a time machine. She is spry and smiling. The tail goes mad, slamming against the walls of the cubicle. It’s as if the last five years have disappeared from her history. For a moment, I could picture her running up that mountain.

Suddenly, smiles on all three children. They love on her. Deep love. Laughter as she licks their faces. They are elated. I am thrilled that they are taking this so well until I realize that they are not taking it at all.

MORGAN: I told you Dad! She’s healed! God healed her!

Oh no. The woman vet explains that this is the intense medication. It has taken away all pain, but only momentarily. They wanted us to have the best possible final moment with her. The medication cannot last and the energy and joy we are playing witness to is not, in fact, real.

Now, they are confused.

How can their friend be dying when it is clear by looking at her that she is living more than ever before?

As the half-hour comes to a close, Charlie, who has been most hesitant, speaks:

CHARLIE: Can I hug her?
ME: Of course, Charlie. You can touch her.

Charlie takes her around the body and neck. And I could swear that I see her stare into his eyes.

He looks at her for a while, studying her face, memorizing it – as if he understands that to remember her for life will be a struggle, so he must do the necessary work to reserve her place in his heart. Suddenly, with a choke I have never heard in that boy’s voice, he speaks.

CHARLIE: I wuved you Hewo.

Wuved. Past tense.

He embraces her hard as her wagging tail begins to slow its pace. He holds her, his face scrunched into the nappy fur at her neck. And, as Charlie pulls away, we see them.

Big fat tears.

Not whining or crying for not getting his way, but for the first time in his little life, the big fat drops of water that come right out of the middle of a broken heart. They roll down his cheeks as his lips quiver.

The room heaves with emotion and then, it is time to go.

Kaysie agrees to take the kids out to the car, so each says one final goodbye.
Hero continues to smile and wag that tail.
They back out of the room, wanting every last eyeful they can muster, treasuring each second. And, then the door closes.

I ask the woman when it will happen.

She reassures me that Hero will feel no pain and confirms that as soon as I leave the building, the deed will be done. She decides to give us a moment alone. She exits.

I stare into the eyes of this companion.

Hero. You’ve done a good job. You protected our family. You did what you were made to do. Your job is over now. You need to know that. Your job – it’s finished – and you did good. You can go home now.

The woman opens the door and takes her away, out of my sight and reach. I ask if she will please call me on my cell phone when it is over. She says that she will.

I return to work and attempt to focus, staring every thirty seconds at my non-ringing cell phone. She said she would call. Why doesn’t she call? The day comes and goes and still, no call. I begin to reason with myself, perhaps they realized a mistake. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as they thought and they have worked out a loophole. I drive home at the end of the day and am just putting away my things when my cell phone rings. I see that it is the vet, so I step out into the backyard to take the call.

ME: Yes?
THE VET: Mister Steele? I see that you have left several messages.
ME: Um, yeah. You said you would call to let me know when Hero had passed?
THE VET: Yeah.
ME: Yeah, you called?
THE VET: Yeah, she’s passed.

I stare down at the ground, holding the phone to my ear in silence. I hear the woman on the other line blathering on about the details, but my eyes are filling with tears. My vision is getting cloudy. All I can see is that hole under the fence that Hero was digging. I was so angry at her. She was digging furiously. Trying to escape.

Trying to get out.

Get out.
Get out.



She finally did.






Stank.

HLDA SNEAK-PEEK #2: chapter one "LOVE OF THE DOG"

LOVE OF THE DOG

Without a care in the world.

These are words that describe me as I lean back into a particularly warm square foot of my yard, easing into the June sun. I have crosswords in hand and the smell of donuts nearby. My wife, Kaysie, is convincing a stranger to purchase a ten-year-old alarm clock set on a table in our driveway. It is early summer 2005, and I am basking.

Basking in the warmth of the weather, basking in the thought that the most soul-sucking parts of this God-forsaken garage sale are almost over, and basking in the thought that my dog is resting peacefully at my feet. Basking at the sheer joy of it all – of life, of this moment.

In three hours, all of that is going to change.

But, for the time being, I suckle a Krispy Kreme while Hero (the dog) licks my ankle. I have no earthly idea why the ankle. This is just the sort of thing that dogs choose to do. Their love is gross. Especially hers. Most assume my dog is a he because of the Die-Hardesque name. But she is not. She is a girl. No one believes this because she is big and dark and has a name that insinuates she has just given a smaller dog CPR. But she is a she nonetheless. This doesn’t mean that others don’t keep up the argument.

ME: She.
THEM: What? You mean he.
ME: Hero is not a he. Hero is a she.
THEM: But heroes are “he”s.
ME: Shakespeare freaking invented the name Hero and it was for a she.
THEM: Your dog’s named after Shakespeare?
ME: No. No. No. That would be a sissy thing to do. My dog is named after one of Shakespeare’s imaginary women.
THEM: I thought all the women in Shakespeare were played by men.
ME: Yes. All of them except my dog.
THEM: How can you be certain?
ME: Because this isn’t “The Crying Game.”
THEM: You should’ve named her “Lady.”
ME: She’s not a lady. She’s a dog. That would be like naming your grandmother “Buffalo.”
THEM: Are you saying my grandmother’s fat?
ME: Not at all. I’m saying that buffaloes are bad cooks and smell like hand sanitizer.
THEM: All I’m saying is that you should’ve given her a more feminine heroic name than just Hero.
ME: There are feminine names more heroic than Hero?
THEM: If you put a little thought into it.
ME: Okay wise guy. What would you have named her?
THEM: Sarah Connor.

It was mere hours ago that I was rousing myself from the eighty-seven minutes of slumber a husband gets the evening prior to a garage sale. Now, I am witnessing a subculture of Midwest Americana that I did not know existed. They are the morning-dwellers who hunt mercilessly for dime-priced tchotchkes no human has ever or will ever find use for.

Used batteries.
Books that have clearly fallen into the toilet.
Remote controls that don’t come with anything to control.
Headless Barbie.
One chopstick.

They purchase these items in Sam’s Club quantities. I believe we have sold three hundred coat hangers. I repeat: coat hangers. And at least eighty-seven of them had the little white cardboard tube at the bottom broken in half. I am having difficulty deciding which is more troubling: the fact that someone would need 300 more coat hangers, or the evidence that my clothing is hefty enough to damage 87 of them permanently.

I am not a fan of garage sales because, once bought, I consider items very personal. I do not want to purchase, or even browse, anything that an unknown person has man-handled in the privacy of their home. This is because, though items have a designated purpose, people are bizarre and they tend to use items for Undesignated purposes. That butterfly net may have captured a rabid hamster. That suit may have been soiled in front of the President. And yet, strangers are snapping up bathing suits, bed sheets, old mattresses, a plunger – and what could very well be the most personal item of all…

Mix-tapes.

I spent many years courting Kaysie with my uncanny mix-tape abilities. My music awareness is widespread and my collection is vast. I spend an unhealthy amount of thought considering not just what song I adore, but what song would sound both perfect and unexpected preceding and following that song. I have made her mix-tapes that covered the gamut from declaring my love to celebrating a road trip. From chilling out on a snowy day to anticipating morning sickness. It’s practically my love language. A twofer of Wilco and Beck is preceded by Lizz Wright and followed by the Love Boat theme and somehow this makes a day practically perfect in every way.

One of my favorite mixes ever was from 1994 (the year we were married). The track list went like this:

1. My Sharona (The Knack)
2. Brother (Toad the Wet Sprocket)
3. Cantaloop – Flip Fantasia (US3)
4. “The Brady Bunch” Greg soundbite
5. Evenflow (Pearl Jam)
6. Get Ready for This (Jock Jams)
7. Crazy (Seal)
8. Tempted (Squeeze)
9. Got No Shame (Brother Cane)
10. Maniac (Michael Sembello)
11. Sweetest Thing (U2)
12. Return to Innocence (Enigma)

...and so on.

She loved that tape. Every minute of it was constructed with care and love and each brief moment of anticipation regarding what song would come next was followed by the satisfying sense that the tape-mixer knew the listener inside and out.

Just like life should be.

And, unless I’m mistaken, we just sold that tape to the fellow walking away with our old headboard.

Wow. Hero is really going to town on my ankle. Perhaps it’s lunch. I cannot complain. I mean, I could – and I do. I do complain about the dog. I don’t know why. She adores me and lives only to comfort me. As a matter of fact, I expect that her life would be quite meaningless without the constant need to coddle me. She has the loyalty of a concubine and absolutely no respect for personal space. Her joy comes only from providing me joy. And I don’t even have to return the favor all that much.

I like this.

Hero did not begin life as my dog. She originally belonged to my brother-in-law. A beautiful black labrador / rottweiler mix (the dog, not the brother-in-law), she was his lone company in some vital years. He had trained Hero from a puppy – running her up Colorado mountain trails, keeping her in shape and refining her into a regal specimen of dogness. When he moved his family to a smaller space in Boston, Hero was passed on to my household, and as I was the only one in the house willing to handle and dispose of feces, my brother-in-law’s Hero became mine. Only, I didn’t have to pay the price for her love. That check had already been written.

Certainly her affection for me is reciprocated, but it is not challenging to do so because Hero has become quite old. When she first joined our household, I ran her and walked her and threw the tennis ball back-and-forth, but time passed and she can no longer move as quickly as me. This truly redefines slow. My brother-in-law owned Hero in the days of sprinting up the hill while I own her in the days of licking whatever is closest.

So, right this moment – the sun, the breeze, the dog – I feel complete.

Well – only partially complete.

For a while now, something has been missing. Or, no – something has lingered. Like an eraser dangling from a string over my life, constantly whisping away the remnants of significant words that might have otherwise pressed to my paper. I cannot fold my fingers around things. I cannot absorb. I almost reach epiphany repeatedly only to have something significant sift out. It is a strange place.

It is important to me that I love those around me – that I take care of them, but lately I have felt my love slipping – as if it is taking no thought for what might be unique about the recipient. I would be quick to make one laugh or engage with an encouraging word, but it would never cross my mind to feed them, truly grieve with them, or help move their furniture. My love – my outreach – has become a sort of form letter: the same words and motions for everyone regardless of what they might, in fact, need. I have become junk mail.

These flaws are, of course, not evident to me at the moments they most should be. I want to be a good person. Most of the time, I dupe myself into believing that I actually am a good person. I long to lead others to Christ, but MAN, if I don’t have a dickens of a time landing all those good intentions when the decision of the moment comes down to either doing right or taking it easy. It’s one thing to break open the plastic egg of my life and extract the Silly Putty as I dissect my behavior in writing. It’s another to make goodness a habit, because goodness constantly argues with myselfness and myselfness always rips goodness a new one. So, instead, my epiphanies burst forth as I spew all of my flaws and inconsistencies on paper. Lucky you. I’m actually quite charming in person.

It begins to rain. This is a problem as hordes of clothing, books, and furniture are strewn about the driveway and yard unprotected. You would think I would have noticed the stormclouds coming as I am a planner. And yet, sometimes (often) the dark clouds roll in and cover my sunshine while I am otherwise preoccupied with that spaghetti smudge on my collar.

We scurry to cover what we can, shoving most back into the garage. It is clear that the call has been made. God has canceled our garage sale – which makes sense, because He doesn’t have a use for that remote control either.

There is a reference in the Bible to “the least of these.” It is a place where Jesus tells us that what we do to those that we least consider important in our lives is actually extremely important because it is as if we are doing those things to Jesus. This turns the whole idea of status on its head and is very stressful to people like myself. But, it took me a while to realize that this rule also applies to moments. The pieces of time that we sometimes deem least significant in our own scheme of things are often extremely significant from God’s perspective. In fact, the moments that we think are going to be important tend to be forgotten while a seemingly trivial occurrence may just become the apex of our half-life. In reflection, the most pivotal instances certainly didn’t look like they were about to be when they first hit. For instance, I deemed it extremely insignificant when Kaysie wanted the boxes of clothes put back into our attic. But, in the light of this entire story, it was extremely significant.

I did not want to return the clothing to the attic.

I know this because I had prearranged multiple excuses to keep me from having to do so. But, Kaysie wanted them separated and stored. This stems from the fact that Kaysie wants events maximized while I want them to finish. I am fueled by reflecting on something that is over while she is energized by things potentially never ending. And now, there is hot and rain and tired and all of the elements that should mandate my easier options.

But, no.

There is future money to be made by re-storing, re-discovering, re-arranging, re-pricing, and re-garage-selling these items that we just finished storing, discovering, arranging, pricing, and garage-selling. I do my best to argue this point. But, I lose.

MARK: You want me to what?
KAYSIE: Simply put those back in the attic.
MARK: You say “simply” as if you’re asking me to move a q-tip. Are we staring at the same twelve boxes?
KAYSIE: I know it’s a lot of work but I was up until 2:37 this morning pricing 300 coat hangers individually, so the least you can do is carry them up one flight of stairs.
MARK: I was up until 2:37 watching you price coat hangers while I paper-cut my finger on that box of Ho-Ho’s.
KAYSIE: Please just do this.
MARK: OR I could simply throw them in the van and dump them at the Salvation Army. Then, there would be less lifting and more salvations.
KAYSIE: You’re going to need salvation if you don’t put these boxes in the attic.
MARK: I think I just had a come-to-Jesus moment.

So, I will box all of the items back up and carry them upstairs into the sauna of our attic – even though I have a headache – even though I am angry because my mix tape has been sold to a stranger – and even though I have finger and back soreness.

Because I love my wife.

And because I am a husband.

------------------------------

Kaysie and I met in the middle of one of those warehouse churches that look like they are desperately trying to avoid the appearance of a church. You’d be less surprised to discover a sale on a twelve-pack of salsa in that aisle than you would be to find a hymnal. It was ten o’clock at night and she was finishing up music practice. I had just driven the twelve hours in for a job and I was laying down on a row of seats (not pews – that would look like a church, wouldn’t it). My hair was as long as it has ever been, down to the small of my back – which for me was never exceptionally small. I was worn and certainly grumpy and somehow at that moment introduced to her.

She was not impressed.

In my defense: it was late, I smelled of Mazda, and I looked like Billy Ray Cyrus collapsing of exhaustion at the end of the official Achy Breaky Dance. It would not have been plausible to impress her. She reminds me of this even now, almost twelve years later as if to say “see how much you impressed me eventually,” or perhaps to say “you almost didn’t get me,” or possibly to say “you smell like that now.”

It wasn’t until we met the second time that things heated up.

And by “heated up,” I mean that she was not impressed the second time either.

I returned to lead a group of junior high students on a mission trip six months later only to discover – lo and behold – that I had been paired up with Kaysie to co-lead. It doesn’t take a Rorschach test to discover that the only thing I enjoy less than co-leading is co-leading with a stranger, so I was all-business and very little personality. By the time we loaded the bus for the all-night drive across the border, Kaysie was not my biggest fan.

This was a problem for me because in the Midwest, I was an actor and a stand-up comedian and I had what a desperate person might call fans. Not real ones. Just frightening ones. The sort of individuals that flail towards me at the mall in a sprint, skin-folds flapping like Old Glory. But their love was easy. In a crowded store, they might call my name out, which would please me because people who were not crazy might hear this and decide that they wanted to be my fans also. I highly recommend fans: tons of attention without any genuine knowing. And the adoration will continue even if you never see the individual again. No risk on your part – just tons of ego-stroking. You might even get your ankle licked.

So, it was difficult for me that Kaysie did not choose to be my fan. What had gotten into her? Didn’t she know all the important things I had done with my life? The jokes, for instance. Didn’t she know there were dozens of (potentially two) other girls who would kill for a date with the guy they thought I was, however incorrect the assumption? I was certainly put-out. Kaysie had been assigned as my co-leader, which meant that she should be, on some level, asking for my autograph. But, NO.

We arrive in Mexico after an exhausting all-night drive (these are becoming de facto in my life), but despite hunger and heavy eyelids, we decide to have a worship service in my favorite room on the planet.

The room is located at Hogar de Ninos Emmanuel, an orphanage at the top of one of the tallest hills in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. The church built a meeting room at the tallest corner of the building, two of its walls’ windows facing the city of El Paso and the mountains. The room is always surrounded with the clang and clatter of the orphan children, laughing and living their days toward an unknown something. And, in the dark of night, you can look out those windows and see the lonely lights of two nations blending together. The intersection of sorrow and hope. It is a powerful place. And, whenever I have taken groups there, God meets us in that room.

Then again, maybe He is always there and He is waiting for us to come meet Him.

We turned down the lights and due to a lack of both an instrument and talent to play an instrument, worshipped with only our voices. I would love to say that the worship was anointed, but that would be avoiding the fact that few in the room knew the words to the songs. This encouraged an awkward combination of humming and mumbling with an occasional whispered, “yes Lord” to cover where one perhaps knew most of a chorus, but was missing a word. I, on the other hand, simply mouthed the names of farm produce. But, either way, it was the opposite of bombast. Still and quiet. We sang song after song until finally – a moment of silence.

Heavy silence. Like something was happening.

I, being the resident moron, decided to break the silence with a song. Couldn’t tell you why. Maybe I felt led by God. Maybe I felt the silence was awkward. Maybe just a bad taco. But nonetheless, I began: voice only, with one of my favorite refrains.

Oh God You are my God
and I will ever praise You
I will seek You in the morning
and I will learn to walk in Your ways

And as I sang, Kaysie heard an audible voice speak to her.

You first must understand that we are not those freaky-deaky “the spirit summoned a leopard and put him under my shirt so I must ROAR” sort of followers of Christ. Kaysie and I have seen so much and been disillusioned by so many people (including ourselves) in our walk towards Christ, that we would be very hesitant to jump to the conclusion that the voice in a head is definitely God. But, this was unmistakable. It was the farthest thing from her mind. She was simply standing there silently loving God – and He dropped the bomb.

"You can’t live without this man."

Wowzers. Me likey when He gets detailed. Tears start pouring down Kaysie’s face and I assume I have kept her awake too long against her will. She begins to wrestle down these thoughts with God as I send the group to bed. Kaysie remains silent. And we head off to our respective floors until morning.

The sun rises early on that high hill, but we rise ahead of it, beginning our first day of rebuilding portions of the orphanage with a time of prayer. We converge in the same great room and now look out over the horizon to see how these two cities intermingle in the daytime.

I am tired. The room is silent. I have my coffee. I am staring out the window at an ice cream truck selling propane to the tune of a musical horn playing La Cucaracha.

I sip my java and mouth something indiscernible that I hope by sheer will becomes a prayer for someone. And then suddenly…

The voice.

"You can’t live without this woman."

This concerns me as all the women in the room are twelve-years-old.
But I instantly know who is speaking – and who He is speaking of.
I freak out. I remain silent. I say nothing.

This marked our relationship for years. A deep knowing, a certainty that we are for one another. As a matter of fact, as the Juarez Legend of the Steeles grows, we revel in others’ fascination with us – their joy that our discovery of one another was so effortless – so pain-free. The world deems us made-for-each-other and to this day, I know that we were.

But, neither of us realized how long we rode that label before we attempted to truly understand one another. We loved others’ ideas of our perfection so much and for so long that it did not dawn on us that perhaps there was a great deal of work to be done. Perhaps the perfection was actually just a dodging of the issues.

I, of course, was willing to dodge. Because I needed a fan.

I wanted someone who believed she was created for me and that our union was some miraculous intervention of the Almighty. Something that epic would mean that I was special and that she was lucky. I would be validated and our union would be a symbol of happiness for those poor slobs who make up the rest of the world.

I wanted to be better than them.

And that was the real problem: our love was not as much rooted in a willingness to work through whatever hardships may come in the future as much as it was a goal to never have any hardships at all. We wanted our love to be safe. And so, we took the beginning of that love as a sign that all future days would be as equally orchestrated to perfection as the first one.

Our love, our affection, our story – it was envied. And I never realized how deeply I reveled in all of it. For the longest time, people had been fans of my comedy. But, now they were fans of my romance. It was like a good fantasy book they could curl up with and daydream about how their life might potentially wedge into something similar (but paling in comparison).

So, we played it up. The perfect proposal. The perfect wedding. The perfect couple. And then, real life began.

Nothing wrong with real life, of course. That is, unless you have already decided it would never happen to you.
Don’t get me wrong. I adore my wife, and I always have. But, something inside me thought marriage would be like the love of the dog.

------------------------------

Hero hates this part of every evening when I close her inside the garage for the night, putting her away like Lincoln Logs to the closet. She wants to be near me, laying close enough to my feet to feel my warmth even though my attentions are elsewhere. It’s enough for her – and yet I don’t allow her to have those moments very often. Normally, I don’t close her in until late when the garage is a bit cooler, but tonight, I have to finish putting these boxes of clothes in the attic. I am attempting to finish out my duties for the day before I fulfill this last task because I am done.

I am exhausted. And not just because I only slept a short while last night.

I find myself waking constantly these days. Three or four times throughout the night. I have done this for years, but lately it is beginning to affect the way I see things. I get very little sleep and I am finding myself stressed, impatient, short-tempered. This is not like me.

For instance, right now.
I’m so tired, I’m practically furious.
I could just spit that after everything I’ve done today, I still have to heave these boxes that are evidently filled with cannonballs into storage.
I could paint myself a little more attractive but it would not be accurate. I am really steamed. I am in one of those “how dare the world expect so much of me” states. Ugh. I lift the next-to-last box of clothes. At least forty pounds. What the heck is in here? The cast of Maude? I turn to grab the other box, but my friend Matt has already chosen to assist.

Sheesh. Why does he do this? Matt is one of those jolly “let me get that for you” leprechaun people. He is always ALWAYS eager to help. I would say this impresses me, but before there is esteem, there is first nausea. Matt is so quick to be like Jesus and it ticks me off because I am NEVER quick to be like Jesus. It is real EFFORT for me. We’re talking prepare-for-several-days-and-write-reminders-on-my-knuckles effort. And then, after I do the thing I didn’t want to do that I felt Jesus wanted me to do – THEN, I feel guilty. As if the only reason I did it was to meet some unspoken criteria or perhaps seem more like Matt. I cannot fathom that selflessness can also be effortlessness because before I give a dollar to the guy panhandling for food, I first make certain I have enough left over for the new Fountains of Wayne CD.

But this time, Matt has chosen to help me. Who am I kidding? He’s been helping me all day. He unloaded the heaviest boxes from the attic this morning. He helped set up all the tables and price all the tchotchkes. He’s more than likely done more than I have. But, that doesn’t stop me from being hacked that I have the heavier of the two boxes. Sure, Matt has a bad back, but I had a bad back in COLLEGE – a nerve pinched in-between a slip disc in my vertebrae, causing me to walk with one leg a few inches shorter than the other for eighteen months. I would bobble back-and-forth, short-then-tall. I looked like Katie Couric holding hands with a Philistine.
The truth is. I do NOT want to put this box away. But, alas, these are my own clothes. My own responsibility.
My own weight to carry.

So, I open the attic door and heave the forty pounds up, blocking my sight as I work my way into the dry heat.

Hero begins howling from the garage.

She does this often. I have always assumed it was a call-and-response to an ambulance siren or perhaps dogs far away indiscernible to the human ear. Dogs can do that, right? Don’t they have a secret spy-hearing capability? It seems I read somewhere that if you whistle high enough, it will cause all the canines in your neighborhood to ram their heads repeatedly into the nearest dumpster.

In retrospect, I believe it is possible that her cries were loneliness. She lay there each night in the dark in solitude on a pillow that smelled of diesel fuel as we lay inside spooning under crisp cool sheets. She was relegated to a virtual prison for ten hours each evening and yet, the moment we opened that door in the morning, there she was – forgiving and ready to begin fresh – well, fresh except for her breath, which always smells of tuna melt sandwich though I don’t believe she’s ever actually eaten one.

Her love is in every way unconditional. Hero loves every single aspect of me and if for some reason on a particular day I smell especially rancid, it only causes her to sniff all the more. Not only does Hero love me just as I am, she actually nuzzles close to the dirty me every bit as much as the clean.
And I love her too, but not the same.

Because I can’t really love me like she does.
It just seems like too much work.

So, the howling continued night after night – and where Hero yearned for one of us to say “I hear you. I am coming,” instead we would yell from our bedcovers, “Shut up you stupid dog!” She began digging holes in the backyard out of boredom – searching for a way under the fence.

And we found ourselves fantasizing for at least one night without the constant howling, the trenches in the yard – the slobber on my ankle.

We began to daydream of a life without the dog.

------------------------------

That trip to Mexico held some hidden doubt.

Kaysie and I had not spoken of it much, but there were many moments in the few days following when we were each separately uncertain if we had indeed heard God.

We were each in a unique place. We were wedged between the moment God spoke and the moment we would take action. Caught between revelation and obedience. This was an interesting predicament, because we had each spent the previous three years praying for exactly such a window.

We were the type who needed proof. Exact names. Clarification.
Neverlost.
And when God granted it, it scared the fool out of us.
This is important to dwell on, because it begins a pattern:
• We ask God to be specific.
• He is specific.
• Because He is so specific, we assume it could not possibly be Him.

What does this mean? It could only mean one thing: that our prayer lives were rooted in requesting what we thought we were supposed to be asking for – but we never really felt like we deserved to receive it.

It was a wake-up call to how guilt-ridden we each were. There was an unspoken deep need – an in-between. In-between the epiphany and the obedience, we expected there to be an additional moment.

The explanation.

We had always expected the big reveal by God Almighty to make perfect sense. We expected resolution before we had to act upon our life trajectory. And now, in the quiet drylands of Juarez, we are each left with a dangling participle of an instruction.

We had requested God to be clear, but we never expected the clarity to be so foggy.

It became apparent that the decision would need to be made on each of our parts even as the lump stuck in our throat. Again, we sought safe and this reality seemed daring.

As I drove back across the Mexico border having not yet verbalized my own God-moment to Kaysie, I knew that my out still existed. I had not hurt anyone yet. I could still walk away. The path towards her was filled with the unknown. Difficulties and negotiations. But the path away from her held only the loss that I had not yet gained. I knew that I could keep my emotions safe forever – not even by saying no – simply by saying nothing.

But, I had sensed what could be.

I sensed, even then, how God could become revelatory to each of us through the other. I saw our future children. I could taste the half-century of ups and downs, hurts and miracles. Being the greatest wound and the greatest joy the other would ever experience. It was daunting. It was not safe.

But it was full.

And so, in a rare moment of clarity, a few days later, I pulled Kaysie to me and whispered into her ear.

"Don’t be afraid of this."

And even then, we both knew that we were going to embrace the many wonderful things that our life would entail – even though there would be plenty of reason to be very very afraid.

------------------------------

I snap back into reality. My mind has been wandering.
What was I doing?
Oh yes. The heat. The box of overweight oompa-loompas. The attic.

I begin to tightrope my way across the two-by-four that bridges the path from the attic entrance to the makeshift plywood floor we have installed for additional storage. I feel myself inches away from being through with this hellish day.

A creak.

My left foot slips.

I throw my right foot down to balance myself out.

I feel myself falling. I think to brace myself with my arms – but they are wrapped around this large box. My stomach dips.

A blur.
An explosion.
And suddenly, nothing but white light.

When I come around, I am sopping wet from head to toe. My body is wrapped around something. Little spikes – no, nails, exposed nails – are pricking me. It takes me a moment to determine what I am seeing.

My bedroom.
Only it is suddenly pink.
And I am hovering above it.

Before I have the chance to assume I am having an out-of-body experience, I realize that I am holding on for dear life to a crossbeam in the ceiling. I have free-fallen and crashed through. There is fiberglass strewn about the floor of the bedroom below me as my feet dangle just shy of the ceiling fan. I hear a voice.

Are you all right?

I turn slightly. It is my wife. She stands next to Matt, who has both hands cupped over his mouth aghast, as if he has just observed the neutering of a pet.

And then, I attempt to move.
It suddenly becomes clear to me what has taken place.
My foot slipped off to the left of the two-by-four I was standing on.
My other foot slipped off to the right.
I free-fell and blew out the roof with my feet.
But, past my legs, nothing else fell through the roof.
Because I was stopped. And where my hands were not free to catch my fall, something else had to stop me.
Another body part.

A pair of body parts.

And with the full force of my own 215 pounds – plus the 40 of the box I was carrying – I crushed myself downward, shuddering bluntly onto the crossbeam, literally slamming every inch of my being against –

…my precious.

As I attempted to uncoil my appendages from the protruding nails sticking out of the crossbeam, I began to fully feel the ache.

Is ache the right word?

Have you ever crushed an egg? Yes?
It was just like that.
Only set the egg on fire.
And then hit it repeatedly with a baseball bat.

Literally dripping from cold sweat, the pulsing intensity of pain was unbearable.
The pain that would mark the next year of my life.

And as I lay there, damaged and broken and counting how many ninja points this stunt would probably be worth, only one thought kept running through my mind.

Now I don’t have to put this stupid box away.

HLDA Sneak-Peek #1: the forward "EVERYTHING DIES"

EVERYTHING DIES

Most authors have writer’s block.
I, on the other hand, have writer’s neighborhood.

I rarely have moments where I am stuck without words. On the contrary, I tend to have far too many to juggle into sense. I get lost within the nooks and crannies of all the different paths between where I currently stand and where I want to go. This, of course, makes sense in my writing because it is also true of my life. The roads are plentiful and seemingly open to my own interpretation. However, the moment I avoid a dark alley in favor of a wide sunny street, that is the moment a meteor fells a redwood into my path creating a startling new detour. My life, therefore, has often become circular: I face the same issues and frustrations over and over. I take a left turn and end up in the roundabout deceiving myself with perpetual movement while I am, in fact, just as stuck as if I were standing still.

To this end, entire sections of my life have cycled around and around to a frustrating conclusion that looked suspiciously identical to the first chapter. Days and weeks and months of intended change fueled by pain and effort fast-forward to an end of the calendar year defined with zero growth. The question begs: what is it going to take for me to transform? I don’t truly comprehend what this transformation should look like, but I do know that I should not come out of the cocoon as a caterpillar.

Everything dies. And to be honest, everything should. Well, everything except the battery in my Toyota Highlander. Certainly I have experienced pain when someone or something dear to me died before I felt ready. But, most of the pain in my life has come from things I kept on life-support long after I should have let them go. This is the problem in question. Not timely death, but rather, playing dead.

In the world of roadkill, there is a creature called the possum (or opossum if you’re Irish) that daily masters the defense mechanism called “playing dead.” Certainly you’ve seen photos. The possum has the ability to let its body instantly go limp with its tongue hanging out like a slug and its eyes skewed cross near the top of its lids. I believe it even emits a smell—of course, it’s just as possible that all possums smell like death to begin with. To all observers, this insinuates that the possum now belongs shoveled into a hefty bag. This keeps enemies away.

I, for one, am grateful that this has not caught on with human beings. Funerals are tragic enough without the individual in the casket hopping to his feet fifteen minutes into the ceremony and yelling to the back of the room, “Is the tax guy gone yet?”
The possum, however, will take this position the moment an enemy or a Volvo crosses its path—and it tends to work quite efficiently. This is because possums believe the failed concept that if you can convince the world that you’re too beaten to live, the beatings of the world will stop.

And I had lived much of my life the exact same way.

I had lost my edge and, at times, my footing.

The myriad of hardships that had walloped my wife and I had tempted us into a regular routine of rolling over, eyes glazed, hoping the antagonists would beat something else that moved more frisky. And so, I faced my next crisis, my next decision, and continued to find myself right back where I started.

My life, as stated, is circular.

Why can’t my life come equipped with a GPS system like NeverLost, a talking navigator with the insight to interfere with my choices? A clear calm voice of a woman that gently nudges me (accompanied by colorful maps) into the exact unforeseen turns on my path towards a perfect resting place. Of course, my optimum NeverLost would need some improvements over the model currently on the market. Something about having an audible voice in my car causes me to relax a little too much, to assume I don’t really need to pay attention to my way because someone else is currently doing so. To this end, when the NeverLost Lady (who, for brevity’s sake, I will call Gwen) states “next turn in 2.9 miles,” my mind begins to wander, wondering why she didn’t just round the total up to three miles and deciding that Gwen must consider herself too good for that sort of thing. How dare she talk down to me and what does she know about math (this digresses for a few moments) until finally, she declares: “You missed your turn; recalculating journey” in that same over-enunciating hooked-on-phonics voice that has a hint of flipping me the finger. She KNOWS it ticks me off. Don’t even go there, Gwen

Oh, the recalculation of the journey. How I know this process well. It isn’t pleasant, the recalculation: the doubling-back and revisiting what was not really all that welcome a visit in the first place. And yet, I (and more than likely you) consistently end up in places I thought I was through with, repeating behavior and frustrations that indicates zero growth has taken place in my life.

This never ceases to perplex me because I WANT to do right. I desire to make correct choices. I made a decision a long time ago to follow Jesus Christ with the entirety of my life. That decision was a joyous moment, but the forty years of follow-through have been less than stellar. There are daily deterrents that attempt to shove me off the side of the road—a myriad of billboard-size distractions that would like nothing more than for me to take an early exit. So, while God continues to say “Wait, Mark. The Grand Canyon is just over the next bend,” I find myself saying, “Maybe, but just 400 yards off this highway I can visit the world’s largest exotic llama farm.”

Perhaps if my NeverLost took a terse attitude in her approach to my direction, I would find myself on a shorter path through the subdivision. If I created the next version (say Gwen 2.0), I would give her a reeeeal voice. Not that Gwen 1.0 doesn’t sound feminine enough. She simply doesn’t have the essence of humanity that I need. She doesn’t warn me five times before the turn with a shrill of RIGHTHERE RIGHTHERE RIGHTHEEEERE because I am distracted.

This is what I crave. Direction, yes. But, direction that is much more direct. Direction that commits and cares how, when, and why I take the turn. With attitude and exclamation points. Multiple exclamation points and perhaps delivered in all-capital letters. Direction that assumes my intentions to find the right path are noble. Still, chances are good that I won’t be paying attention when the right turn cometh. I have a heart after the things of God, but that heart is shrouded in the body fat of my personal distractions. So instead of straightforward, the path circles and circles. Never progressing. Not even halfway.

Ah, halfway: the rest stop that would allow one to reflect on the lessons learned from the climb upward before cascading life’s assumed easier downhill half. Somehow, society has labeled this scenic exit the “midlife crisis,” but so very few of us reach this point having actually journeyed midway. In effect, most of us reach this point facing the same dilemmas as when we started, the only difference being the number of chins.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be measuring the half-point of my life by time at all, but rather by progress. Maybe I’m not searching for mid-life. Maybe what I’m grasping at is my half-life: the apex of my experience where learning turns to application and the circular path finally gives way to the straight and narrow. But, this sort of seminal moment cannot arrive serendipitously. There has to be intention. An exact defining moment or action.

A death.

Up to this point, my life has been separated into two portions: the first lasting thirty-seven years and the latter having started—oh, let’s say last Tuesday. The first of the two portions revolved around a definition of serving Christ where I did my best to become the right person. The predicament at hand was that I was referring to my own definition of what a “right person” should mean. If I could somehow become happy, fulfilled, esteemed, effective, financially stable, popular, at peace, etcetera, then I must be in God’s perfect plan. It was a euphoria-based faith that few would admit to, but most embrace. I convinced myself these desires were selfless because (I reckoned) if I could become this type of person, I would be superhuman for God’s purposes. I would earn the right to be myself.

Myself.

Someone I have always intended to someday become.

It seemed impossible as a young boy living in Roswell, Georgia to earn my way in life, but my friends and I made our best attempt by establishing criteria for adulthood. Okay, maybe adulthood is not the most accurate term. What we were actually aspiring to become was, well, ninjas. We developed a point system, and if the sum total of a single individual ever skyrocketed high enough, that individual would attain NMS (ninja master status) with all rights and benefits therein. As the following chart indicates, it was an extremely complicated point system:

* jumping off someone’s roof 10 points
* jumping off someone’s roof you don’t know 25 points
* jumping off someone’s roof blind-folded 40 points
* waking an angry cat 5 points
* allowing someone to throw sharp objects at you 100 points
* doing yardwork for the pointmaster 120 points
* experimenting with electricity 15 points
* accepting a dare to drink an unknown substance 50 points
* wrestling other children to “the pain” 3 points
* learning to juggle 40 points
* memorizing “99 Luftballoons” by Nena 20 points
* surrendering all monies 95 points

It was my first foray into attempting to deserve my way in life. The pursuit of ninja points seemed innocent enough, but eventually built a monster that needed to outwit, outplay, and outlast in order to become. I was no longer Mark. I was Mark Steele.

To this day, my efforts to become more than the sum of my parts—or at least to seem more than the sum—has stolen much. This will change in the second portion of my life. The second portion is far more profound.

Also, far more painful.

Why? Because I am suddenly sensing variations in the circular cycle. Nuances, yes, but nuances that I just know are going to change everything. A life of twists and turns one would normally reserve for an old towel being rung-out by a Russian woman just before she snaps someone with it in the shower.

I know these twists and turns well.
Because I frequent the fair.

The Tulsa State Fair, to be exact. An event organized by people so brilliant, they believe Tulsa to be a state. I have never comprehended why the fair is called thus, as the word “fair” has multiple definitions, and none of them describe what goes on under the carnival tents in midtown. This citywide bacchanalia of livestock competitions, 80’s rock anthems, and barely-legal thrill rides draws my friends and I on a yearly basis because we are convinced that they ship in people from other planets to attend. I mean, we know at least a thousand people in this town, but come October of every year, they are evidently body-snatched and replaced with slightly pudgier versions who stopped listening to the radio once Whitesnake peaked, wear cut-off t-shirts and sport mullets. Of course, it could be the fair itself that transforms the inhabitants of my community. After all, for a few nights each autumn, we convince ourselves to consume objects called “fatballs.”

This is the renaissance aspect of the fair.

Where other cultures pride themselves on the arts and sciences, we in Oklahoma look forward to discovering new objects to deep-fry. This year, we deep-fried Oreos. The year before that, it was Twinkies and Snickers bars. Five years back, we deep-fried charcoal. Next year, cotton swabs. Yum. Each bite actually eliminates eight months from your life span. I have actually stopped eating the treats and instead, insert them directly into my aorta skipping the middleman. Are you beginning to see how this circular living works?

Though I don’t like my life patterns to rotate, I do enjoy spinning round and round on the occasional midway ride. One year in particular, my friend Matt and I took our families on a ride called The Scrambler. The apparatus itself has the appearance of a spider that doesn’t have the energy to lift its torso off the floor. Each arm holds four cars that spin on that arm’s axis while the four arms spin around the body. If you are the sort to work out the mental math, you would realize what Matt and I realized: that if we sat in different cars attached to adjacent arms, the simultaneous spinning would allow us to pass one another multiple times throughout the course of the ride. Discovering this led us to a natural conclusion: an internal dare. Each time our cars passed, we would fake a high-five.

Not the apex of wisdom in my life.

I strapped myself, my wife Kaysie, and our daughter Morgan into one car while Matt did the same with his wife and son. Once we were buckled in, we tested our plan. We discovered that though we could almost touch, we were not close enough to one another to merit actual contact. This was a good thing. A best-case scenario. For now, we would be able to freak out our wives without any actual danger. We would spin around and around the same paths and patterns throughout the entirety of the ride, reaching towards one another without any real risk as our children fell into hysterics.

But, we did not count on the variations.

Somewhere within the mathematical formulas that involve trajectory and speed, the pain-free distance between Matt and I was bridged.

SLAAAAAM!

My arm batted against Matt’s and then my knuckles bounced off of the side of our Scrambler pod at the speed of a thrill ride. The pain. Deep, pulsating knuckle-to-elbow pain. I could have gnawed my arm off at the shoulder just to eliminate the pain. The sky grew black and the last thing I remembered was a sign reading “keep arms and legs inside vehicle at all times.” I decided that I loathed that sign and that whoever painted it deserved to be deep-fried. I moaned, partially incoherent, while residing in that subtle place where agony and self-loathing intermingle. On fire. My arm was tangibly on fire. Had I glanced down to discover it being consumed by field mice, I would not have been entirely surprised.

Our children were no longer laughing.
Our wives, on the other hand…

Matt and I lip-synched a series of grave profanities in time with the Scorpions song blaring from the speakers of the tilt-a-whirl DJ on the ride adjacent to us while clutching what was left of our appendages. I looked down and realized that my arm was no longer the color of human skin. It was now beet red and bore an exact replica of the outline of Matt’s hand somewhere around the bicep I would have if I were not infatuated with cake.

All because of the variations. We had reached out the same length, each turn, over and over again without allowing for the possibility of actual contact. The nuances changed everything.

So, the question arises of whether or not I am willing to welcome the variations to my circular existence. The variations will bring the beginnings of change—but only with the guarantee of intrigue, danger, and oh yes, great pain.

I suppose this is what has kept me stagnant for so long. I didn’t want to face the pain. I preferred the illusion of safety. I desired a world where my loved ones and myself could become everything we needed to become but without risk.

Answers without arguments.
Lessons without scars.
Character without failures.
Love without work.

I didn’t want to live my path to my final destination. I only wanted to innuendo my way there. Monorail my path. That way, if my perception of the destination was incorrect, I could always save face without having taken actual footsteps.

Safe.
I thought it was my mission. To land there. Keep my wife there. My children.
Safe.
It was the enemy of growth.

The irony is that I never thought I was playing it safe. I had convinced myself that I was a man of tremendous faith because on what could only be called a roller coaster of a life, I consistently raised my hands.

Certainly, you empathize with this action. To trust the thrill ride so deeply that, even when your stomach is sinking, you keep those hands aimed straight for heaven. You may will them down in your mind. You may scream all the while. But, by sheer resolve, and because others are watching, you keep them up. This was me. Always reaching. A tangible expression of faith in the coaster-maker proving that I couldn’t possibly be as frightened as the wet spot on my pants indicated.

But it never dawned on me that faith is not tested on the hill of the thrill ride.
It is not tested on the dips or the loops.
Faith is tested when the coaster disappears into the dark tunnel.

And, just like you, regardless of how many times I have ridden a particular theme park attraction. No matter how often the tunnel opening has proven not to lop off human hands, I cannot help myself. I see the opening. I see the darkness. And something in my heart tells me…

Not this time.

I bend.
My arms retract.

Do I really think for one moment that the maker of the roller coaster has never measured the length of a human arm? Do I believe that a reputable theme park would allow someone to pay a ticket price just to have their digits severed? Are there human remains scattered near the tunnel opening? No. I can trust the coaster-maker to make the tunnel the perfect combination of proven and scary in order to build my faith for the next time I ride. And yet, in my own life, I hesitate to trust when I approach the darkness. I believe that God knows me. I believe that He knows that tunnel. But, I am not fully convinced that He knows me inside that tunnel.

The real truth is,
I don’t know me inside that tunnel.

Which comes as a surprise, because I have always believed myself to be a person of great preparation. I make momentous attempts to think through every scenario and then steady my skills, my mind, and my heart so that nothing can catch me off guard. Perhaps that is the real issue—that I want all of my preparation to be failsafe. I want the nuances and variations, but I do not want those variations to suckerpunch me.

But, the truth is, when I least expect it, the road itself is going to change.

One year of my life—the year you and I are about to share—I came to the first-hand understanding that my circular experience could not be broken without the road changing underneath me. I learned that though change is painful, avoiding it had secured my state of stuck. It was the very reason I had not yet reached the apex of my half-life.

One year would make the difference.
It would not be pleasant. But, it would break the circle.
This book is the story of my changing road and the scars it brought.
The story of my dark tunnel.
The year I stopped being safe.
My half-life.

Everything dies.
This is the year that I did.

And it all begins—and ends—with my hero.