Facebook has been a twitter, er… I guess we need a new phrase.

Point is, Sarah Palin told people to kill people.

Obama said to bring a gun to a knife fight, which, I fully anticipate doing.

Pete Stark won’t pee on my leg, which, well, kinda is a weird thing to say at all.

And George W. Bush said….. something that didn’t make a lot of sense at all.

Anyway. I’m not really writing to write about the crazy right, or the bleeding heart left.  I’m not writing to get into a political debate about Sarah Palin.

Here’s the facts.

People say stupid things.  I know I do.  Do you?  Probably.

So where does that leave us?  Well.  It leaves us, really where it started.  Right?  Be careful what you say.  Someone is looking up to you, learning from you, mimicking you.  They won’t always take your exact advice, sometimes they misinterpret it to the extreme.  Sometimes they’ll ignore it completely.

I’ve been looking to scripture on this subject, especially in light of the recent shootings, and I think it’s been fairly clear on this subject.

Ephesians 4:29 says, “ Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear.”

So, in my mind, it doesn’t really matter who said it, or what action came of it. (ie: whether a shooter was driven by a mix of the crazies/politicians.)  We should just be more careful what we say.  If we’re running around talking about glorifying God with our Country, then we probably shouldn’t put cross hairs over a ‘foe’ and tell my 367,000 (+) followers to ‘reload’, and I certainly shouldn’t say in front of a million people that we should bring a gun to a knife fight.

However…
..
.
And this is the big one.

Sarah Palin has said some mean things, and while I do not agree with her politics, and probably most of her religious views, I know I agree with her on one thing.  We serve an awesome God.  One that died for you, me, and her.  a God who forgave me, and all of the awful things I’ve ever done.  A God who I know has already forgiven Sarah Palin for any mean things she’s said, and a God who has not only forgiven but DIED for the shooter himself.  An Awesome God.

I’ve realized, it’s not my place to judge her.

I long for the day where we can remember God in moments like this and not look for a finger to point.  I pray for the day that politics don’t hi-jack every incident and blame the other side.  I long for a difference.  I long for a longing for God that is so powerful, worldly politics do not get me all bent out of shape.

There. I said it.

My parents took us out to dinner.  This wasn’t unordinary.  Though it had slowed quite a bit in recent months.  I never really questioned why, I just assumed they were busy.  We were sitting in the restaurant, and had ordered, and my dad asked us, “Have you ever heard the story of the Gift of the Magi?”

Obviously, being pretty young, none of us had, so we all shook our heads.  He told us about the man and his watch, and the girl and her hair, and all the stuff that lead up to the ending.   He asked us what we thought the moral of the story was.  None of us had really good answers, so we just sat there, clueless.

He proceeded to tell us that there is a lot more to Christmas than getting gifts.  He told us that being with people you love, and knowing you’re loved is important.  He told us that sometimes, when life gets tough, the most important thing is knowing you’re surrounded by people who love you.  He told us that, this Christmas wouldn’t be like other Christmases, because he had lost his job.  He told us that we would have a meal, and be loved, and he, with tears in his eyes, told us that he hoped we still loved him.

We ate our meals and went home.  Our tree was up and stockings were hung, and honestly I don’t remember feeling differently at that moment.  I didn’t know what the weeks, months, or years were going to bring, which, I guess is why I carried on doing my own thing.  I don’t remember much about how that Christmas went, I do remember sleeping in.  I remember women from the school bringing us blankets and ‘necessities’ for our gifts, and I remember being really embarrassed about that.  I remember a woman bringing dinner over, and I remember none of us liking it, because it wasn’t mom’s cooking.

After living out what God had in store for me and my family the next 10-15 years, I can say it wasn’t easy.  I can say it’s hard to tell your friends you didn’t get anything.  I can say, it’s nice to have friends who understood.  I can say, even with all of our disfunction, it was nice to have a family. 

What I wouldn’t give, to wake up this Christmas, with my wife and my daughter and head over to my mom’s house and listen to her scream frantically about how she’s been slaving all day to prepare a meal, to have Andrea taste my mom’s cooking.  What I wouldn’t give to see Adrienne, my sister, who passed 8 years ago. or Matthew, who, up until he died 6 years ago, we spent EVERY Christmas together since I was 6. 

It wasn’t until all of the loss in my life, or even until this very moment, in writing this out that I truely understood what my dad was saying that night at the restaurant.

Gifts are cool to get, and a really good excuse to get together.  But love.  Love is what makes it all worth it.  The value of a gift is not the price tag.  The value of a gift is as deep as the love of the person who gave it.  The gift isn’t the object at all.  The gift is the love.  Christmas defies all logic.  From the birth of a baby born of a virgin, to a disfunctional family establishing a love so deep that it hurts the very core of my being.

Do me a favor this year.  Give love.  I don’t care how you do it, but make sure everyone in your life knows they’re loved.  There will be a Christmas where you will wish you could.

Merry Christmas ladies and gents.

It’s no secret that sometimes, I let my temper get the best of me.  My wife may argue, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. 

When Andrea was about 7 months pregnant, I was tasked with putting together our daughter’s crib (every dad’s right of passage).  Andrea was out, maybe at a baby shower, and I decided I’d put it together and surprise her.  I unpacked the box in the living room, and started the search for my tools.  I could not find any.  When Andrea and I got married, she got a ‘tool kit’ that was wrapped in cheetah print paper, and had purple feathers glued to it.  Enter bad mood. 

So, here I am.  Sitting on the floor of our living room, trying to make sense of this ridiculous instruction manual, with cheetah print, purple fluffy tools, pieces of the crib falling over as I tried to stand them up, getting so frustrated that I could feel the temperature in my face rising.  Slowly but surely, I’m piecing this crib together, and I thinking about how happy Andrea is going to be. (truth is, she’d been asking me to do this for a minute now.) Still frustrated, I screw in the final screw, and sigh a sigh of relief.  I stood up and took a step back to admire the masterpiece that meant I was officially a dad.  I checked everything, and even slid the drop side up and down a few times to show off my incredible craftsmanship. 

I went to the kitchen to get a drink.  There truely isn’t a better feeling than taking that breath, letting it out, and not being frustrated anymore.  I decided I was going to put the crib in Gemma’s room, and make it look nice for Andrea.  I unlocked the wheels, and rolled it to the hallway. 

As I approached, I got an uneasy feeling in my gut and felt the frustration growing again.  Once I hit the hall, my fears were confirmed as I realized, there is absolutely no way this crib was going to fit through the hallway, let alone make the turn into Gemma’s room.  I screamed.  I wanted to punch something.  I couldn’t hardly breathe.  I was so mad, I thought my heart was going to explode.

I took the crib apart, piece by piece, to try to strategically leave as most of it together as I could.  I ended up in the hallway, stuck between the door and the hall, with cheetah print, purple fluffy tools, sweating, with a half assembled crib, stuck.  Absolutely stuck.

I eventually ended up taking the entire crib apart, and reassembling the crib. In the process, slamming my finger in part of it.  Gemma’s crib was assembled in her room. *Sigh*.  Success.

The thing is, looking back, that’s one of the coolest memories I have.  It’s funny.  It’s really really funny.  It symbolizes, not only the moment I realized my life would never be the same, but also the moment I realized that I was, in no way, ready for a baby.  It was the moment I realized that I had a lot to learn.  It was the moment I realized I was scared.  It was the moment I saw a room, for a baby that I would love and take care of for the (at least) next 18 years.  That was the moment everything changed.

I don’t remember the frustrated feeling.  I don’t remember the angry words that came out of my mouth.  I only remember the feeling.  And looking back, all I can think is, life is too short to be pissed off all of the time.

So, while I sit here, about a year and a half  later, (having taken that crib apart and put it together again, and getting equally as mad) still with a short temper, still struggling to change, still struggling.  Hearing my wife tell that story to soon to be moms and dads, laughing hilariously,  I think of this moment, and it gives me a grain of clarity.   Clarity that may change me.  Clarity that I can hopefully embed into my life, my soul, my being, my memories. 

Don’t be mad.  It really isn’t worth it.

“My life is in God’s hands, where it has always been,” said Pastor. “I am not praying for myself. It is better to pray for other people than oneself. I know I’m here for a purpose, even if I don’t know what it is. Not a leaf falls from a tree that God does not know about.” 
                        
              – Bernard Pastor

Bernard Pastor was born in Guatemala 18 years ago and came to America at age 3 with his extended family to escape religious persecution. Despite sharing the exact same circumstances, Bernard and his parents were arbitrarily denied legal status while it was granted to his other family members. Bernard grew up like any other American boy, graduating high school near the top of his class, excelling in sports, working at his church and becoming prom king. After years of trying, it has become increasingly difficult for Bernard and his family to gain legal status, and because of America’s unjust immigration system, Bernard is being shuffled around federal detention centers, sleeping in a cell, rather than spending this holiday season with his friends and family.

The DREAM Act (Development, Relief and Education for Alien Minors Act) is a piece of proposed bipartisan legislation that will allow undocumented graduates of US High Schools to earn conditional permanent residency by completing two years in the military or two years at an accredited four-year institution of higher education. If passed, this piece of legislation would finally provide a clear path to legal status for those students for whom the United States is the only home they have ever known.

Please sign the petition here: http://prayforbernard.com, and here: http://www.change.org/petitions/view/help_us_keep_bernard_at_home_bernard_pastor

We all know there is immigration reform needed.  The DREAM Act would be a great first step.

I wrote this post last year. (Or two years ago. Can’t remember now)  This video brought it all back.  Made me sit down and reflect about the ‘reason for the season’.

I was talking to Andrea last week,  when I told her I think this time of year screws with everyone.  At work, all of a sudden every single request or issue is a matter of life or death.  I honestly think that people let the season consume their lives.  I can probably say I’m guilty of this too.  Getting out to the stores, moving around people, and all of a sudden there is this sense of urgency in my life.  I can’t be 2 minutes late for church, I have to leave immediately, I can’t sit still.  You know the feeling?

I don’t know that this is the best way to celebrate the marked date for the birth of Christ.  I mean becoming a mob of a country from October (only getting earlier every year) all the way to January 1st.  We’re getting lost in shopping, marketing campaigns, and campaigns to “keepChrist in Christmas.”  Shortly after joining that campaign, we tackle a middle aged lady for a Tickle-Me-Elmo, then we run to the line to pay, when that little man jumps in front of us, so we proceed to curse him out.  Then we go to our over-heated homes, and every time we write the word, we put quotations around Christ.

If we are going to start a ‘Keep the Christ in Christmas Campaign’, are we doing it the right way?  Is Christ upset that people want to call it X-mas, or if people want to say “Happy Holidays”?  Personally, I think Jesus probably wouldn’t mind too much.  I don’t remember him ever really getting upset for people not giving him enough credit.  I imagine his desire for us is to love. (And I’m fairly sure tackling that middle aged lady probably isn’t what he had in mind.. no?)  So, if you are part of a keep ’Christ’ in Christmas campaign, ask yourself, are you living it, or are you merely putting quotes around it?

Remember, the reason we celebrate this time of year is because God sent his only son to save us from our sins.  Not to put lights up, fight for the best parking space, and get our kids the biggest best gift.  Jesus was born, so 30 some odd years later he could carry MY sins on a cross, all the way to the grave, not to insure his name be engraved all over cards, t-shirts, and Facebook Groups, but so you and I could have a chance at salvation.