#6 - Roar of the Crowd

by James Baker

***Editor’s note – gotta give a shout out to Dana Aaronson, my gracious Yankee benefactor, without whom this experience would not have been possible ***        

         

Two out in the top of the ninth, and our favorite foil – A-Rod – faces a two-strike count in Game 6 of the American League Championship Series against the New York Yankees.  Looking around at the frothing pack of pennant-starved Ranger fans, screaming so loudly the Ballpark had gone silent with noise, I was reminded of a different era in our organization (note the use of ‘our’, conspicuously absent during ‘their’ previous 37 abysmal seasons).  A time when I would sit in the outfield bleachers at the old Arlington Stadium with maybe 5,000 in attendance.  A time when no Ranger lead was safe, and we had the market cornered on starting pitchers that other clubs would have used for batting practice.

But this is a different generation of Rangers.  When the final pitch crossed the plate, bat still firmly in place on A-Rod’s shoulder, there was a brief hush in the mayhem while all 51,403 of my friends waited with heart-in-throat for the ump to determine our fate.  Strike three.  Deafening roar.  Fireworks.  Confetti.  Ginger ale showers on the mound.  Bear hugs with drunk guys that I’ll never see again, but in the moment, for whom I would give a kidney.  Ah, to finally be a winner.  Even if we lose every World Series game by ten runs, this night was splendid.  Absolutely splendid.

And yet.

And yet there seemed to be something missing.  While everyone else was still convulsing with elation, I sat back down, and tried to take it all in.  I wanted this moment to be something special.  Something transcendent and essential.  I needed for this to be more than just a playoff win for a long-suffering ball club.  I needed it to be satisfying.  As great as this moment was, it fell short.

In the days since, I wondered if any sort of celebration could measure up.  Was it possible to cheer on a victor for more than driving in runs and clutch pitching?  I mean if this experience left me wanting, was satisfaction in a singular event even possible?  Sure, my wedding day and births of my children have been visceral experiences that have given my life meaning and direction.  But those were more isolated affairs affecting only me and those close to me, rather than uproarious, cataclysmic events. 

And then I was reminded of my life eighteen years ago.  I was on a fast-track to nowhere; pretty much flunking out of college, living only for the next drunk fest and meaningless relationship – all the while having a sense of loneliness and failure that left me bitter and distraught.  If you knew me then, you would have been struck with the fact that there just wasn’t much to be struck with.  I was merely another insecure frat guy looking for purpose and recognition in all the empty places.  In spiritual, emotional, and psychological terms, I was the old Texas Rangers.

But on January 21, 1992 at 12:05am, I sat in bed facing a crossroads.  I knew God was calling me to him.  That much, I was sure.  What I didn’t know was whether I could measure up to whatever it was I was being called.  Because I had never measured up to anything before.  I had never seen anything through to completion, and I didn’t want to have some skin-deep conversion experience that would be just one more dead-end in a long list of spectacular disappointments.  Strange as it may seem, I knew that failing in this would shake my faith to a place from which I would never recover, even though I really had no faith to speak of.  Clutching my knees close to my chest, God put those fears to rest by letting me know that indeed I would not measure up.  But it didn’t matter.  I could either walk through the door into a world that promised nothing, but seemed hopeful, or remain in the darkness that was at least familiar.  I closed my eyes, and said something like, “God, I have no idea what I’m doing, or how to do it.  I don’t know what words I’m supposed to say.  But in as much as I know how, I give myself over to you.  I can’t imagine that I’m someone you could do much with – but screw it, I’m doing it anyway, whatever ‘it’ is.”

Reading scripture in the years since, the event has been put in perspective.

“…there is more joy in heaven over one lost sinner who repents and returns to God than over ninety-nine others who are righteous and haven’t strayed away!” – Luke 15:7

Strike three.  Deafening roar.  Fireworks.  Confetti.  A wild, raucous, piercing shriek of unadulterated pandemonium.  A celebration for the ages.  More importantly, one that matters.

It would have been nice to be in the stands at that moment.  Being on the field was even better.

#5 - The Counterfeit Driven Life

by James Baker

The only thing different about the day was that it was more ordinary than usual.  As I pulled out of the church parking lot and squeezed in between the familiar cement truck and the Honda Odyssey that continues to point out my lack of pride in having an honor roll student, I scrambled for some sports talk or political rant – anything to avoid thinking about the sink hole that was my day.  Went through a few emails, got some video ideas shot down, and stared a hole through the blank white board in my drop-panel, fluorescent-filled office.  I’ve had naps that were more productive.

And then in an instant, my day was changed.  A sporty little Pontiac Grand Am, complete with after-market spoiler and silhouette of Calvin relieving himself on the Ford logo, slid in front of me within inches of my front bumper.  He slowed down enough to force me to hit my brakes, but then dropped it in fourth and weaved through about four cars ahead of me before I had the chance to even resume the posted speed.  I don’t know if I had more anger or excitement, but it didn’t really matter, because I was experiencing something that had been missing all day.  Purpose.  Maybe it wasn’t the Rick Warren kind, but it would have to suffice.  It was on.

I squinted my eyes, flipped through the dial until I hit anything Aerosmith, and jumped the Titan an extra 5mph (this is Friendswood, after all) until I caught up to ol’ fiddy-cent.  I had boxed him in, shot over my best Vin Diesel glance, and was fully expecting to see that beautiful mix of seething anger and helpless resignation.  What I got, was blind oblivion.  He was on his phone.  And not even the cool Bluetooth kind that would have freed him up to both shift and steer, but one hand fully plastered to the left side of his head.  This guy had just destroyed me, all the while blathering on about Axe body spray, or Grand Theft Auto, or maybe the burrito supreme from Taco Bell he was about to pound.  Whatever it was, it wasn’t about me.

In my clearer moments, I’ll feel the embarrassment of my juvenile shenanigans, and think, “Really?  You’re forty-two years old, and this is what you’ve got going on in your life?  Getting cut-off in traffic somehow turns into an epic showdown between Potter and Voldemort?”  Unfortunately, self-chastisement does little more than shame me until I find the next distraction.  What I need is not a scolding.  What I need is a real challenge.  I’m convinced that’s what we all need.  The truth is we’re hard-wired for it, and we’re going to find it no matter what.

Discontentment – or strife – is not all bad, and in its purest form, produces a life with meaning.  Fighting to work hard at our jobs.  Struggling to love our families well.  Pursuing others vigorously with the love of Christ.  It is that friction that reminds us we’re alive.  But perverted, our days look very different.  It is the genesis of envy.  Of back-biting and angry words.  Of frivolous lawsuits and marital affairs.  And yes, even imaginary car chases with punk teenagers. 

When we wake up tomorrow, we will ready ourselves for battle.  It is inevitable, and God’s intent for our life.  The question is, which enemy will we choose.

#4 - Perfectly Wrong

I have a condition.  A condition that for many years I chose to ignore, because I wasn’t altogether sure it was real – sort of like Bieber Fever.  Finally convinced that denial was getting me nowhere, I decided to seek help.  So, about ten years ago I scrounged up a co-pay and went to a doctor who confirmed my suspicions; I was clinically depressed.  Even as I write these words, I wonder if I'm making it all up, merely because I don't have any real problems.  But, for the most part, I’ve learned to live with the reality of having a chemical imbalance, and one that will likely never go away.  My depression isn’t always manifest, and I have different triggers that set it off.  Sometimes it’s my natural biorhythm, or maybe when I forget to take my medicine.  Sometimes it’s just stress and fatigue.  One of the catalysts, however, is counterintuitive.  It is when life seems perfect.  Too perfect.

Like the fake lake in the middle of my in-laws master planned community.  I don’t know what they put in the water to make it neon blue, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same stuff my grandmother used to put in her toilet bowl.  Or the precision-manicured trees, hedges, and lawns in my own neighborhood (deed restrictions require each new home that is built in my section to have exactly 2 oaks trees, or 1 pine and 1 oak…you know, just to make the place look more natural).  Every time I drive by a new strip center that is an exact replica of the thirty I’ve just passed – complete with a bank, nail salon, and donut shop – a small piece of me dies inside. Every once in awhile, I’ll see a rebellion in the making, and I get a little giddy.  Such as when a real estate agent makes the gutsy call to put up a billboard without a glamour shot.  Or the time my neighbor uprooted his standard-issue oak and replaced it with a (gasp) palm tree.  I love it when people stick it to the man.

Nothing saps my soul, however, more than ‘relational’ perfection.  And unfortunately, many of my relationships are perfect…reduced to some superficial glad-handing and trite well-wishes, as brief as they are forgettable.  I can be all tied up in knots, feeling direction-less in my job, but be more compelled to chat about how grateful I am that fall has finally arrived.  Walking into church on Sunday morning, I will give a handful of hearty back slaps and side hugs, but tell no one that I just yelled at my kids for their incessant squabbling.  Why let on to close friends that Su and I are disconnected, when NFL talk is much less awkward?  If I’m feeling especially vulnerable, maybe I’ll confide that one of my co-workers is struggling with gossip.

I suppose that small talk has its place, but I’ve never been any good at it (if I’ve ever dished with you about, for instance, the inbound traffic congestion on I-45, you’ll know what I mean).  If I never had another meaningless conversation again, I think I’d be okay.  Not to say that every interaction has to be some deep, gut-wrenching disclosure of our deepest wounds.  But I’d love to engage in sincere, honest discussions about the stuff that really matters.  I want to tell you what I’m pumped about, and hear the same from you.  I want to talk about our triumphs and our screw-ups.  I want to talk about what we’re actually thinking about, and not just the sterilized version.  I want, when asked, ‘How’s it going?’, for my first instinct not to be a lie. 

Then again, maybe it’d just be easier to stay surface-y.  After all, you may not like what you see in me.  Or I in you.  Maybe we’ll conclude that depth is overrated, and that knowing and being known incurs a little too much risk.  Let’s just exchange a few pleasantries, share a few laughs, and keep it all nice and tidy.  Perfect.

A little too perfect.

#3 - In the process

by Toby Wise

I don’t write.

I think the most I write these days is a few notes in a meeting, an email here and there, and quick descriptions of ideas I hope to eventually produce as images or video. Organizing my thoughts into sentences and paragraphs with well-groomed punctuation just isn’t my prime outlet for expression. I think I delete three sentences for every one I keep. And when I try to write something longer than a paragraph, it some how explodes beyond the original idea into a babbling amorphous blob devoid of coherent thought.

I’ll do my best to avoid that here.

I express myself far better through imagery. Call it a sweet spot or wheelhouse, I just really like it. It’s a fantastic thing to dwell in the gap between an idea and the visual representation of an idea. Its kind of like watching fireworks. Firework gets lit, rockets through the sky leaving just the slightest trace, then the boom and dazzle briefly create a moment consisting of light, color, sound, composition, and plot. Yes, even plot. But the ‘rocketing though the sky unseen’ is the part that compels me. When a good idea gets ignited it really does feel like you have a rocket booster on your back. It’s hot, fast, and the pressure is intense. You’ve got to flex to keep intact, only burning the fuel you need to get there. People say, “Wow, look at that one”, and you think, “Yup, I got to ride it”.

Ok maybe I glorified it a little. But I hope you understand me when I say the process of creating is way more of a thrill to me than the final outcome. Maybe that’s a flaw. I’m not a car guy but I could totally see myself restoring some classic ride from the ground up and then taking it out once or twice before I sell it or give it away. Really, unless I was pressed for cash I would give it away. Not out of generosity, but because I really value the process. What I wouldn’t give away is my cast iron skillet. You can pry that thing from my cold dead hands. It’s a journal of everything I have ever cooked; a canvas made for food; the central tool I need for the process of cooking. I use it so much that I recently combined my food and entertainment budget because I realized I enjoy the process of cooking more than going to the movies, restaurants, or whatever else. It is my entertainment. A good buddy of mine has the same tendencies. Give him five feet of rope and he will be entertained all night: memorizing knots, learning new ones, making up games with it, tying distracted peoples feet to a chair -- you get the idea. Some tools enable processes that have the power to captivate the heart and mind more so than any finished work could.

It’s in the process that life transitions from flat plains and map dot towns to a three-dimensional world of mountains, canyons, geysers, and forests. What a treat God gives us that our existence is not a finished product sitting on a mantle that occasionally serves as a conversation piece. We get to be part of a great unfolding, where we wander through creation only to have each step reveal a bigger, deeper, and richer world.

If I were to ask you to build a chair, where would you begin? Looking over designs and plans, choosing the right woods, measuring, finding hardware, learning to use a saw? Would you enjoy the textures, learning new skills, and appreciate the craftsmanship involved? Could you tell me every detail, could you show me every flaw? Would you immerse yourself in the process? If these questions are spinning in your head, I hope it’s not the overwhelming possibilities, but a sense of childlike discovery, for so much life is in the process.

Go make something.

# 2 - I Give Up

by James Baker

When it comes to romance, we like to toss around a lot of scientific metaphors.  “Opposites attract.”  “They just didn’t have any chemistry.”  “He has a magnetic personality.” “I’m really digging her Pythagorean Theorem.”  When I was courting my wife, Susan, we ‘grew on each other’.  Our wedding night was ‘steamy’.  But pretty shortly...well, like very shortly – like day three of the honeymoon, a new formula began to emerge.  Something like:

1 part low-self-esteem-and-highly-emotional wife

+

1 part low-self-esteem-and-highly-insensitive husband

=

bad marriage

You hear about marriages where people have just grown apart through the years.  Well, Susan and I were fortunate.  There wasn’t going to be years for us to grow apart.  We were blowing up seemingly in a matter of days.  I still don’t exactly know how to define the problem, but what I do know is that we were both miserable.  Innocent misunderstandings became monumental grievances, and hairline fractures turned into deep chasms.  There was constant tension; hurt feelings and bruised egos were the norm.  The little personality quirks that were so cute and innocuous only weeks before were now grotesque and grounds for annulment.

Through all of this, I kept towing the company line.  “Don’t worry”, I’d say, “it’s not as bad as it seems”.  Because that’s what I thought being a spiritual leader meant.  I viewed my role as making sure we were staying the course, ignoring danger signs, and pretending like everything was in order.  But the more I did this, the more it all seemed like a lie:  our premarital counseling, the wedding vows, the Young Life ministry we were leading, the quaintly framed ‘As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord’ that hung neatly in our 200 square foot 1-bedroom apartment…it was all a sham.  Before long, we looked at each other with genuine regret.  It was a mistake.  An honest one, to be sure, but still a mistake.  The thought occurred to us, “We’re young.  We have no kids and no estate to haggle over.  This doesn’t have to be messy.  It’s only a slightly more complicated high school breakup.  Let’s chalk it up to a false start, and still give ourselves a chance to find real happiness.”

Within a mere six months, the angry words had settled into a cold silence, and hostility turned to resignation.  As we lay in bed one night, both crying and both tired of fighting, Susan asked me, “What are we going to do?”  Through my own tears, I said, “I have no idea.  I’m out of answers”.  And then we did the unthinkable.

We prayed. 

It was then, and always will be, the most inarticulate, most honest prayer that I have ever uttered.  “God, we give up.  We have no answers.  We are at our end.”  And almost audibly, I felt God say, “Exactly.  You have nothing to offer to this marriage.  You are broken.  You are misfits that are unfit even for each other.  You cannot fix this.  Oh, and by the way, you are now exactly at the place that I want you.”

I can only point to a few genuine milestones in my life; points at which things drastically turned.  This was one of them.  That night marked a new beginning –  a night of surrender and healing; a night when hope actually meant something.  Though I don’t remember the date, that night was more memorable than my wedding day, because that was the night my marriage truly began.

That was sixteen years ago.  Today, if you look closely, you’d be able to find trace amounts of the low self-esteem and insensitivity that I had entering into my marriage (and by trace, I mean lots).  You’d see that Su still struggles with her own insecurities.  But what you’d be most struck with, is that through all of that, we have a fierce love for each other.  A love that’s survived the minefields of our own depravity.  A love that should have never made it.

When we think of victories in life, we are struck with imagery of conquering some great evil, or emerging from the battlefield brimming with courage.  We imagine ourselves steeled against enemy forces, weathering the worst but winning the day with nothing but a little spunk and five smooth stones.  The greatest battle I’m likely to ever have on this earth – the fight to save my marriage – wasn’t done with skill, cunning, or bravado.  There was no storming the gates with reckless determination.  There was no eloquent speech.  I merely waved the white flag.  I gave up.  And I won her back.

Surrendering to the enemy is one thing, and it's really pretty easy.  Yielding to the Lord is another thing entirely, and one of the most difficult things you will ever face.  It requires brutal honesty, and an oh-so-humbling admission that you are not as self-sufficient as you would like to think.  Is there some place you need to take a stand?  Or do you just need to give up?

Sometimes, it's the same thing.