My goal isn’t to cause strife, so what is the source of this impression I leave with people? When I think about things, I understand them by debating with myself. The topics change but the internal dialog never stops. It’s how I process all information, from a Sunday sermon to weekend plans. The debate even extends to topics I already firmly and passionately support. Although I crave black and white explanations, I often wonder if I hold such a confident stance because I lack understanding. A small measure of uncertainty and shades of gray comfort me. Ironic, I know.

I feel compelled to extend my internal dialog to others. It often manifests by playing devil’s advocate to different degrees. Resisting the urge to share is as difficult as ignoring an itch. I am compelled because deep down I have difficulty accepting people are not like me. They may not process information as I do. They may not care as I do. My joy and anxiety are amplified when I am asked to discuss and explore a topic with shy people. It’s like taking a recovering alcoholic to a wine tasting. It taunts me with the promise of what I love most, but then requires I exercise painful restraint.

I could not tell you how prominent the problem is anymore than my daughter could tell you how prominent her frizzy hair is. We both lack perspective because we are too close to the problem. I can tell you that I dislike people that resemble the “antagonistic” side of me. I liken this part of me to Socrates, who was a total douchebag. Yet despite how I resent this part of me, I can’t change. It isn’t something I do. It is who I am.

My ego is being healed by the new direction I’ve found for my social flaw. My inspiration comes from another historical figure, Mr. John Adams. Mental_Floss encouraged me to give the new HBO series a try. Slowly I’m starting to connect the historical facts that frame the person.

As I recount what I know, I won’t bother to separate historical fact from HBO’s embellishment. Hell, you may find I’ve read a bit into what I watched, possibly inflating Mr. Adam’s accomplishments and character. Those details matter little when looking for inspiration. In the words of Jebediah Springfield, “A noble spirit embiggins the smallest man.”

That said, consider the first episode. In it, John agreed to represent the British soldiers on trial for the Boston Massacre, despite how it would damage his reputation. Justice was more important than politics and his family’s well being. He defended them to the best of his ability, and 6 were found innocent. John defended the crown right to levy taxes, pointing out the reason they were levied and reminding people most were repealed. His low key but clear voice of reason doesn’t deter the cruel mob demonstrations that sought independence. Few things are scarier than resisting a mob. Few feats show greater commitment to an ideal. By the end of the episode King George had repealed many of the colonists basic rights. John was humble enough to recognize that this (and not petty taxes) was an issue weighty enough to defy the crown. He was pragmatic enough to support a group he did not perfectly agree with, all the while attempting to assert his righteous influence among them. Although he sounds decisive, the show focuses on the internal conflict and doubt. Does his commitment to justice supersede his commitment to his family? What use is it to support a hopeless rightous cause? How does he support the colonists without supporting their despicable actions?

I want to be John Adams.

Yesterday the microwave exploded `asploded as Elise tried to nuke a bag of popcorn for our guests. You might expect such an explosion would bury us in an avalanche of crispy kernels and bestow mutant powers upon us during the shower of rogue microwaves emitted during the explosion. The reality of the incident is much more mundane: smoke, a little flame and an unbearable stench.

Are these kitchen catastrophes somehow linked? Who might be behind such a nefarious plot? Stay tuned!

First a few definitions: Shame comes from feeling unworthy, embarrassed, disgraced or responsible for an offense. Repentance means to be motivated by shame to change one’s mind. It implies an effort to avoid or counter the shameful act in the future. To clarify, repentance does not imply success. It merely implies effort.

Be definition shame must precede repentance, if only momentarily. Yet the two are meant to be mutually exclusive. A repentant soul shouldn’t be ashamed. In fact, any shame that remains in a repentant heart is the unhealthy sort meant to destroy us from the inside out. There is no truth or value to those internal accusations.

Shame can blind people to their own worth and obfuscate the most obvious solutions. It is our job to help guide ashamed people so they find quick and free release through repentance. We are also obliged to help people let go of residual shame once they have repented. People that deny or disbelieve heartfelt apologies seal shame and repentance in the same heart and are responsible for the damage done within.

It is silly to expect repentance from someone who feels justified or proud of their actions. I propose it is better to convince them of their shame first. If a child lies without remorse, shouldn’t we tell them they are a liar and treat them as untrustworthy. The goal isn’t to destroy their ego. Repentance is quick and free, even if it isn’t always easy. Sometimes I get the impression society expects us to preserve our children’s egos at the expense of their souls. If shame doesn’t come naturally and we can’t push them towards it then how will they ever learn and grow?

You are selfishly consuming two parking spaces. Learn to park or let someone else drive. I sentence you to an underwater vacuum sealed mortuary with the ghosts of a thousand filthy hippies.

and

You are selfishly consuming two parking spaces. Learn to park or let someone else drive. May your breath continuously reek of the meat of the Mujahmjah bean.

…and there’s more where that came from!

You won’t find our neighbor’s home on the cover of Better Home and Gardens. They keep the simple yard mowed, but the house is quickly falling into disrepair. It needs a new roof, gutters, paint and window treatment–and that says nothing of the interior. The driveway and curb are always filled with cars–a mixture of visitors and residence.

Yesterday our neighbor came by to ask my wife’s advice about how to best academically serve their littlest boy, Kevin, this summer. Kevin and his sister were the first to greet me when I moved into this big empty house nearly 2 years ago. Kevin is especially friendly. He is only 8, yet he always takes time to make conversation with me when he sees me. He doesn’t do it for lack of attention. He is the beloved baby of a large family. My wife made some phone calls and passed along her recommendations to the family. She agreed to carpool with Kevin since she is teaching summer school. It works both ways. Kevin’s family has offered me food from their grill. They mow the grass between our driveways, even though part is my lawn. They’ve trimmed our the trees between our houses when I was unable to complete the job. I’m certain they would offer more if we asked.

After the visit it occurred to me that I prefer to live next to a family from a run down home that felt comfortable asking for our help over strangers that live in a pristine home. Okay, I grant you it isn’t an easy choice–and I can’t swear I’d hold to those values if my house were on the market. The visit also brought me to reflect on the half dozen homes we have a similar relationship with and the handful of friendly faces I’ve recently met that will probably join those ranks after some time.

I’m not immune to the air of hostility that is so prevalent on our roads. In fact, just yesterday I was pondering the tools I’d need to better express myself to those I share the road with. First I need to replace my car’s horn with a megaphone so I can better communicate with my fellow drivers. Second, I need a mechanical spit-wad cannon mounted to the hood of my car. Some guy would be all like, “ha! ha! I just cut you off …without using my blinker!” His erratic driving would catch me off guard, but I’d quickly regain my composure, lock onto him with my targeting computer and unleash a wad of toilet paper saturated in justice! His car would swerve and I’d watch it explode in my rear view mirror.

I’ve yet to find a hood mounted mechanical spit-wad cannon, so I suppose I’ll just have to live with this.

As I rounded the corner a fantastic scene opened before my eyes. There was a party being held in my local grocery store. The aisle was crowded with long haired hippy-types, all lounging about and being groovy. Anxiety and curiosity rolled about in my stomach until they extended warm greeting and welcomed me into their fold.

I reclined in the grass by a small circle of my new friends. They were passing around a bowl. Each would eat a spoonful from the bowl, then melt into a satisfying release. I looked in the bowl they placed in my lap. Best I could tell it was granola cereal. I looked around at my new friends. A few were still adrift in bliss. Others were watching me, encouraging me with their lethargic smiles. Maybe it was a moment of courage or possibly a casual disregard for caution. Either way, I took a bite. Om nom nom. This was some good shtuff. I went for another bite but a thin bearded fellow in the back got up on his knees called out, “Crunch, crunch, pass, man! Crunch, crunch, pass! You’re messin’ up the rotation!” I assumed an apologetic pose and handed the bowl to the girl next to me.

I turned to my friend from produce and asked about the heavenly breakfast cereal. He handed me a box that read Nature’s Path Hemp Plus. I pretended to be surprised, but deep down part of me knew something so good couldn’t be legal. I gave it back to him and explained that I couldn’t bring that stuff home. He gave me a lopsided grin and explained the second one’s free. “Um, don’t you mean the first one’s free?”, I asked. He explained the cereal was buy one, get one free with my Kroger card.

Noah found the box last night. His eyes were drawn to the big text on the back of the box that clarifies why hemp is not marijuana. I tried to explain I eat it for my Glaucoma. He put a bit in his mouth and declared it was a bit oily. Hey, that’s all the more for me.

…anyone know where I can get some lazer lights for our living room on the cheap?

Miggily-Miggily-Mee!!

When we learn to laugh at ourselves, we are free to be human. The proud are easily mocked and scorned. When we embrace our foolishness, it is more difficult to shame us with it. I pity these shallow people for they have forged their own chains. Everyone is keen to the threat posed by others with vices similar to their own. Let me clarify with some examples. I was a nosy child, so I carried a deep-seated fear people would go through my stuff. I know liars that have issues trusting others. Likewise, shallow people assume everyone is as critical and unforgiving as they are. They are never free to be human and embrace real life. I imagine this fuels their bitter downward spiral.

The schools I attended did not emphasize building student’s character. Most of the rules I remember being enforced were designed to control and protect students and faculty or facilitate learning. The psychological tactics plastic people use often fall between the rules that are enforced. Even the most damaging offenses sound petty when brought before an authority. When I was young I was discouraged by what I perceived as their prosperity. I was so mislead I even adopted some of their values. Now I see the real fruits of that lifestyle. They never learn to love. Rather they endure relationships with people as selfish and loathsome as they are. They never serve a cause greater than themselves. They grow neurotic from trying to maintain a facade of perfection: never misstep; never exhale; never relax.

I am grateful that my children are humble and free. They know plastic people and have experienced their venom. Although I know the natural consequences of a shallow life, I still find it hard to forgive them and wish them well in my prayers. When my children turn to me for advice I don’t have easy responses. The godly response I must recommend isn’t one I understand. At that point it’s clear I’m asking them to be better people than I am.

But what will happen to the characters I’ve helped grow these past years? Phifer has taken an extended sabbatical at the Northshire Abbey. She leads Sunday School, participates in choir and recently joined the abbey’s weekly wine tasting club. Cinch has become Iron Forge’s leading alarm expert in Iron Forge. When she finds the time, she likes to get away to Booty Bay where she ganks low level horde. Awaka spends most of her time hiking in Nagrand, communing with nature and whatnot. Vlock is still being corpse camped by a Gnome rogue, deep in Stranglethorn. Jerk.

Children are dirty. Their noses ooze. Their hands are sticky. Schools are part-time quarantines. It’s like the Wall Street of the microscopic world. Parents toss their kids into a colony of contagions to see what new disease the child can bring home. Being a teacher is like being an activities coordinator at a leper colony, only lepers are usually considerate enough to ring a bell when they are near. Children swarm in for group hugs. Is it any wonder teachers have taken upon themselves to develop solutions to the air-born illnesses? I would like to contribute to my own idea: school uniforms. Every warm body must jump in a hazmat suite (decorated in school colors) before boarding the school bus. In the mean time, MIT has created some phenomenal paint for public facilities.

This year has been particularly harsh. Elise and the kids are passing the most recent funk among each other. Don’t let anyone tell you the Barnette’s don’t have culture. They keep plenty of culture in their throat, lungs and sinuses. How have I avoided this calamity? I owe my good health to a trick we employed back in Delta 4. At the first sign of any non-alcohol related illness, we’d all pop zinc lozenges and vitamin C until things looked clear. …not that my perfect health meant perfect attendance. *cough, cough*

Parents: I know you mean well when you push your child towards that perfect attendance certificate. Consider the health and education of your child’s classmates and the well being of their families when you risk sending your child to school with a fever.

Co-workers: I swear this place won’t fall apart with you missing for a day. If you aren’t too sick to read and type, work from home. In the meantime, please get away from my desk.

I was just about to leave for lunch when I heard the a hapless solicitor meekly call out “hello?” from the foyer. I ripped my shirt over my head and headed towards the door. I greeted the man and he introduced himself as the Mayor Henry Ford Gravitt. Oh cwap.

Scott was unaware of our little prank. Imagine his surprise when Greg (for apparently no reason at all) jumped up and threw his shirt over his head. I saw him peer out from Scott’s office to help show the man to the door. I also saw the sudden shock when he realized this was the mayor of Cumming come to check our business license. Greg dashed back behind the door and I heard Scott laugh as Greg frantically fought to pull his shirt back over his head so he could properly greet our special guest.

Me? My face was a bit flush. I thought it best to leave rather than try to explain myself. I figured Greg could answer any questions the Mayor might have about the nature of the business we run here.

Ah, but I’ve seen the times and they are a changin’. Just like the time when men decided they liked ghetto booty..er..I mean curvy women, now women seem to have taken to big brows. So here I lie in bed with my forehead smothered in Rogaine (not the sort that breed zombie zygotes; that’s Rograin).

Also, I took note that no one took a minute to let Amazon know how helpful my review of the ARM reference manual is. (Two puns…) All you gotta do is scroll down and press a button! Philistines!