Wanderlust and the Source

Bedtime is sacred in our house. Not because it’s the routine shutting off all the lights and closing our eyes to sleep. Annie and I value it because these are the precious few minutes we can chat and connect free of interruptions from kids who don’t appreciate their bedtime as much as we do.

In these final waking hours of our day we share the best and worst parts of everything happening before we got home. We air the stresses we cannot share with anyone else. We comfort each other as lovers and encourage each other as teammates. We create to-do lists and bucket lists. We set reminders on our phones so we might recall those things our ADHD is prone to forget. We mutually doom scroll social media side by side, occasionally holding our phone to the side with instructions, “Hey check this out.” We ponder the benefits and challenges of various ideas. We talk religion, sex, and politics. We discuss plans for both the immediate and distant future. And, most importantly, we dream together.

This is the key ingredient for the magic binding us together. When we think of what life will be like five years ahead or fifty years from now, we envision our hypothetical future lives as a cohesive unit. These are shared aspirations, not individual exploits. We have had this ingrained in our relationship as long as we’ve known each other. On our second date, we talked about places we’ve always longed to visit. She said she wanted to go to Scotland to see her ancestral homelands. Two of my bucket list destinations (Paisley Abbey and Loch Ness) happen to be in Scotland. We laughed and smiled at the idea of going there together and fulfilling our dreams at the same time.

Annie and I both have an insatiable wanderlust. We feel the tug of the journey on our hearts. Places exotic to historic, from pristine wilderness to ancient ruins, waterfalls and temples, castles and farmers markets. We want nothing more for our lives to go, and see, and do. We yearn to wander foreign lands and disappear for a while.

Real, actual, legitimate picture of us.

Earlier this week, I told my therapist how I believe the best education we can receive is found outside our own culture. As much as I would enjoy a trip to Disneyland to hang out at Galaxy’s Edge, I would rather visit the original Tatooine Star Wars set in Tunisia. Given the choice between a week at Universal Studios or traveling to India during Holi, I would choose the later. Annie would do the same. The selection of culture over capitalism is an easy one.

Unfortunately, Annie and I grew up believing travel was for other people. Both our families were poor and the expense of overseas excursions was too daunting - an unobtainable wish left to wither on the vines of our dying hopes. This wanderlust ached in our bones and called our spirits yet we felt confined to weekend roadtrips and local attractions. We wanted to see the world but doubted we would ever be globetrotters.

All it takes is one little break to shatter the exoskeleton of false beliefs. Two and a half years ago, a new job sent me to Tampa Bay for three weeks of training. Annie and our two youngest girls flew out to visit a weekend while I was there so we could partake in a family Florida adventure. It was the nudge we needed to shed the idea we weren’t meant to travel. How could we hold on to such a concept while doing the thing we thought we’d never be able to do. A few months later we went to Waikiki to celebrate birthdays of mine and Steven’s. Then a month later we were on a cruise boat to Alaska for our belated honeymoon. Since then we’ve made a return trip to Hawaii along with little jaunts to Cheyenne, Boise, Portland, Cranbrook BC, and multiple trips to Tacoma/Seattle/Everett.

We’re not ready to quit. Between now and the end of the year, our feet will tread ground in Mexico, Costa Rica, and Columbia adding three stamps to our passports. Not long after, I’ll be headed to Phoenix with one of my best friends for a DJ gig. Next year, Annie and I have plans to take the family yurt camping for a week and we’ve already booked a vacation to the Bahamas.

Over the last few years, we’ve suddenly began living a live we never imagined would be possible for either of us. We’re finally able to sate that insatiable wanderlust. Our journey begun, we’re only getting started.

After explaining all of this to my therapist, he shared with me a quote from Carl Jung:

According to my therapist, this is what I’m experiencing. After turning forty, I began to truly discover who I was and define my priorities. Now forty-five, I’m finally able to be the person God created me to be. Everything before this was just research. He thinks it’s awesome to watch me discover myself, to see joy unfold in real time. He’s had a front row seat to witness anxiety and depression melt away as I become the real me.

So here we are, Annie and I are world travelers, dreaming of distant shores. But I think I’ve always been one even before I was one. My wanderlust had to come from somewhere.

I was never a good student. I was lucky to get a B in anything. Through most of my academic career, I barely held on with a C average. In sixth and seventh grade, my report cards were filled with Cs and Ds. I got my first A in eighth grade - not just a basic A - but perfect scores throughout. I ended this class with 100%, an A+.

Annie and I chilled last night, enjoying our bedtime routine. I brought this up with her: my discussion at therapy, how excited we are about upcoming travel plans, and other places we want to go (side note: she’s been looking at cheap airline rates to various European locales). Then I posed the question about my school days. After a string of barely passing grades, in which class did I get my first A? She responded without hesitation.

“Geography.”

Correct answer. I struggled in traditional education until the geography class mandated for all junior high students of my generation in the Marysville school district. For the first time in my life I didn’t just succeed, I thrived.

Perhaps I missed my calling as a tour guide or a travel agent. Maybe that is my life in an alternate universe. In this dimension though, I had to wait until my 40s to figure out I was always meant to be this person. Looking back though, I should have known all along. I should have realized this fact about my personality when I was a teenager. I grokked geography because deep down my soul hungered to be there. Every map, every capital city, every monument we studied was a potential destination. I was meant to fly, or drive, or float to anywhere other than here. Or teleport if such technology ever becomes viable.

Home, Away, and the Weirdness of Being

During our last trip to Hawaii, my wife and I went on a late night walk along Waikiki beach. We stopped to dance when passing by a bar with a musician playing music on an out door stage, watched some fire dancers practice free from the massive daytime crowds, and lingered along the shore while the sound of waves filled the silence around us. Backlit by the vibrance of skyscrapers and hotels with the expanse of starry skies and endless ocean before us, we soaked up all we could get. There was a life giving energy to the moment, a breath to revive our weary souls.

With my arms wrapped around Annie’s shoulders she told me how the time we spent there felt more real to her than anything else. We conversed about how important these trips were to both of us to connect with each other. It was a reminder of why we work so hard and love the way we live. We both have wandering spirits, a wanderlust hardwired into our being. It’s more than existing as soulmates, it’s as if we were created to see the world together.

We know there is life after kids, a life approaching faster that we could ever prepare. When we travel, whether it is a weeklong journey or a quick weekend excursion, we get glimpses of the way life could be, or the way it was meant to be. It’s a preview of a future when we no longer have the worry of homework, softball schedules, school dances, and convincing kids the importance of personal hygiene and household chores. Our bucket list is perpetually growing and it is our hearts desire to continually find each other through chasing destinations.

Thing is, we are not wealthy people. At least, not financially speaking. We eat cheap. We don’t maintain expensive smoking and drinking habits. We pursue affordable entertainment options. If free is an option, it’s our preferred choice. When we leave town, we stay in low cost hotels. We get the the cheap interior rooms on cruise boats. We look for bargain flights. We pack snacks for road trips. Mock us for our thriftiness but our budget consciousness enables our ability to pursue our dreams.

We also know we are blessed. We understand our traveling hobbies are not options available to everyone. We are aware we live, work, and travel to places impacted by addiction and poverty. Annie is better at it than I am, yet we both endeavor to use our privilege to benefit others. Life is fragile and there is no knowledge more present than the fact nothing is promised. We enjoy these opportunities while we can as frequently as possible because we might not be able to do this forever.

We escaped home again this last weekend for a family road trip to Boise. Saturday was one of the best days I’ve had I a long time. We visited a zoo and a historical site. We stayed in a cheap hotel. I introduced them to my favorite Mexican restaurant. My eleven year old daughter begged me to take her to more museums. We learned new things, bonded over fresh experiences, found joy together, bought souvenirs, took goofy photos, and refreshed our weary souls.

photo courtesy of Andria Casey

Now we are home again. We have resumed the regular routines of day jobs and school. My body is worn but my heart is full. Walking around downtown Spokane this morning, I had a revelation similar to the sentiments my wife expressed in Honolulu roughly this time last year.

Our time away seems more real than our time at home. Walking around downtown Spokane this morning, I sensed this oddness deep in my bones. Real life feels weird. Road trips to Seattle, Portland, Boise, and Cheyenne; flying away to Florida and Hawaii; cruises to Alaska and the Bahamas - these trips tire is out but fill our hearts. When we go we are closer to who we are to who we are than the daily grind of earning paychecks of conversing with colleagues. Our family’s heartbeat is found in miles traversed. Granted, we must return. The income of day jobs and weekend gigs fund our dream life away from home. Still, every time we go somewhere it becomes harder to readjust to normal life.

Then again, I’ve been weird my whole life. It’s time to embrace the weird until we can go away again. And again. And again.

What It’s Like to Be Me: In the Beginning Pt 7, Jeff & The Tommymonsters

Often, the friendships we form in our late teens and early twenties are some of the most influential relationships we’ll ever forge in our lifetimes. When I look back at my small circle of friends during this phase of my life, there are two voices who played a huge part in making me me.

The first was Jeff, a dude I met in junior high who would become my best friend over the next few years and remain a constant in my life through my mid-twenties. The second group of voices came from the guys in the Tommymonsters – my roommate’s band while I was living in Boise. For better or worse, I am the man I am today because of the experiences I had with them. In both instances, these friendships revolved around music. With the former we talked about it, in the latter we made it. As life has moved on over the years since, I’ve never abandoned my love for music or the memories I shared with these guys.

Counting Crows: “Mr. Jones”
No other song could thoroughly encapsulate the relationship between Jeff and me like “Mr. Jones.” This is a story I’ve written about before in a two part post. The first half has a hopeful start; unfortunately, his story doesn’t have a happy ending. Grey is still my favorite color, “felt so symbolic.” Someday, I’ll buy myself a grey guitar and play it in remembrance of Jeff.

Guardian: “What Does It Take?”
Throughout our friendship, I was deeply mired in evangelical culture. And Jeff hated church. As much as he was angry at God, he never criticized my faith. He accepted it as a part of who I was. When most people talked about God around him, he’d tell them to shut up – often with colorful expletives. Yet when I talked about God, he’d allow it. Beyond permitting me to talk about religious stuff, he’d respond and participate in the conversation. I often wondered what it would take for him to abandon all of his anger and hatred. It truly would have been an act of God. I prayed for him a lot. This song described much if how I felt. “If you could hear me pray tonight, would you be angry or surprised to hear your name announced.” I know that beginning a genuine relationship with God isn’t a magical solution to make all of your problems go away. Still, I can’t help but wonder how Jeff’s life could have followed a different path if he had a religious conversion.

Daughtry: “Long Live Rock & Roll”
Chris Daughtry is the same age as me, so when he opened this song singing, “I was born the year that disco died, and U2 was in high school thank the Lord that they survived,” I could immediately relate. So many if the references Daughtry makes in this song are mirror images of conversations between Jeff and me. “We still wonder if Kurt really wrote the song she sang in Hole.” Yeah, we talked about that. “We still argue about who's better: Motley Crew or G&R.” That argument actually escalated into a fist fight that I had to break up. “We still can't believe Van Halen turned into Van Hagar.” We lamented that one too. Daughtry is a member of my generation, stuck between Gen X and Millennials, sharing traits with both but not belonging to either. So it makes sense that we share many if the same musical influences and he would talk to his friends about the same bands like Jeff and I did.

Puller: “#1 Fan”
It started as a jam session with Thomas, Steve, and Nate. The next day, Thomas was beyond excited and wouldn’t stop talking about it. “You wouldn’t believe how good Steve sounded. Man, you gotta come with us the next time we do this.” So I did. I was there the next time they jammed. And the time after that. By then they officially joined as a band and named themselves The Tommymosnters. They recruited me to be their audio technician and I controlled the mixer for them at all of their rehearsals. I ran sound for them at their concerts. Accompanied them on adventures to a garage band festival in McCall Idaho, an independent musicians conference in Seattle, and a road trip to Eugene Oregon. I took a lot of pictures, promoted them, helped book shows, and hung out in the studio when they recorded their three song demo. The called me their manager, but I was really an over-glorified roadie. After all was said and done, I was their number one fan.

Poor Old Lu: “Chance for the Chancers”
The Tommymonsters frequently covered this song in their concerts. Everyone in our house knew how to play it so it was a favored song in our group sing-a-longs. Thomas even taught me how to play it. One night, we had five people on acoustic guitars, a couple tambourines, and a dozen people singing “Chance for the Chancers.” It was a beautiful experience. However, there is one memorable moment where this song played a significant role – not just in my life, but also in the life of another person who needed to hear it. You can read that story here.

Hip-Hop & Me Part 2: I Love Rap Music

As a 19 year old kid working in a record store, I selected a Master P album from our display racks and started reading out loud through the track listings. After each title, my friend Jeff and I would take turns making a joke about the song. When I got to the song 'I Miss My Homies,' Jeff shouted across the store, "Then you shouldn’t have shot him!" We thought of it as light hearted humor at the expense of our homophobic coworker who also happened to be Master P's biggest fan. We mocked an entire genre for cheap laughs without understanding anything about the music or culture.

I quit the record store job early in 1999 and by June I was contemplating if Seattle had any purpose in my future. In August, I moved away from my folks and relocated to the Boise area. I got a job stocking merchandise for Old Navy, unloading the delivery trucks and folding stacks of clothing to be displayed for customers to peruse in the morning. After the store was closed, we would turn the radio up for the graveyard crew - most frequently tuned to an urban music station. Jay-Z, Ludacris, and Outkast were huge at the time - their songs played often while we stacked jeans and t-shirts into neat piles to be toppled and torn asunder by the time we returned for our next shift.

But it wasn't their music that helped me fully celebrate rap music. Instead, it was a sextet of albums which turned me into a real rap fan - four of them released from the same label. Common's Like Water for Chocolate, Mars Ill's Raw Material, Tunnel Rats' Tunnel Vision, MG The Visionary's Transparemcee, Sup The Chemist's Dust, and Dilated Peoples’ Expansion Team. These six records challenged the way I thought about rap songs, hip-hop culture, music composition, racial reconciliation, and the disparities between urban black communities and the world in which I was raised.

As I got older, I related more and more to hip-hop. The circumstances of my life exposed me to tragedies and people and environments I had never seen while growing up in Marysville, Washington. I saw the effects of poverty, drug abuse, broken homes, and racism. Gradually, rap made more and more sense. When they talked about struggle, I knew what it was like. When they talked about justice, I looked from their perspective. All those elements of hip-hop I previously despised took on new meanings.

Finally, I understood all of it. For many rap artists, their talk of violence and criminal activity was an explanation of their situation and not a justification of their actions. They were telling listeners about the challenges they faced. They were not glorifying their flaws, they were looking for a way out. They were describing the world around them. The objectionable lyrics focused on the lives they had, not the lives they wanted.

I could relate. Even white boys from the suburbs can comprehend when life doesn't turn out the way you dreamed.

These days, my youngest son wants to be a rapper when he grows up. Either that or a professional athlete. Maybe a police officer if his first two options don't work out. I carefully filter his musical options; I’d rather steer JJ away from destructive voices and curate instead a collection of superior aptitudes, attitudes, and messages. There are some awful rappers out there and always will be, yet there are many more talented artists out there trying to change the culture. JJ and I will geek-out over some of his favorites: Lecrae, Social Club Misfits, Canon, KB, Derek Minor, Tedashii, and NF. Today, I'm more encouraged by the state of hip-hop than ever before.

If you see me bobbin my head, there’s a good chance I’m listening to Propaganda. Or Chance the Rapper. Maybe Sho Baraka, Talib Kweli, Pigeon John, or Kendrick Lamar. I’m not just listening to their music, I’m hearing their perspectives. And I’m learning. Because of these artists, I can return to the hook of the very first rap song that got me hooked. I love rap music. I always have and I always will. Come listen with me. Maybe you’ll love it too.

I believed them

My brother and I always wanted a younger sister but our parents didn't want a third child.

the Casey boys

Since a biologically related sister wasn't an option, Aaron and I had to find our own through bonds formed by choice rather than blood. I met my little sister during my junior year of high school. She had just moved to the area and we formed an easy friendship. By the time I graduated high school, she was one of my best friends. We never developed a romantic interest and we were able to confide in each other as if we were siblings. Even today, I still occasionally call her sis.

hello, 1997

in the spring of 1996, she told me about a guy from school who kept calling her phone; if she answered, he'd say something creepy or leave annoying messages if she didn’t answer. He followed her on campus; she often caught him leering at her. While he had not touched her, she always felt unsafe if he was present. A couple weeks later, she joined me and two other guys to post promotional posters for the drama club's production of Neil Simon's Rumors. Mike ran inside the library while she and I sat in the cab of his truck, and Damien sat in the back. We were in the middle of conversation when she froze.

"Oh, my god, it's him."
"Who?" I asked.
"Remember me telling you about that guy who was stalking me? That's him."

The kid was walking toward us along the sidewalk. I started hollering to get his attention. "Hey, hey!"

He walked toward the open passenger window of Mike's truck. "You talking to me?"

I pointed to next to me and asked him if he recognized my friend. He denied it. "Are you sure?" I asked. "I don't believe you." His expression changed from oblivion to annoyance. I continued with instruction. I told him he was to leave her alone, stop calling her, not to speak to her, not to look at her. If I ever heard he was not following those guidelines, he would regret it.

By the time I stopped talking, his bothered look gave way to pure anger. "What are you going to do about it?" he asked.

Honestly, nothing. He was bigger and tougher. I wouldn't be able to hurt him if I tried. Thankfully, Damien was still in the back of the truck. Despite a teddy bear personality, Damien could be intimidating. Damien stood in the bed of the truck, crossed his arms, and said, "Or you'll have to deal with me." The kid's face changed once again, from anger to fear. He took a couple steps backward, confirmed he understood my demands, then turned and walked away as fast as he could. My friend never complained about him again.

During the fall of my senior year, I had a huge crush on a girl named Alexis. She was in an engineering class the same time I was studying architecture. The two classes were taught by the same teacher in a shared classroom. The kid who previously harassed my best friend was enrolled engineering with Alexis. She often came by my desk to talk when there was downtime. I was one of the few guys that was nice to her, most of the others shunned her on the belief that girls didn't belong in in tech classes. One day, while she was at my desk, the kid walked by. He didn't say anything, but Alexis cringed. I asked her what was wrong and she explained how that boy was a creep. He wouldn't leave her alone, frequently made lewd or demeaning comments, failed attempts to flirt with her, and often followed her to her next class. I let her know I would take care of it.

After class, the kid walked out the door next to Alexis and tried talking to her. Before he could follow her further, I ran beside of him, placed my arm around his shoulder, and steered him a different direction. I told him I really liked that girl and gave him the same instruction as before: leave her alone, don't call her, don't talk to her, don't look at her. He took me seriously and the next day in class, he avoided both of us. A week later, Alexis told me she doesn't know what I did but she was grateful.

Months, he showed up at a youth group event, invited by Kay, one of the girls I'd known since kindergarten. It was at church, so I took a softer approach. I let him know I was glad he was there and hoped he would stick around. I said I'd known Kay for a very long time and that I cared about her. I told him it was OK if the two of them dated with one big caveat: "Don't even think about hurting her." That was the last I saw him for a long time.

Two years after high school, I moved to Boise and completely forgot about the kid who made my friends feel violated. In the summer of 2001, I took a road trip with some friends to see the Poor Old Lu reunion concert in Seattle. While back in my home town for a couple days, we stopped by Safeway to pick up snacks. In the chips isle, a stranger walked around the corner. It took me a second before I recognized him. It was that jerk, the creeper, four years older than the last time I had seen him. As soon as he recognized me, he panicked. I saw his bottom lip quiver for a second before he turned around and ran away. He dropped his shopping basket as he left, abandoning whatever he was shopping for.

It was the first time I could remember anyone fearing me. At the time, I wasn't anyone to be afraid of - a short skinny wimp whose friends were all cooler and tougher than me. But this kid was genuinely terrified. Perhaps it wasn't me that frightened him - instead it was what I represented that scared him. I think he was a sketchy dude who knew the way he treated women was wrong and he was petrified I would hold him accountable for his actions. See, guys like him, abusers and assaulters, they don't want to answer for their deeds. Today, in a world where more women are speaking up and speaking out against people who hurt them, these are the men who believe "it's a scary time for young men in America." They believe it because they have reason to be afraid.

I'm glad my little sister spoke up when she did and that Alexis felt safe enough around me to say something. Sure, they disclosed the facts of their assailant to me, but I know they never involved the police or school administration. I have no idea if they ever told their parents about the creepy kid at school who was stalking and harassing them. But they did tell me, and I believed them. If that kid (now in his 30s) ever ran for political office, I'm sure multiple girls from his past would oppose him. They would shine a spotlight on the traumas they experienced because of him. They would do everything they could to prevent him from holding any position to govern others. Unfortunately, I don't think anyone currently leading our nation would believe them.

That makes me sad.

The Struggle

By the time I joined the MPHS drama club, casting for Cheaper by the Dozen was complete. It was my sophomore year and I felt like should be playing a sport; instead of auditioning for the fall play, I joined the tennis team. I eventually walked into the auditorium hoping to be a part of whatever happened in there. Mr K, the director and theater teacher told me he didn't believe in understudies so there wasn't a role available for me. However, he allowed me to become the stage manager, a position I held through every drama club production for the rest of my high school career.

Cheaper by the Dozen is a based on a 1948 novel about a family with twelve kids and their father's unorthodox parenting strategy. During one of the dress rehearsals, Mr K stood next to me and pointed to one of the guys on stage whose character was an elementary-aged kid. He said, "It's a shame you didn't audition. If you had, I would have given you his part."

Mr K was pointing to a lanky kid named Daniel. He taller than most, over-sized for his character’s age. On appearance alone, I would have been a better fit. I was short, barely weighed 100 pounds, and looked younger than Daniel.

It's a good thing tennis practice kept me away from the casting call. Daniel was a damn good actor, and he used this role to prove his skill. He was given the lead role in almost every production after that. Harold Hill in The Music Man, Charlie Gordon in Flowers for Algernon, Cyrano in Cyrano de Bergerac. Even in smaller roles, Daniel shined. His father helped build many of our sets including the elaborate stairway and second story balcony for Neil Simon's Rumors.

During our senior year, I began eating lunch in the auditorium, joined by Daniel and a few other students. Drama class immediately followed lunch as we prepared for our spring production of Into the Woods. We had great discussions while we ate, youthful debates on politics and religion.

Observing Daniel for three years on stage, I was impressed. If any of us had the potential to become famous, it was him. Through our interactions as peers and in those lunchtime conversations, I saw him as one of those kids who had it all together. It seemed like the fates were in his favor. The world was his for the taking.

After graduation, we lost contact. Social media didn't exist in 1997 and I only made efforts to keep track of my closest friends. In '99, I moved to Boise and my classmates became strangers and memories. For years, I knew nothing of what happened to Daniel or any of the other kids from Marysville-Pilchuck. Until Facebook.

High school wasn't the happiest era of my history. When I started connecting with former classmates through Facebook, I was (and still am) highly selective. While I do assign great nostalgic value to the music and movies of the 90's, I have zero interest in reliving my teenage years. There is no former glory to go back to, the best years of my life are happening now. The former classmates I've "friended" on Facebook are those who I am genuinely interested in knowing what's happening in their lives today. Daniel is one of those individuals.

When we first reconnected online, I was unsurprised by the kind of man he became. Married, lives in the Seattle area, embraces and celebrates geek culture, works in marketing, and looks like the kid I remembered from years past. Except he's bald now. I was also happy to see he's still acting. Daniel regularly performs in Shakespeare productions, is active in the local theater community, and has received several praising reviews. More than any of our classmates, he appears to be living out his childhood dreams. Over the past few years, I've found greater admiration and respect for him than I ever did when we were kids. Hopefully, someday soon, I can make a trek back to the west side of the state, see one of his shows, and meet him at some hipster bar for drinks to catch up on the lives we've lived for the past 20 years.

Even in Daniel’s charmed existence, despite those things he posts which fits within my preconceived notions of his personality, he occasionally surprises me. Last week, he posted the following message:

"I suffer from depression and anxiety. I've carried around a persistent sadness since as far back as I can remember. I'm not suicidal but these thoughts run through my brain on a near daily basis."

Daniel included a video of notes written by people who have suicidal thoughts while they're not suicidal. Statements like:

"It's having this numbing ache inside you don't know how to mute."
"They're fleeting but frequent thoughts that attack you even when you feel completely fine."
"It's like being trapped in a brain you're unfamiliar with."
"It's not really the thought, 'I want to kill myself,' but more, 'I don't care if I die.'"

image courtesy of The Mighty

At my lowest point, I had similar thoughts crashing inside my mind. I never felt suicidal. I never wanted to end my life. I carried too much Wesleyan guilt and shame to commit any form of self-harm. Yet I felt as if it would be OK if I perished in a tragic accident or as the victim of a random act of violence. The video Daniel shared echoed voices that used to haunt me. I knew I wasn't alone in my thoughts, thousands of Americans struggle with some form of depression. Yet I was surprised to see Daniel admit he was one of us.

I should know better. Artists like us are often prone to melancholy. Our talents are frequently borne from pain, from the darkest recesses of our psyches. Singers, musicians, painters, writers, actors, and other creative types. We all seek to exorcise our demons through our chosen craft. I also know that depression doesn't discriminate against age, race, gender, religion, or financial status. Success doesn't make you immune. Popularity and accolades do not inoculate your mental health. Achieving your dreams cannot protect you from suffering. Anyone could be struggling with anxiety or depression - even those of us who appear to be happy or have it all. Humans are complex creatures and there is more going on inside us than we ever display.

Daniel and I share a goal. It is the reason he posted the video and why I am writing this post. We both want to inspire someone in need of hope. We both believe mental health issues need better representation. We want to end the stigma against mental illness and create productive conversations about it. In my experience, the negative impact of depression lessened the more I talked about it.

When it was worst for me, I got help through counselling and medication. Daniel is in the process of doing the same. Our journeys look very different, yet we share the same message.

You are not alone.

You are valued.

You are important.

You are needed.

You are loved.

You are strong.

You are courageous.

Even if you don't feel like it, those seven statements are still true. Daniel and I stand as proof that there is light in the middle of darkness. Whether it is through a crisis hotline, a professional therapist, or a friendly face like mine or Daniel's, help is available.

If you need someone to talk to, please send me a message on Facebook or Twitter. You can also call the National Suicide prevention hotline at 1-800-273-8255 or text “HOME” to 741-741.

Ode to Mullets

It's the Kentucky waterfall, the neckwarmer, or the Camero cut. The official hairdo of NASCAR, ice hockey, country music, butt-rock, meth addicts, and our worst memories of the 80s. If you have one, I'll assume you drive an El Camino and listen to Nickelback. It's even a movie trope. When you see a kid with a mullet in the theater, you know he's a bully. Or a redneck. Or both.

image courtesy of New Line Cinema and Warner Bros Pictures

In the early days of Bush Jr's presidency, my friend Steve and I spent a couple afternoons mullet hunting. We'd hang out at Boise Towne Square or drive through Garden City looking for people with the regrettable hairstyle so we could take a photograph of them. Somewhere on the internet, in the days before social media, there was a website full of hilarious pictures of mullet-topped citizens. It even had them sorted by classifications, coiffured subspecies. There was the frullet (part afro, part mullet), or the skullet (bald on top, long and flowy in back). The website was completely driven by user submissions and Steve's goal was for them to use a picture he submitted.

We never got a picture good enough to be sent to the web collection of epic mullets. But a juvenile with a kidlet (kid with a mullet) flipped us off, and we were chased through the mall by a body builder unironically dressed like a member of The Power Team.

image courtesy of The Power Team

There are times I wish I had a camera with me to sneak a photo of some creative mullets. At a birthday party for a friend of a friend several years ago, there was a mullet of preposterous proportions worn by the birthday boy's mother's girlfriend. It started with mall-bangs up front (like Tiffany in I Think We’re Alone Now), Farrah Fawcett feathering on top, buzzed in racing lines on the side, and the mullet sprouting down the back. But it was no ordinary mullet, it was divided in half. The left side was cut a few inches shorter than the right side and neither half was trimmed straight; the two sides were cut at odd angles - one of which was sharper than the other. Finally, out from underneath the staggered mullet, like Obi Wan in Episode 1, a thin Padawan braid pony tail hung down to her waistline. It's like her hairstylist asked her what she wanted and she replied, "Give me one of everything."

It's been a good long while since I've witnessed one in public, until this week. It was a mullet that was trying not to be a mullet but clearly was still a mullet.

Between his build and facial features, he looked like Milton from Office Space. His fashion choices were similar too, only substitute current geek-chic glasses for the oversized wire frames and add a minimalist tribal tattoo sleeve.

image courtesy of 20th Century Fox

As for the hair? It was that weird moldy blonde, similar in color and texture as Donald Trump, and slicked back the way Trump’s sons do. Then in back it went down further than you’d expect, ending in a peculiar pointy shape - as if it was once a rat tail cut off while he slept by a prankster sibling.

Mullets have often been referred to as business up front and party in the back. This hair cut was New Yorker up front and homeschooled from Athol in the back. Never have I been more confused by someone else’s haircut.

Thankfully, the mullet has faded from use. Billy Ray Cyrus abandoned it years ago and it's been shunned by most everyone in the public spotlight from politicians to race car drivers to aging metalheads. The mullet is known as a cultural embarrassment and I hope it remains stigmatized for years to come.

The Difference Between Lust & Love

Several years ago, I was in charge of shipping and delivery at a major clothing retailer. My team would work from 3pm to midnight on merchandising and janitorial tasks until a cargo truck would deliver our freight; we would unload and open the boxes, sort the contents, and restock the store's shelves. Ideally, the store would be properly stocked, cleaned, and orderly by midnight and ready to open the next morning. After work and off the clock, we were all night owls. My crew migrated from the Boise Towne Square Mall to the Shari's Restaurant around the corner. There we would spend a couple hours drinking coffee and snacking on French fries, laughing and telling each other stories.

During this season of my life, there were a couple coworkers that became good friends. After one of the late night shifts and social time at Shari's, he and I lingered in the parking lot leaning against my car and talked for another two hours about God and girls. He had just proposed to his girlfriend and was so giddy – even surprised she actually said yes. His joy was contagious; I had no choice but to feel excited along with him.

I was dating someone at the time, but the thought of marriage and a future were nowhere near a reality in my 21-year-old brain. It seemed like such a foreign concept until this friend of mine made it real and urgent. So I asked a question any young and dumb college aged kid would ask: "How did you know she was the one?"

He answered, "Oh I'm so glad you asked."

"I was reading my bible and I came across 1 Corinthians 13." (The love chapter where Paul detailed love in his letter to the church in Corinth. It is frequently read at weddings and the kind of passage a good Christian boy would read during his devotional time when he's fallen in love.)

He continued. "I know that we're supposed to be imitators of God. And I know that God is love. When the verses started saying 'love is this' I started thinking 'God is that.' Then I wondered if I could say I was that too."

"When it came to my girlfriend, I asked myself, 'Am I patient with her? Am I kind to her? Am I humble around her? Am I unselfish? Do I rejoice when she speaks truth? Do I bear her burdens? Do I believe in and hope for the best? Am I willing to endure hardships alongside her?' As I thought about it I realized I could answer yes to all of those questions."

"Then I thought about her. Is she patient with me? Yes. Is she kind, humble, and selfless? Yes. Does she rejoice in truth? Yes. Is she willing to bear my burdens and endure hard times with me? Yes. Does she believe in and hope for the best? Yes."

"It hit me, Nic," he said, "I love her. And not only do I love her, but I love her the way scripture defines love. And she loves me the same way. That is how I knew she was the one."

As I drove home that night, I thought about my girlfriend. Did I love her according to 1 Corinthians 13? Is that how she loved me? Did we even love each other? By the time I got home, the only answer I could reach was 'I don't know.'

Ultimately, the answer was no. A few months later, we broke up. Her dad convinced her that someone who worked freight at Old Navy was not good enough for his daughter and the two of us went separate ways. My friend invited me to his wedding but I did not go. He quit working at Old Navy and I moved to a new store with more responsibility. The last time we spoke was a week before the ceremony; I have never seen anyone more sure of what they wanted in life.

Fast forward a dozen years and my marriage was falling apart. In the aftermath of divorce, I began analyzing love as if I was conducting a post-mortem examination. Something had died; was it love? What was the cause of death?

I asked myself challenging questions trying to identify where I went wrong. I examined the nature of love and romance and commitment. I wanted to root out the source of failure so that I would never experience the same demise of love.

Did she honestly love me?
Did I truly love her?
Or was I more in love with the concept of her?
If you love the idea of a relationship with a person more than you do the actual person, is it really love?
If it isn't love, what is it?
Is it lust?

Why is it so easy for us to confuse the difference between lust and love? Is that confusion why so many husbands and wives have affairs or leave their spouses for someone younger, wealthier, and/or better looking?

I don't have answers to many of these questions. My mind has frequently returned to that 2am conversation in the Denny's parking lot during the spring of 2000. When I interrogated myself on the drive home that night, the only answer I could provide was "I don't know." Much is the same now. Did she ever love me? I don't know. Did I ever love her? I don't know.

In the absence of definitive answers, I have fought to understand real love. What does it mean? What does it look like? How does it feel? How does it work?

While the 13th chapter of 1 Corinthians is famous for detailing what love is and is not, what it does and doesn't do, it also provides a chronological perspective of now versus then. Paul wrote, "For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away." And later, "For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, then I shall know fully."

Now I realize that my understanding is and probably always will be incomplete. For now, I only know in part. I only prophesy in part. I am only staring dimly into a mirror. Paul wrote about a time - a then - when we would know fully and see clearly. Until that then comes, I need answers greater than "I don't know."

What is the difference between love and lust? I have some answers now, but they are still incomplete. I am only answering in part.

Lust is an inward expression; love is an outward expression.
Lust is focused on self; love is focused on others.
Lust asks "What do I get out of it?" Love asks "What do I have to give?"
Lust fantasizes about what will never happen; love builds upon what already exists.
Lust thrives in imagination; love thrives in action.
Lust has zero investment; love is committed.
Lust risks nothing; love risks everything.
Lust gives up; love endures.
Lust wishes; love plans.
Lust skims the surface; love plumbs the depths.
Lust is fickle; love is unwavering.
Lust seeks a cheap thrill; love creates passion.
Lust won't fix what is broken; love is constantly improving what needs repaired.
Lust sees flaws everywhere; love sees the best in everything.
Lust devalues; love redeems.

These answers are incomplete. But until the day I fully understand, this will be enough.

To be an Idaho citizen Part 1

If you are to live in Idaho for any extended duration, you will discover much to enjoy. From the depths of Hells Canyon and Snake River Canyon to the heights of Borah Peak, the Selkirk Mountains, or the Sawtooth Range. From world class ski resorts of Sun Valley, Brundage, or Schweitzer Mountain to the the beauty of Payette, Coeur d'Alene, and Pend Oreille lakes. From Craters of the Moon National Monument to City Of Rocks National Preserve to the Cataldo Mission National Historic Landmark. From deserts to forests. From peaceful valleys to alpine ridges. From farming canals to wild rivers. From the Mormon dominated south to the libertarian north. The hunting and fishing and boating and swimming and hiking and spelunking. The metropolitan entertainment and agricultural fields and state fairs and community festivals and art galleries and distilleries and cheese factories and coffee roasters. The clean air. Most people would be able to find an aspect about the state of Idaho that they could love.

We have been nicknamed the Gem State because of the varieties of gemstones that can be or have been found within our borders. This state is also a figurative gem because of its something-for-everyone setting. The city dweller. The suburbanite. The farmer. The redneck. The thrill seeker. The artist.

Idaho has been home to authors and poets like Ernest Hemingway and Ezra Pound; actresses Patty Duke and Ellen Travolta; actors Viggo Mortensen, Dennis Franz, and Ben Stein; athletes like Jake Plummer and Don Larsen; even Philo Farnsworth - the guy that invented the television. At some point in time, Bruce Willis, Arnold Schwarzenegger, John Elway, Mark Zuckerberg, Clint Eastwood, and Wayne Gretzky have owned vacation properties in Idaho. This is a state that has inspired adventure as well as offered a quiet retreat for many.

In my little corner of Kootenai County, I have come to appreciate our event-filled tourist season that seems to never end. Car d'Alene, Ironman, the Fourth of July parade and fireworks show, Julyamsh pow wow, Art on the Green, North Idaho Fair. I love our nearness to the rugged wilderness and access to the amenities of Spokane on the other side of the state line. The smell of mint as I drive across the prairie, the roar of water falling over the Post Falls Dam, the feel of wind sweeping inland from the lakes and rivers, and the relieving chill as I dip my toes into the water after a hike around Tubbs Hill. We experience all four seasons in their truest forms: wet but warm springs with cherry blossoms and electrical storms, long hot summers that will compel you to seek either air conditioning or your favorite stretch of beach, cool and crisp autumns with colorful foliage, and frigid snowy winters that make recent Californian transplants regret their decision to move north.

This is my home.

Before I start to sound like I am speaking on behalf of the Department of Commerce and Tourism, before you assume I'm trying to convince all of my out-of-state friends to relocate to my neighborhood, there's more.

Idaho contains unparalleled scenery. It is a golfer's and sportsman's paradise. We have miles and miles of trails to support any fitness advocate. Foodie will find their favorite culinary haunts. If you're looking for good wine or good gin, you'll find it in Idaho. Life here is something that anyone could get used to.

However ...

If you are to live in Idaho, you will have to accept that crazy is the default setting for most of the politicians that run this state. The capitol building in Boise is a stunning and gorgeous work of architecture, but the business that is conducted within its walls borders between insanity and absurdity.

photo credit: Boise Architecture Project

There is more. If you want to know what kind of mindlessness lurks around Idaho's government, you'll have to read part two tomorrow.

The catylist of a dream

After writing two different blog series about the church, an idea took root. Over the last couple of months, what was once just a dream, became an idea. That idea is turning into a reality.

I have a quirk. I'm not really interested in my own success. I derive more personal satisfaction helping others be successful than I do in my own personal victories. So I envisioned an organization where I could support artists in my community and be the catalyst for their success.

In helping others achieve artistic success, I recognize that many have hurdles too high to jump over. Walls that some might consider unbreakable. Roadblocks that might as well be dead ends. Those challenges may be a creative slump, writer's block, a muse that no longer speaks. It could be fear of failure, performance anxiety, stage fright. It could be time management - conflicting schedules and priorities. Then there are things that can't be done alone. That no matter how talented an individual might be there are occasions where they need a partner, a resource, guidance, support.

All these holes within the artistic community. Places where people need help. Over the past couple months, that idea has become an deafening roar. I can help.

I can be that person. I could be the hub in the center of the wheel that connects the individual spokes to the others. I could be the underwater ridge joining the islands of an archipelago.

Several years ago, my buddy Steve and I took a road trip from Boise to Seattle for an independent musician's conference. The conference was held at the EMP with appearances from bigwigs from Sub Pop and The Seattle Weekly. The highlight (and the reason Steve and I drove there and back) was to do a Q&A session with some really cool people. One was an A&R person from a local music label, another was an editor for an indie magazine. But the third person on the panel was the one I was most excited to meet and talk to: Chris Ballew of The Presidents of the United States of America. If you don't remember PUSA, chances are you were not alive during the mid-90s. (Millions of peaches, peaches for free. Anyone? Anyone???)

Beside the point, I'm getting side tracked.

The Q&A was set up for the panelists to listen to short clips from submitted demo tapes from the bands and musicians that attended; Steve and I had submitted the demo that Steve's band had just finished. After listening to about 20-30 seconds of a song (sometimes two songs), one of the panelists would ask the people that submitted the demo, "What do you want to do next?" Answers ranged from recording a better demo, to wanting a record deal, to building a fan base. Questions arose about how to self promote, how to find studio musicians for a backing band, and copyright issues. Steve and I asked what we needed to do to get noticed outside of Boise. Chris gave us wise advice: "if you can't make it in Boise, you won't be able to make it anywhere else." The last ten years has seen revolutionary changes for musicians. Websites like ReverbNation, Band Camp, and NoiseTrade have created outlets for indie artists to get their songs in front of new listeners with out the assistance of major labels. Crowdfunding has created avenues for artists to finance their projects that didn't exist a few years ago. These changes have made it easier in some respects, but at the same time it's made it harder to be an independent artist. Despite the changes with in the music industry over the past decade, the advice that Chris Ballew and other industry insiders gave to that crowded room at the EMP are just as true today as it was then.

Looking back, that weekend was one of the greatest experiences I've ever had. I learned more in those few hours than I could have anticipated.

The question asked of us is vital to the life of an artist - whether it's a musician or a photographer, a writer or a filmmaker. A woodworker or a painter. The question that must be asked is this: what's next?

What do you want to do?
What do you want to accomplish?
What is your dream?
What is your next step?

For some, these questions might be too big to answer - or at least too big to answer out loud. But, wherever the artist is in their journey - from the kid strumming their first power chords on a $150 guitar in their parent's basement, to the actress taking a bow after the closing night's performance, everyone has a dream. But not everyone knows how to take that step.

I could help people find that next step and help them take it.

The formation of a dream

In the 26 years that have passed since I first listened to Jim Morrison's Grave, my dream has been under refinement.

I took art classes in junior high and got involved with the drama program. I found my voice while on stage pretending to be someone else. Then I wandered away from my dream. Throughout high school, I had my heart set on becoming an architect. But by the time I graduated, I had been reminded of my calling from 1987. I had a plan to go to college for a speech/communications major then return home to get a job as a radio DJ. That plan fell apart as my family could not afford to send me to college. I also met some interns that worked for KNDD in Seattle; they gave me an eye opening glimpse into what it took to break into the radio industry.

With that version of my dream turning sour, I floundered for a while. I knew that someday, I would find my place working with music and art. There was still a kid inside me that wanted to be a rock star despite my crappy singing voice and limited guitar skills. As reality and adult responsibilities took over, I did what ever I could. Running soundboards for churches, concerts, and theatrical productions. Managing and promoting my best friend's band while living in Boise. Hanging out in recording studios while my friends recorded their demo tapes. I spent a little over a year as a DJ in Sioux Falls. When I moved back to Idaho, I helped teach a youth worship band how to play songs and lead worship.

Somewhere in there, the studio became my dream. I felt comfortable behind a soundboard. I daydreamed about how wonderful it would be if I were to produce a hit single. The recording process was alluring to me, but the rise of home studios (with software like Pro Tools and GarageBand) eroded the practicality of opening my own recording studio.

DJing is some of the most fun I've ever had while earning a paycheck. Since returning to Idaho, I've had three gigs, all done for free; my sister-in-law's wedding, the wedding of my wife's best friend, and a junior high dance party. My sister-in-law's reception is probably the best gig I ever played. After that wedding, while driving home, Bekah and I talked about the possibility of me DJing as a job again, but this time doing it on my own. She saw how much fun I had mixing the music, she recognized my talent, she entertained the possibility, and encouraged me to do some research. There aren't any wedding DJs in Coeur d'Alene. You either have to hire a karaoke jockey, or go hire someone from Spokane. The market here would be all mine. But I also understand the crippling funds of buying a mixer, amp, speakers, microphones, and lights - not to mention paying the song royalties that make it legal to be a professional DJ. All conspired to make it cost-prohibitive to start my own DJ business. DJing would also take away my ability to spend weekends with my family.

So, I've operated in stasis.

Then, two years ago, I wrote a series about the church. That we as Christians too easily make people feel out of place and how I've felt like an outcast most of my life. That we let ourselves get wrapped up in issues that don't matter. That we set unrealistic expectations. That we manipulate people with fear. We create unnecessary rules. And we end up pushing people away. I came to a conclusion that we can do better.

As soon as I hit publish on that seventh and final post, my brain started pondering about what would be next. I wrestled with those thoughts about where this would take me. After reading Don Miller's Blue Like Jazz, I marveled at the purpose of his church, Imago Dei - a church that values creativity and is populated by artists, writers, and musicians. It's the kind of church that I could have only dreamed existed.

It was the kind of church I wish existed in Coeur d'Alene.

My dream began to take shape. Someday I'd like to either start or take part in a church that focuses on ministering to artists. But that's someday. I'm not ready for that now. My dream continued to go through revisions until last October, when I wrote about the church's relationship with art. I walked through a brief history of sacred art. I explained how Christians involved in the arts feel abandoned and alone because of the church's tendency to put their artists on pedestals and hold them to double standards. I demonstrated a need for greater creativity within the religious community and explained why artistry matters. I found inspiration in the life of King David and in the words of Leonard Nimoy.

When writing the series of church and art, I came to the same conclusion as when I wrote my first series about the church. We can do better.

The Way I Thought That Things Would Be: Grocery Shopping

If you read yesterday's post, you should now know about the disdain the younger me possessed when it came to vegetables. This searing hatred wasn't just a product of my childhood. It was present throughout my teenage years and lasted into young adulthood.

By the time I got out of high school, I started fending for myself more and more. My brother was married and starting his family life. My parents both worked full time. Most days, I was either working or hanging out with friends; I was rarely home. My diet consisted of jojos from the gas station, Chinese food from Safeway, grub from Fred Meyer's deli, Taco Bell's 59/79/99 cent menu, and movie theater popcorn.

Meal planning was not in my vocabulary.

I had just turned 20 when a couple of friends asked me to move to Nampa with them and split an apartment. Despite some initial resistance and paltry excuses, I accepted. It was the perfect time for me to move, and I discovered the Boise area was much better for me at that age than the Seattle area.

The downside of independent living was the increase in bills. My parents had been giving me a free ride. All of the money I earned was spent on food, entertainment, gas, and car insurance. Suddenly, I had to worry about stuff like rent and utilities. With a more restrictive budget, I had to (for the first time in my life) consider grocery shopping. For actual groceries.

Long before the 520 mile moving experience, even before Shane and Travis approached me with the idea of moving, I had a plan for stocking the kitchen when I finally moved out of my parents house.

Somewhere in the two years between graduating high school and the move to Nampa, I came to the resolution that I would always be adequately stocked. When I had my own place, my kitchen would never be without the three following items:

1. A gallon of ice cream
2. A bag of potato chips
3. A two liter of soda

As soon as one of those three things were empty, my plan was to make a trip to the grocery store and replace the depleted inventory. It's not because we had those items constantly available to us when I was growing up. But when I went over to friends' houses, it seemed like all of my friends had these items at their house. As it was clear that my friends were all from families richer than mine, I made a false equation that having soda and ice cream at your perpetual disposal equaled wealth. I thought that I'd feel like I was rich if I always had those three things ready to serve.

Then I moved out. I got my own place. My secret plan to rule the world (or at least rule my kitchen) could commence.

You can probably guess what happened. My plan was forgotten by the time my roommates and I made our first trip to the grocery store.

We did occasionally have soda, chips, and ice cream in our apartment. But stuff like laundry soap, toilet paper, and deodorant were far more important than the frivolous items I had previously considered necessities. It was during this phase of my life that I developed my spaghetti/nacho/potato diet.

But even then, I never imagined that I would walk up to a grocery story check stand with a shopping cart that looked like this:

Nothing but produce. Carrots, potatoes, bananas, a couple heads of romaine, oranges, cucumbers, and enough tomatoes for my daughter to eat one a day for the following week.

The younger version of myself thought I'd have no problem filling up a grocery cart with products from the deli, dairy, and meat counter. Take a spin through the pasta and cereal isles and a tour through frozen foods and I'd be ready to cook. The produce section was a foreign land. I did not have a passport or the proper immunizations.

I never thought I would spend so much time feeling, squeezing, and inspecting produce to ensure ripeness.

On the trip with the haul pictured above, only two more items made it into my cart before I paid and left the store. Some whole grain bread (another item the younger version of me never imagined buying) and milk.

I never envisioned I'd be one of those kinds of people in the grocery store checkout line. The health nut. The person without a single indulgence in their cart. I always thought those people were too pretentious. When did I become that kind of person?

Relationships: Unify - a week of living second

When I met Bekah, I got it. That younger version of myself instinctively knew how to make that girl's heart glissade and pirouette. Our first date was the stuff that from which fairy tales are made.

My roommate at the time was the worship leader at our church and I was the sound man. One of our other roommates played bass in the worship band. The three of us conspired to put on a magical Valentines date that (for two of us) would be the last first date that either of us ever attempted.

It started with dinner - a table for six at the Olive Garden. We talked and laughed and enjoyed each other's company. From there, we drove to our church. As the members of the worship team, my roommates had keys to the building, and the three of us guys had transformed the big room into a private movie theater. Instead of our weekly worship service, we watched The Princess Bride. As the movie credits rolled, the three of us guys escorted our dates to separate tables and disappeared into the church kitchen. We emerged with dessert and sparkling cider - which we served to the girls. Now at our own tables as individual couples, we could hold more private conversations. Once dessert was consumed, we each presented the girls a gift bag that held two disposable cameras - a his and hers camera. We then stormed out into the cold February night and wandered downtown Boise armed with six cheap cameras posing as couples and as friends on street corners, with public art, on escalators, and one with the three of us guys nearly falling into the fountain at Capitol Blvd and Idaho Street.

It was our first date, but not our last. Over the next year, there were several occasions that clicked - those moments where Bekah and I knew that we were going to be together forever. It was the two of us cruising down Fairview, singing along to a song on the radio like we were the only two people in the world. It was both us us having the identical reaction to a goofy looking statue in the courtyard between the IMAX theater and the Edwards cinema on our way to see a movie. It was how we were equally critical of the skanky way girls dressed at Boise Towne Square. We thought alike. We seemed to have similar taste in movies and several shared interests. We weren't identical people, but similar enough.

Fast forward a year and a couple months, I still got it. We had spent a couple hours posing for photos with our family and closest friends. She was beautiful in her wedding gown. We had over estimated the time it would take for pictures. With guests arriving for the ceremony, our families distracted, and nothing better to do, we made a run for it. We jumped in her Ford Festiva and escaped the wedding before it even happened. We didn't go far, we only drove around the block and stopped at Jamba Juice. She was in her gown and I was dressed in my tux. The Jamba Juice staff was polite and congratulatory. They looked a little confused when we told them that we weren't married yet. "Isn't it bad luck to ... " they said as we ran out the door with our drinks in hand. A week later, we had that Festiva packed as full as we could get it so that we could move half way across the country to start a new life together in Sioux Falls. We were full of wild dreams and youthful hopes.

We were of one mind. When Paul was writing his letters to the early churches, he had this kid of unity in mind. He advised that we (be it friends, lovers, or a family of believers) should have that strength in a unified life. In Philippians, he said "if you have ... any tenderness and compassion, then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and of one mind."

For those of you that are married, you know that kind of oneness is hard to maintain. Not just difficult, but strenuous.

Fast forward some more. It's been nearly eleven years since that fist date and almost ten since we ran away to get some Jamba Juice. I don't get it quite as easy as I did back then. These days, I make more missteps than anything else. I'm more likely to cause Bekah's eyes to roll than I am to make her heart dance. To be honest, I'm not sure how we got here. Over the past decade, Bekah was diagnosed with a chronic illness, we moved back to Idaho, we've added three small people to our family (and all three of our kids are special needs), we made some stupid financial decisions and had to pay the consequences, and we've suffered heartbreak and loss. We've had richer and poorer. We've had sickness and health. We've had better and worse. And somewhere, in the middle of that we've (like that old Righteous Brother's song) lost that lovin' feeling.

But that's just a feeling. The choice we made a decade ago still stands. We still choose to love each other deeply. We have a shared faith in God. And we both believe that our marriage is worth fighting for. That unified mind is there somewhere. Sometimes hiding. Once in a while it comes out to play. With three kids, two dogs, a mortgage, and five different schedules to juggle, being like-minded doesn't come as naturally as it did when we were young and care free.

We are determined to not become a statistic. We vowed to love each other until our bodies are claimed by death. It is here were living second takes on an additional dimension. I can say that God is first in my life (and Bekah would tell you that God is first in her life as well). But to be of one unified mind, there's more in that second chapter of Philippians, and it's a part that I often forget. It's not enough to just be of one spirit and one mind. We also need to be looking to the interests of others. I need to be second to God, but I also need to be second to my wife. And I need to be second to my kids. I wish I could tell you that I've figured out the easy way to do that, but I can't. Partially because I'm not perfect. But mostly because it's not easy.

It takes work. It takes a lot of effort. But it's worth it.

Note: This post was written in support of the Live Second book release. Live Second is a year long study from Doug Bender and the I Am Second team. Relationships is the seventh week and covers topics like forgiveness, love, and unity.

For more info on the book, go HERE or HERE.

For more on I Am Second, check out their site.

Church vs. Art part 5: My Least Favorite Acronyms

RIYL. FFO. Those are two of my least favorite acronyms. They mean “recommended if you like” and “for fans of.”

There is a time and place where these abbreviations are useful or appropriate. In the realm of Christian art, they’re exploited.

If you like these bands, you’ll like these musicians. If you like these movies, you’ll like this movie. If you like these photographers, you’ll like this photographer. If you’re a fan of a, b, or c – you’ll be a fan of x, y, or z.

Overuse of these comparative acronyms is the epitome of laziness. It is a symptom of either the forced or willful absence of creativity. It is the agonizing slow death of artistic passion. Remove autonomy and you’re left with homogeny.

Industry insiders are all looking for the next big thing and the human brain is programmed to crave conformity. Those two factors conspire to impose a dogmatic approach to artistic innovation. This explains the influx of supernatural romance novels being published after the Twilight series became popular. This is evidenced in the countless grunge bands that were signed to major labels after the release of Nirvana’s Nevermind and Pearl Jam’s Ten. It defines the reinvigoration of fairy tales in pop culture with two shows from two different networks tackling the world of fables (Once Upon a Time, Grimm) and two theatrical releases portraying divergent interpretations of the Snow White story (Mirror Mirror, Snow White and the Huntsman).

But if truly original artists want to break big in the real world, all they need to do is build a fan base and then make that fan base bigger. Please don’t assume I am trying to over simplify things or make it sound easy – as if anyone could become famous. It is not an effortless process. For most that have achieved any measure of success in a creative field, it took significant hard work. I have seen that time and effort first hand as friends of mine tried to establish themselves as a new band in Boise. Several of my friends have started photography businesses and their self employment is nothing short of the very definition of hustle. My sister-in-law is in the process of getting her first book published, and that is the result of a decade of her trying and trying again. The point is that if enough people notice you and that recognition grows, eventually the industry will take notice.

Unfortunately, the rules are different in the Christian subculture. The notion that Christian artists must resemble something that is currently popular in the mainstream world is ingrained into the way that Christian industries function. They’re looking for the Christian version of Lady Gaga, or the Christian version of Stephanie Meyer. The reason this happens is logical: it is easier to market a new band or a new author when you can compare it to something that the audience all ready likes. It’s easy to sell something when you can attach the label RIYL or FFO.

The Christian industry goes a step beyond secular comparisons – it even looks to build upon its own successes. There is a desire to duplicate the success of TobyMac, or Ted Dekker. If it worked once, why can’t it work again?

The Assemblies of God church in my hometown was a hotbed for musical talent. Their youth group had a dynamic worship team and many of the kids there were forming bands. Around the time this was going on, Jars of Clay’s debut album was huge. The band was being nominated for Grammy awards; their single Flood was the number one most requested song on alternative radio and was finding frequent rotation on MTV. It seemed like no other Christian band had found that much success in mainstream markets. Every Christian teenager trying to start a band wanted to be the next Jars of Clay. That desire to replicate the Jars of Clay sound was apparent in our little community. Some bands did it right and had the open chord driven acoustic guitar rock with male vocals that sounded like Dan Haseltine. Those bands were able to attract larger audiences than bands that attempted a more imaginative approach to music.

I don’t want to disparage any of these Christian artists. I own every Jars of Clay album. I’m a big fan of TobyMac’s music. I’ve read many of Ted Dekker’s books. I’m encouraged by the work that these writers, artists, and musicians have accomplished.

Yet, I want more. I want to see a greater number of people like Kemper Crabb, Matt Wignall, and Michael Gungor. If you do not recognize any of those three names, you have proven the need for more artists of their caliber.

Kemper Crabb is an Episcopalian minister who considers himself an artist-priest. He’s a founding member of the prog-rock band Atomic Opera, has recorded with popular CCM band Caedmon's Call, and has released a handful of solo albums that have an old English feel to them – a style of music that has limited appeal in any market. His views on artistry are fascinating. It is his conviction that kept him from falling prey to the RIYL acronym. As he explained in an interview with The Phantom Tollbooth, the Christian music industry wanted to mold his band into something else. They wanted a Christian version of Fleetwood Mac. Crabb’s response: “Why would we want to be the Christian Fleetwood Mac? There's already a Fleetwood Mac, and they're better at being Fleetwood Mac than we could be, and we're not even interested in Fleetwood Mac being the pagan Arkangel. We'd just kind of like to be who we are.”

Matt Wignall is a songwriter, singer, guitarist, artist, photographer, advocate for tattoos, and an enigmatic man defiant of trends. I met him in the late 90’s when I was working a merch table at Tomfest. His band, Havalina Rail Company was set up in the booth next to mine. He stood out more than any of the other performers – not because of his appearance but because of his persona. For starters, his band was stylistically out of step with the majority of the other acts at Tomfest – a music festival that was known for attracting punk, metal, and hardcore performances. Havilina was an odd (and sometimes uncomfortable) mix of jazz, country, blues, punk, Americana, folk, and art-house pop. They described their sound as “Spy Music.” In the middle of a bunch of tattooed and pierced kids buying t-shirts and vying to get autographs from their favorite hard rock bands, Matt pulled a lap steel guitar out from under the table full of posters and CDs and started to play licks that would have felt more at home in the Grand Ole Opry than at an alternative music festival. I watched him play and the look on his face was at peace, like there was no place he’d rather be than there at that moment.

I caught the tail end of Havalina’s performance set. Matt gave a short speech in between songs that has stayed with me in the years since. The popularity of third wave ska had started to wane that summer, just as swing music began to garner frequent radio play. Matt recognized that swing was something that would fit well with the style of music his band all ready played. He said fans frequently asked him why they didn’t play swing songs. And he said something about how pursuing trendy styles is the opposite of what Christians should do. He said that our God was the most creative force in the universe and our art should reflect that powerful creativity. We shouldn’t follow trends set by mainstream artists; Christians should be setting trends that others want to follow.

Michael Gungor is another talented musician that is poking holes into the theory that you must sound like someone else to succeed. He even addressed this issue in one of the best blog posts I’ve ever read. He described the process of how much of the Christian music industry functions – to communicate the gospel in whatever medium you wish. Style doesn’t matter because, in Michael’s words, “It’s not about the art, it’s about the message. … If you want to reach emo kids, then sing emo music but with Jesus language.” He picked apart this method of creation. The problem is that the heart of a musical style (or any other artistic craft) is more than skin and bones. Songs are more than chord structure, tempo, and vocal inflection. The end result of stripping the spirit of a particular music style and just replacing it with positive feel good lyrics is that it reduces the final product to what Michael calls “a musical zombie.” Michael listed of two byproducts of this practice: it makes us dishonest and it kills creativity. I wholeheartedly agree with him.

But Michael also pointed out the fact that Christian artists who go against the status quo and get noticed are described as creative (a label that he found interesting). He said the “creative” descriptor isn’t often used for mainstream artists. It’s mostly something you hear in the Christian arts. It’s like we’re surprised to hear or see a Christian artist that is truly creative. Michael wrote, “when someone in the Christian industry actually takes their art seriously, everybody is like ‘holy crap, listen to how creative it is!’ It’s like a person that’s been living among zombies for years seeing an actual human being and exclaiming, ‘wow, look at how clean her face is!’”

When everything seems like it's intended for fans of something else. When everything you see is recommended if you like that other thing. When everything you hear sounds like someone else. What other explanation is there when you hear something that you’ve never heard before?

Central Valley

It's all over the news. If you've been watching or reading or listening to any news source, you probably know the story. Ten Americans (eight of them from Idaho) were arrested while trying to leave Haiti with 33 children in their custody without any any documentation for the kids. They face up to 24 years in prison according to one article.

I'm not going to debate the intentions of the group. There's been enough discussion about this in the media there isn't much I could add. I don't know if their motivations were benign or malevolent. I don't really care if this a genuine legal issue or a big misunderstanding.

My favorite part of this story is the source... Central Valley Baptist.

Half of the imprisoned group (including the group's leader/organizer) are members of Central Valley Baptist in Meridian Idaho.

All this talk and news about this church in southern Idaho reminds me of my one and only interaction with them. Please allow me to rehash one of my fondest memories.

The guys that I hung out with when I lived in Boise were all musicians. One night, we went downtown during a cruise night to walk around and hang out. We ate some Pita Pit, walked around the crowded sidewalks, and waved at honking cars. We had brought a couple of acoustic guitars and ended up holding an impromptu jam session by the fountains on the corner of Capital and Idaho. It was in this plaza near Boise's City Hall that we were approached by a group of teens from Central Valley.

That was eight(ish) years ago, so I don't remember who in our group did the speaking. And I can't recall the CV youth's words verbatim. But the gist of the dialog is still very vivid in my mind.

It went a lot like this:

Them: Hi. We're from Central Valley Baptist, we'd like to share the gospel with you. (attempts to hand us tracts)
Us: No need. We've got it covered.
Them: But if you don't accept Jesus as your personal savior, you'll go to hell.
Us: Yeah, we've all ready done that. You can go preach to someone else who needs God more than us.
Them: But you need Jesus. You must repent of your sins.
Us: Did that. It's OK, we're Christians. We go to a church a few blocks from here.
Them: But Christians don't hang out downtown during the cruise. You are living in sin.
Us: You're down here during the cruise.
Them: But we're trying to save sinners!
Us: And we're trying to sing and play some music.
Them: If you don't believe in God's word…
Us: Dudes, we go to First Baptist. You don't need to preach to us.
Them: But you have to accept Jesus! (attempts to hand us tracts, again)
Us: We love Jesus… seriously… you can go harass someone else now.
Them: Fine! If you don't want to hear our message of love an hope, you can all go to Hell!

After that they stomped off. Good times folks. Good times.