Thoughts and Musings on Faith, Music, Family, Life

Just another youth group recording in the studio.

If you're looking for something crazy and insane to do this summer, how about this:

First, write a theme song for the summer youth conference you're leading music for.

Then, go into the studio to record that song, inviting some good musical friends/former bandmates to join in the fun.  Totally overestimate your own ability on instruments you really don't know how to play (read: mandolin and accordion). Learn the hard way that "faking live" and "faking in the studio" are two very different things.

Next, come up with an idea that, at first, sounds simple enough: since the song is written to be sung in a large group setting, why not ask your entire church youth group to travel down to Winston-Salem one weekday evening and record the choruses in the studio?  And while you're at it, coax your wife and boys to tag along.

After that, schedule a run-through the night before that doesn't even last an hour. Meet in the youth house, sit on couches, play the demo on your ipod. Do crazy stuff like asking them to split into guy parts and girl parts on the middle eight.

And then, to top it all off, ask your DCE to pile them in the church van and a member's minivan and drive them all to the studio.  Which, in this case, is the bottom floor of a two-story garage behind your buddy's house.  He's fixed it up extremely nice as a band room, but never in his wildest dreams did he ever imagine 20+ middle and high schoolers cramming in there around a condensor mic. Much less a 15-passenger church van parked out in front of his house.  Hand out three headsets and keep one for yourself, and ask these non-professionals to sing to a track the vast majority of them will never hear.  Wave your arms wildly in the air to bring them in and out and keep them in time.

Oh, and sweat profusely, since the A/C unit has to be turned off during the recording, lest the sensitive mic pic it up and transform it into the sound of a gushing wind.

Ask these kids to be totally silent until the moment they start singing, and then totally silent when they're done.  Ask them to cut their "s's" off at the same time so it doesn't sound like a snake pit.  Ask the young middle school boys to do their best impression of a grown man's deep voice, and ask two of the girls to sing the women's part an octave higher than the others - but not too loudly.

Did I mention the sweating profusely thing?

And then, when it's all said and done, tell them what an incredible job they did and how proud you are of them, because that's exactly what they did, and that's exactly how you feel.

If you can swing that, my friends, then it's already a pretty awesome summer.

 

My son and I are Ukuleleists. Or Ukeists. Or Uke players. Or Ukers.

It'd be nice if they had a standard name for it.  They do for all the others: Guitarist.  Pianist.  Drummer.  Cellist. Mandolin player. That last one is a little clumsy, if not consistent.

But for that four-stringed Hawaiian wonder that seems to be making a comeback of sorts these days, there's no one name.  So take your pick. Me?  I'm going with Uker.  Short and to the point, and it sounds cooler.

My boy got his uke a few weeks ago after pressing me to get him one. I found it for a steal.  He's going to take lessons this summer from George, a fellow Mayberry musician who teaches most anything with strings on it. I wound up getting one myself soon after, and may try to incorporate it into my acoustic gig at Round Peak Vineyards this weekend.  He's already written two tunes that use the same three chords he made up, just switching the order. Oh, and he's tackling Bohemian Rhapsody. Not kidding.

It's a fun little instrument - easy to hold and play, easy on the fingers. I dig the sound that comes from a well-crafted uke - bright when you pluck, percussive when you strum.  The biggest challenge are the chords - they bear a striking resemblance to guitar chords, but it's in a different tuning, so it plays with your mind a bit. A "D" is actually a "G" and an "A" is really a "D". We're working on it.

I don't know what qualifies one to be an expert Uker, but I'm nowhere near that. I'm just meandering around in a new musical arena, like taking a hike on a beautiful mountain trail I've never been on before. I've engaged in this exercise before, with varying results (note to self: there is no way to just "pick up" playing the fiddle).  This time around, I'm going to enjoy the journey and have some fun along the way.

And it's nice to have some company as well.

 

Thank God for Switchbacks

It's 9am on a crisp Memorial Day weekend, and my oldest son and I are sitting on the aluminum bleachers of our town's lone high school.  It's Graduation Saturday, and for all the years I've lived in Mayberry and have received graduation "announcements" from our church's youth, I'm embarassed to say that I never realized those things were actual invitations (note to self: make sure sons' graduation invitations have the phrase "You're Invited" in them).  It's one of those small-town idiosyncrasies that non-natives have to learn on the fly.  It took me ten years, but at least I'm finally here.

Sitting there as the last of the seniors assembled in the south end zone, I knew I'd get to see five of my church's youth flip their tassels.  I knew I'd hear hoots and hollers as folks strolled across the stage to receive diplomas.  I didn't know I'd see the entire senior class interrupt the middle of the ceremony with a nifty dance routine that was obviously the result of some serious rehearsing.  Nor did I anticipate the bellowing horn from the mac truck parked in the parking lot across the way when one student's name was called.

But the biggest surprise of the whole affair came from the words of the class Salutitorian, Elizabeth Dinkins.  Her speech begin innocently enough with the anticipated words about what has been achieved and what promise awaits.

And then, out of nowhere, she says this:

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I grew up in a family of avid backpackers, and at an early age I learned about switchbacks. A mountain trail does not travel from base to summit in a straight line. Instead, the path up a mountain is marked by switchbacks, or one hundred and eighty degree turns in the path that make the slope more gradual and the climb more manageable. As a child, this rather roundabout path infuriated me. I asked my dad why the people who blazed the trail didn’t go in a straight line from bottom to top. Dad explained that such a path would be too steep to climb without injury.

In a long hike, gradual switchbacks characterize the first few miles, typically through wooded terrain with a less than spectacular view. When you break the tree line for the first time, you are struck with your first glimpse of the view that you have been climbing for hours to see. You think that you are almost to the summit. You are wrong. Above the tree line, the view is indeed beautiful, but it is there that the hard work truly begins. The wind whips faster. The air grows thinner. The boulder field lies between you and the summit, and the intensity of your climb only increases. The path is less distinctive and your footing is less sure. It is hard work. It is slow work. The summit is close, but the final steps are a rock scramble, and the most challenging part of your trek.

So it is with life. Each of us will experience personal setbacks and obstacles, some of which will appear insurmountable. These personal challenges are not failures; they are switchbacks. They make our journey towards our goal less direct, but, in the end, more manageable. These switchbacks work to develop our character. It is character rather than accomplishments or knowledge that will shape the way we live our lives.

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It's now around 9:45am, and I am floored.  What an amazingly beautiful thing to say to a group of 138 high school graduates who, in a sense, have successfully climbed one mountain but now stand at the base of yet another.  They need to know that it won't be all smooth-sailing.  They need to know that there will be challenges along the way, setbacks; all the while looking at the peak and wondering why in the world they're walking to the side of it instead of straight up.  They need to know that this is the way life works, that you don't always achieve your goals and fulfill your calling the first time around. 

It's exactly what those eighteen-year olds need to her.  But you know what?  It's what we all need to hear, every last one of us.  I know it's what I need to hear.

Later that weekend I would seek out Elizabeth to congratulate her and thank her for her message, asking if I could get a copy of her speech and use it in this blog.  She seemed genuinely surprised and pleased that her words had touched the heart of someone besides those navy blue robed and capped classmates right in front of her; that it had reached all the way into the upper left corner of the aluminum bleachers.  That's the beautiful thing about words from the heart - they take on a life of their own, carrying far beyond the audience we intended them for.

So now I'm a fan of switchbacks.  See that picture above?  It's the new background on my cell phone, so I see it all the time. I'm even going to try and think in switchbacks now.  If I'm walking from the church to the coffee shop up the street for a quick cup of jo, I might just take a less-than-straight path through a side street or two.  If I've got a task before me, I may refrain from plunging head-first into it with wreckless abandon and instead take a more introspective, roundabout approach.  And when I hit a snag and things don't go like I hoped they would, I'm going to do my best amidst the disappointment to heed Elizabeth's wisdom: it's not failure.  It's just a switchback. Make the 180-degree turn after a brief stop to take in the scenery and keep going.

In case you're wondering, this is not my typical M.O.  I'm a perpetual list-crosser-offer.  I'm a straight line kinda guy.  I'm a classic child of the Western world: set a goal, take the steps necessary, and you'll achieve it. Face it: switchbacks are not in our DNA.

But the journey of life is not all about us.  It's about the journey itself; and the thing is, that journey is more winding and bending than we give it credit for.  And like Elizabeth said so eloquently, switchbacks develop our character; and in the end it's character that truly defines us and not the various mountain peaks we conquer.  If we're in the midst of a switchback, that's the time when we're showing people who we are and what we're made of.  Not when we get to the top.

It's 11am, and the graduation service is over.  I'm seeking out my church youth, dispensing congratulatory hugs and taking pictures. I'm so incredibly proud of them.  I'm thinking about the fact that the son of mine at my side will be doing this himself before his mother and I know it.

But I'm not going to lie: I'm also thinking about switchbacks. A lot.  Who knows, I may be in one right now. If so, it's good to know that's where I am.  At least I'm still on the journey, moving forward.  And even when it doesn't always feel like it, upward.

Opie's line of sight, Andy's line of sight

This is what you do when you live in Mayberry and you're stuck at the Andy Griffith Playhouse for over two hours while your son is at play practice, and you check out the Andy Griffith monument that TV Land put there a few years back. Sure glad Barney wasn't around to nip me in the bud.

Why I subject myself to EOG proctoring

It's 8am on a picture-perfect May morning, and I'm standing outside my oldest son's elementary school. In just a minute I will throw myself into the deep dark abyss known as EOG proctoring - that's End of Grade Exams, if you didn't know.  It's a staple at every North Carolina school for third grade and up; the standardized test to end all standardized tests and supposedly determine a student's academic worth and whether they are suited to progress to the next grade.

EOG's are very much like a collective consumption of the worst kind of cough medicine, except instead of the few seconds of a quick gulp it's more like an intravenious administration; a slow drip-drip dragged out over 3-4 hours over multiple days.  No one likes these things - not the students, not their parents, not the teachers, not the administrators.  About the only fans of EOGs I can fathom are paper manufacturers and whatever company produces those number two pencils.  Maybe if they called them OWL's and had the principal dress up like Dumbledore it'd be a little more interesting.  A little.

This is my second year of proctoring.  I take some pride in knowing that I'm important enough to be required by the state. The list of what we can do is far eclipsed by the list of what we can't.  We can't eat or drink, read a book, chew gum, play on our cell phone, talk to the kids, touch the test materials, leave to go to the bathroom, leave before the last test is done.  On the "can" side, we're allowed to breath oxygen and stand or sit, so we've got that going for us.

It's a long three to four hours.

So why do I do it?  It's a question I thought about at length today during my final EOG shift (add "thinking to yourself" to the "can do" list).  Here's what I came up with:

Someone has to do it.  There aren't many folks eager to give up an entire morning to do this sort of thing for free.  So the school administrator commissioned with finding proctors are always very grateful when you say yes.  I admit, it gives you a good warming feeling to make someone so visibly happy that they smile ear-to-ear, yelp with glee and put aside common decorum to give you a full-body hug. I try to remember that smile, yelp and hug about two hours into the affair.

It's a show of solidarity.  They didn't have EOGs when I was in grade school, and it's a darn good thing or I may still be there.   The standardized tests we had (CAT tests, anyone?) were more about assessing smarts and less about determining grade placement.  So much emphasis is put on these tests - not just for the student's advancement, but for the teacher's professional success and the school's reputation.  I've always felt that these standardized tests measure how well one tests rather than how smart one is.  But it's what we've got; and if my kid and their school are having to go through this, the least I can do is go through it with them.

It's ministry, just different.  Don't worry, I'm not proseltyzing.  I can't talk, remember?  Besides, that's not my style anyway.  No, here's the thing: these kids are nervous.  The teachers are nervous.  They put on a brave face and they decorate the hallways and stuff, but you can feel it when you walk in the front door.  I'm not doing ministry in the traditional sense of the word.  But in my head I'm holding these kids and their teachers up in the light; and if my presence can be any kind of calming influence, then I feel like I've fulfilled my calling.

But the main reason I proctor EOGs is a pretty selfish one: I can't do a freakin' thing. The rules are clear from the minute the teacher begins her scripted speech until the last test is taken up.  During that time, the outside world does not exist.  I have no choice but to focus on those eighteen kids and one teacher, in that time, in that space.  I can't email folks, plan a sermon, read my latest study book.  catch up on the news.  My entire world is in that classroom.

And I need this, I really do.  Time and space are fluid entities for folks like me who tend to multitask not in two dimensions but three. My goal in any moment of a day is to determine how I can wring the most out of it; how much I can accomplish and cross off the perpetual "TO DO" list.  Proctoring EOGs, though, prohibits me from doing that, forcing me to live in the moment and only in the moment.  To "be present" in a very basic and essential way. 

I'm not going to lie to you - there are only so many ways one can stroll around a room, maneuvering between desks and making sure the students are staying on track.  There are only so many times you can read the feel-good positive posters and slogans plastered on the classroom walls (my favorite: the one designed like a road sign that said, U-Turn in your Homework, U get better grades).  There comes a point where you're almost uncomfortable in your own skin, and you'd give anything to see that warm sun and blue sky or check the email inbox you know is filling up by the second.

But if you relent and allow yourself, you just might wind up in this Zen-like state where time slows down.  Or maybe it doesn't slow down, you're just not as aware of it anymore.  You're not thinking about your coffee meeting later that afternoon or the bottomless email inbox or the unwritten sermon.  You're just there, in that room, with those kids and their teacher. And it's sacred ground, because it's where all of you are, right then and right there.  You're living in the moment, and turns out it's a beautiful place to be.

That's why I proctor EOGs.  Well, that and the snacks in the teacher's lounge before and after.  Someone made a killer cheese dip this year. Delish.

"Letting Go" again, two years later

I woke up this morning and thought to myself: May 9.  Why does that date stick out in my head?  And then it occured to me: two years ago, I released Let Go, a seven-song EP and the result of a sabbatical I took in the summer of 2010.  If there ever was anything I've done as a labor of love, this was it.  Not only did I have space (physical and temporal) to write and push myself musically, I got to work with some amazing musicians and dream big.  Two years later, I'm still as proud of it as the day it was released.

You can check out the back story of the project HERE. More to the point, you can download the album below.  As it was then, the album is entirely free, since the sabbatical grant paid for all recording/mixing/mastering costs.  Listen, download, share, repeat.  Thanks for helping me "let go" all over again!

 

"All are welcome. Seriously. We really mean it."

I have this weird fascination with church marquees - those interchangeable signs strategically placed in front of church buildings.  In one sense I'm attracted to them, the same way that I can't look away from the car wreck on the other side of the interstate as I drive by.  Like a moth to the flame, I'm helpless to their lure.

On the other hand, I find myself doing a lot of face-palming, either figuratively or literally.  And not only because some of them - and you know the ones I'm talking about - express a theology and biblical understanding that has little or nothing to do with the God I know.  It's also, in my opinion, the worst kind of advertising. 

Because that's what these marquees are, functionally if not intentionally - advertising.  A form of outreach and evangelism.  I mean, they're right there outside the church's main entrance, in some cases larger than the sign with the church's name on it.  Every so often the message changes, thus catching our attention.  Everything about them practically screams, "Look at me! This is who we are!"  And like it or not, they tell a story about what kind of church lies on the other side.

And I don't get it, honestly, what possesses some churches to tell the stories they do.  Maybe they're not intended for public consumption and are meant more for the people inside - in which case perhaps that's where the signs should be.  That's they only way I can make sense of it.  I mean, who is going to drive past a church with a marquee that essentially tells them they're going to hell and think, Hey, sounds like the place for me! 

Like the saying goes: "First impressions are lasting impressions.  And frankly, I'm rarely impressed.

My church doesn't have a marquee - a blessing, as I see it.  Every now and then, though, I daydream about what it might say if we did.  What kind of "advertising," what kind of story would it share?  To that end, I've created a few of my own, void of cheesy wordplays and ghastly theology.  You can do the same, by the way, HERE if you want.  Knock yourselves out.  Feel free to add your own marquee slogan in the comments below!

(Note: the following are my own messages and don't necessarily reflect the church I gratefully serve. Don't want anyone to think one person is trying to speak for everyone - the issue with church marquees to begin with).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You Are Loved

This morning I was asked to give the invocation at our local high school for their National Honor Society assembly.  As with my invocation last year, I wanted to try and say something of substance, avoiding the vanilla invocations I suffered through at my high school assemblies back in the day.  If I were seventeen years old and sitting in those seats, what would I want/need to hear? Events of the past few weeks, and especially news that a freshman at a nearby university committed suicide just yesterday, were on my mind as I put paper to pen (well, fingertip to keyboard) and wrote this:

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Would you invocate with me, please...

God, I want to congratulate those who, in a few minutes, will hear their names called and make their way to this stage.  I want them to know how proud we are of them for all their hard work and dedication; and that because we are all inextricably bound to each other as a family of sorts – sharing in each other’s joys and sorrows, celebrations and struggles – in a way their success today is everyone’s success.

But if “invocation” means “calling something out”, then perhaps there’s an important truth that needs to be acknowledged: that the underlying message we are gathering here to lift up today is not “You Are Smart.”  Scholarship, Service, Leadership, Character – these four benchmarks of the National Honor Society stand apart from one another, and can only be united, can only be threaded together in the life of a person by one singular twine, one overarching truth.  And that truth is love.

So as strange as it may sound, the message for today is not “You are Smart,” but "You Are Loved.”  You are loved if your name is called, and you are loved if you name is never spoken.  You are loved if you are first string, second string, or no string.  You are loved if you are in the majority or in the minority; you are loved if you fit in perfectly or if you don’t fit in anywhere.  You are loved if you think you know exactly who you are and where your life is heading, and you are loved if you’ve never been more confused and terrified. You are loved if the words you hear from the adults in your life are affirming, empowering, compassionate, caring; and you are loved if the words you hear from the adults in your life are critical, judgmental, spiteful, even abusive.  You are loved.

And that love is always, always greater than fear.  Greater than the fear that drives some to blow up bombs at marathon finish lines; greater than the hate that incessantly seeks to divide us over stark fault lines, where the “other” is always wrong and at fault; greater than the shame we feel when we are told we’re not good enough or that our worth is fully dependent on being more than enough.  Love is greater than all of that.

So that’s the message I want these fine folks to hear today – those who will be inducted and those who won’t leave their seats.  That you love them no matter what.  And if they let that love carry them forward into the wonderful life ahead of them, then maybe, just maybe, they will not only learn to love you and love all of your people.  Maybe they’ll learn the most basic and most difficult kind of love: to love themselves.

We invocate all of this in your name, AMEN.

(on a side note, five of our church's youth were inducted, joining the three already there. Yep, I'm proud.)

Love you! Learn stuff!

Every weekday morning, depending on my wife's substitute teaching schedule, I engage in one of my favorite morning rituals: dropping the boys off at school.  My ten year-old son goes to one school, and he's long past the days of his Dad walking him in.  So we pull up in the circle; he opens the door and steps out, and I tell him the same thing every single morning: Love you! Learn stuff!

I take my eight year-old son to school next because his is closer to the church. Thankfully, he still enjoys his Dad walking him in.  So I park the car and we get out, and he grabs my hand before I reach for his.  I know this will change some day, but you can bet I'm enjoying it now.  I walk him into the lobby area - we used to go all the way to the classroom, but that was years ago.  For this second grader, the lobby is the established point of departure.  The handshake transforms into a brief hug and I say what I've always said to him since his very first day of preschool: Love you! Learn stuff!

A slight change-up this morning.  As we get to the lobby, I ask if I can take him all the way to his class.  Without hesitation he says yes.  But he lets go of my hand - an unspoken compromise, I'm guessing, for my special request.  That is fine.  We walk down the hallway and I playfully grab for his head, and he jukes me in the same way he's accustomed to doing with me on the basketball court at home.  When we get to his classroom, I give him a quick hug, I say my thing, and watch him take his seat before turning and heading to the parking lot.

Maybe he knows the reason I asked to walk him to his class was because somewhere in Boston today, there is a father who wasn't able to do the same thing with his eight year-old son.  Maybe he doesn't.  If I had to guess, I imagine he's aware at some level; because kids are much more perceptive than we give them credit for, and because my wife and I made the decision after Newtown that our boys were old enough to know, that trying to shield them from stuff like what happened in Boston yesterday was futile in an age when our kids are almost as electronically-plugged in as we are.  As long as they know we can talk about our fears and concerns as a family, and that we're all in this together.

God, I'm tired of the sick, numbing ritual our society seems to be engaging in more and more these days: the sudden, out-of-nowhere "breaking news," the multi-tasking of watching cable news and scanning Facebook and Twitter feeds, trying to piece together a puzzle whose final picture we already know we won't want to see; the increasing injury and death counts, the names and pictures and faces and personal stories of ended lives, and the inevitable movie/music star benefit concert televised live on a Friday night with the 888 number scrolling at the bottom of the screen.  I'm tired of the ritual of having one more location stripped of its innocence, a mental checklist we keep and remember: elementary schools, movie theaters, houses of worship, college campuses, summer youth camps, and now marathon finish lines.  I'm tired of the thought that runs circles in my head after the initial shock wears off, when I can momentarily pull my thoughts away from the television screen and the website: Here we go again.  It's a ritual that I hate and despise; and sadly, one that is feeling more and more familiar.

Which is why I so desperately need the other rituals.  The ritual of going to work, of dinner with my family, of running three miles in the morning, of listening to and performing music, of checking in on a homebound church member, of writing a sermon, of a lunch date with my wife, of gathering with the body of Christ on Sunday mornings, of dropping my sons off at school and saying Love you! Learn stuff!  These rituals are the important ones, if for no other reason than they're the very ones those who planted the bombs in Boston want most to disrupt.  They want me to be afraid of going to schools and movie theaters and houses of worship and college campuses and summer youth camps and marathon finish lines and the next unknown place where some unspeakable tragedy will happen.  They want me to live in fear.

I'm not going to give them that pleasure.  It's nerve-racking dropping my boys off at school where they will be somewhere I am not, but I am going to refuse to cave in to the fear they so desperately want me to drown in.  I'm just not going to do it.  I'm going to refuse for me and my family, for my church and community, for a father in Boston who will never be able to drop his son off at school again.  I'm going to keep doing what I do, and I'm going to do it out of love. Which is always greater than fear. Always.

And you better believe I'm going to hold his hand as long as he'll let me.

Thirty seconds of gratitude

When I was in middle school, my aunt spent the night at our house in Raleigh in the middle of some travels. She had a friend with her; another woman about her age whose name I can't remember. I do remember that she was nice and had a warm smile, and that she had a really cool Bible.  I know, just what a minister would say, right?  Bear with me.  The Bible was actually in comic book form, thus having immediate appeal to a 12-year old boy.  I "read" nearly half of it that night before going to bed.

When I woke up the next morning, my aunt and her friend had already left to get an early start on the rest of their trip.  But there was one thing of hers that didn't accompany them.  I found the comic book Bible at my place at the kitchen table when I came down for breakfast.  Inside was a long inscription from its former owner.  She talked about how she enjoyed meeting me and how she was pleased with my interest in her comic book Bible.  Which is why she was giving it to me, since her joy at knowing I'd get a lot out of it exceeded any joy she'd have in keeping it.  She wished me the best and said she'd look forward to our paths crossing again someday.

I haven't crossed paths with that woman since - at least not yet.  But the Bible is still with me.  It sits on the shelf in my office, as it did in the office of my previous church, as it will in every office I ever have.  And the thing is, it's not really there because it's a Bible.  It's there to remind me that God's word can be a heartfelt inscription on the inside flap, and that sometimes the greatest gifts come from those who make a conscious choice to express gratitude in the simplest of ways.

I was reminded of that comic book Bible last night when a link to this article showed up in my Twitter feed, about a note left at a ramen restaurant in Austin, TX.  Scrawled on a napkin to not only the waitress but to the entire restaurant, thanking them for the good food and service and the way both provided a much-needed lift in the person's day.  The result of some pretty awesome ramen?  It's possible.  Slightly over-the-top?  You could argue that.   But I think you'd be selling the author short in either case.  Much like my aunt's traveling companion, this person chose to do something they certainly weren't obligated to do: take thirty seconds to express gratitude.

Of course, those thirty seconds could've been used for something entirely different.  Case in point: the infamous "I give God 10% why do you get 18" receipt left at an Applebees restaurant earlier this year.  You can choose not to leave a tip if you so desire (although that's pretty crappy of you if you do).  But why leave a note about it - and why oh why bring God into the mix?  I digress.

There is yet a third option we have with those thirty seconds, and it's one you and I consistently choose nearly all the time: doing nothing.  We're not overly vindictive or thoughtless along the lines of the non-tipping pastor person.  Nor are we exceedingly gracious or reflective like ramen-napkin guy.  We just....are.  So there are no notes, no inscriptions; we simply move along with the course of things. All things being equal, we're not going to do anything extra with that receipt or napkin because it's not that big of a deal to us.  Because we're in a hurry and don't have time to bother with it.  Because it doesn't even register on our radar.  Because doing nothing is safe.

You and I, our inclination in life is to play it safe.  Self-preservation is built into our DNA, and it charts the course of our daily walk and our lifelong journey.  And this isn't a bad thing - it's a big reason why our species has survived as long as it has.

But there's another reason humanity has thrived, and ironically it's because we don't always play it safe.  We have those wonderful moments where we choose to take risks, step outside our comfort zone, chart new courses, veer off-script and write our own ending. And just between you and me, I wish I were better at recognizing those moments when they came around. I wish I were like my aunt's friend, who rather than instinctively pack that comic book Bible in her travel bag like the nights before, chose instead to veer off-script and write something in it and leave it on someone else's kitchen table.  And to think - thirty seconds is all it took. 

I mean, what would happen - what would seriously happen - if we made a point of going out of our way to be gracious to someone else?  Leave a note on a napkin, shoot a quick text to someone, shake a hand and offer a smile.  Something simple; something unexpected and unprovoked.  This is not some kind of "pay it forward" thing.  This isn't about karma or balancing the universe.  This is simply about taking time to express gratitude for no other reason than the expression itself. 

With our actions - or our inaction - we have the potential to enrich the life of another person, or shame that person, or do nothing at all for that person.  All things being equal, which would you prefer to choose?

Chew on that while I take thirty seconds to write a quick note to the coffee house I'm hanging out in right now.