Thoughts and Musings on Faith, Music, Family, Life

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.

Bears Bulldozing Bullies

We all know that bullying is a big problem in our schools, and that it starts young.  I have a fourth-grader who tells me stories of stuff he's seen in the hallways over the years that makes my heart sink.  There are a lot of adults out there carrying the torch of putting an end to bullying - and that's great, because we need as big a chorus as we can get.

But let's face it: kids aren't necessarily going to listen to some grown-up they may or may not know.  They're much more likely to pay attention to a teenager they see around town, who by virtue of their age and status in a small community with only one high school is the coolest thing since the latest Harlem Shake video (presumably a lot cooler). 

That's why I was elated when I saw that a handful of students from our local high school had put together a short YouTube video to be shared with the students at my son's elementary school.  Pastor pride also beamed forth, since nearly half of these kids are church members of mine (Emily, remind me never to get a drink from the water fountain when you're in the room ;-).  So much about this video is awesome, including the production quality (done by the same church youth who created our church's capital campaign video earlier this year).  More importantly is the way it highlights different kinds of bullying beyond the physical - verbal, cyber, etc.  And the critical message at the end: that whether you're the bullier, the bullied or a bystander, it's up to you to bring it to a stop.

A word of explanation about the video's name - the mascot of our local high school is the Bears. The cool thing is that all four of our city schools have a variation of the same mascot. So it really is all Bears at all schools "bulldozing bullies."

I can't wait for my son and all his elementary school friends to see this video and know it was made by some high school buddies they'll likely bump into in the grocery store or at church on Sunday morning. I hope they'll tell them "thanks."  I know I'll be.

(Click HERE if you can't see the video above)

 

Thor has a new home

An update on my blog from a few weeks ago about our foster dog Thor: he got himself a new home yesterday.  Which was our intention all along, you'll recall, when we decided to welcome the little furball into our lives back in late January.  You may not have believed me when I told you we were serious about him being just a foster dog. Glad I was able to make a believer out of you.

Well, not 100% glad.  Even with chaotic new doggie routines and the occasional puppy bites (I'm looking at a nice little mark on my hand at the moment), it's inevitable that you're going to get attached.  I think the neatest part was watching his progress.  When he came to us, he was a pretty unruly little fella.  Hopelessly cute, but unruly. Now he was snapping less and cuddling more.  And he was growing like crazy. You don't get into the foster dog business without a little eventual heartache.

We met the new family at a neutral site in Mount Airy; the home of Regina, a Surry Animal Rescue volunteer who was instrumental in the whole adoption process. The family was from nearby Winston-Salem - three kids ages 4-12, and a Golden Retriever named Jake.  Great people. They had lost one of their dogs just two months ago and were eager to be a two-dog family again. Thor was his energetic and adorable self, and they were hooked from the start. Regina pulled my wife and I aside at one point: I think this is a good match, she whispered. It's up to you.

There's a certain level of awkwardness in this type of situation, in case you're wondering.  There's no manual for determining when it's time to go.  It's more a sense of the inevitable being not some distant and dreaded point in the future, but now.  We shook hands, said our goodbyes.  My last memory of Thor was watching him run around the fenced-in backyard with the little four-year old girl, both of them cute as could be, both ready to grow up together and run around many more times together.  And I realized that this scene and the future the two will share would've never been possible had it not been for someone posting a puppy picture on Facebook and my wife sending them a message. And that made me smile.

Suffice to say we're gonna miss the little fella.  But he's going to be in good hands, and that's all we really ever wanted. If not us, we're very glad it's them.

Seriously, he's just a foster dog. Seriously.

Seriously.

Don't think I'm not aware of what's taking place on the other side of this computer screen. I sense your doubting thoughts; I see your mocking smile.  But trust me: he's just a foster dog.  And for the record, it's not like we go out looking for these animals. It's been like this for as long as I can remember.  Call it a Lindsley thing: we don't find stray animals.  They find us.  

Like Lady, who ran out in front of the family car on Halloween night 2008.  Or Rocky the boxer, who wandered into our front yard as my younger son and I were walking home from preschool.  Or Bandit the dog who we inherited from an animal rescue - in 1999.  Or Sydney our cat, who camped out one spring morning in a box in my front yard many years ago.  I thought I was breaking the cycle when I talked my then-girlfriend into taking the cat. Which she did.  And then I married that girlfriend. So I got the cat back. Darn thing found me twice.

And yes, I'm aware that still having these animals in our possession does not exactly support my "foster pet" claim. I'll grant you that.  But I'm telling you, it's different this time.  Thor - as the animal shelter in Virginia took to calling him - will seriously be a foster dog, no question about it. He will have a permanent happy home, but it won't be with us.

Seriously.

I will say, though, that Thor took this "finding a sucker" thing to a whole new level.  Apparently "running in front of the car" or "wandering into the front yard" is so five years ago. Who would've thought that a pup, mere weeks old, would be that social-media savvy.  That's where Thor found us - on Facebook.  Apparently he used his indelible puppy cuteness to wield control over a Facebook acquaintance of my wife's, compelling her to post his picture in her timeline with the explanation: At the Patrick County Animal Shelter. Needs a good home.

The pup's face bore a striking resemblance to a Golden Retriever my wife lost a few years ago; a beloved companion she acquired fresh out of law school.  My wife may not be practicing law anymore, but she still knows how to win an argument. Actually, she knows how to win an argument without actually having the argument, which is a brilliant skill.  The way she started talking with me about the whole thing, it was as if the decision had been agreed to in a previous conversation, and I'd just completely forgotten about it.  Maybe that was it.  Or maybe I just didn't care to put up a fight.

He bites like crazy, the animal shelter told her. That's why no one wants to adopt him.  Apparently both the shelter and potential owners had missed the memo about young pups biting things. But that's okay.  My wife hails from a long line of dog whisperers and would break Thor from his gnawing ways.  You know, so his next and permanent owner wouldn't have to deal with the bloody aftermath. Because Thor would be just a foster dog, mind you.

Seriously.

And so there I was, driving up to Stuart, VA to pick Thor up on Monday afternoon, so he'd be there when the rest of the family got home from school.  Was I excited?  Sure I was.  This would be the luckiest dog in the world, along with those other lucky foster pets of ours, Rocky and Bandit and Lady and Sydney.  The vet handed him to me with a bag full of medicine and a paper about his neutering surgery the week prior; I handed them the homemade chocolate chip cookies my wife made them.  On the car trip home I was pleased to learn first-hand that Thor's bodily functions worked properly, even if it meant driving the majority of the trip with the windows rolled down on a January day and a bottle of hand sanitizer within reach. 

Thor hit the North Carolina ground running, quite literally, thanks to two energetic boys who were totally excited to play with their new puppy they wouldn't be keeping permanently.  He did his biting thing, but he wasn't nearly the beast he'd been made out to be.  His presence was met with tremendous intrigue and more than a hint of jealousy from the other foster dogs permanently residing at the Lindsley Inn.  Especially Rocky, the "top dog" who is used to having the house interior all to himself.  We'll have to work on that.  Anyway, when Thor finally crawled into his crate for the night, he barely made it all the way inside before collapsing from exhaustion.  It was a good day for the little fella.  These pets know what they're doing when they pick us Lindsleys.

If you're interested in adopting Thor, get in line.  My wife already has a list of folks who've expressed interest, and she's going to be picky.  Which she should be, because Thor is an awesome dog.  If we didn't have three already, we'd probably keep him for ourselves.  But we won't be doing that, you understand.  He's a great dog, but he's just a foster dog. Seriously, that's all he is.

 Seriously.

 ***********

UPDATE 2.13.2013 - As of this afternoon, Thor is with his new adopted family.  They're from Winston-Salem - three kids ages 4-12, and a Golden Retriever named Jake.  You can read all about it HERE. Thanks to Regina Edwards and the fine folks at Surry Animal Rescue for connecting us with some great people. 

 

Life after being Mediocrely Bad

Here's a lesson I've learned in my 40+ years on this planet: it's easy saying "Yes" to something you love.  It's harder saying "goodbye" to the same.

About six years ago I got a call from my good friend and fellow Mayberry musician Jerry Chapman, asking me if I wanted to play keys in one of his bands, Mediocre Bad Guys.  The "yes" came quick and easy - it was a no-brainer.  While music is just an avocation for me, and I had done the solo acoustic thing for decades, the thing I'd always wanted to do is be in a band with guys who shared a similar taste in music.  Excluding the pseudo prog-rock trio that Michael Propst, Greg Faucette and I had for a single weekend my senior year in high school, it never happened.

The six years since that phone call have been quite a ride. Les, Jerry, Gary, David, and Doug have pushed me musically in ways I never could have myself.  We've played at numerous festivals, wineries, clubs, bars, weddings, street parties, July 4 parades, fundraisers, birthday parties, and neighborhood backyards.  We've shared the stage with the Rolling Stones sax player on either three or four occasions (it's kind of cool when you lose count of something like that) which you can reminisce HERE, HERE and HERE). Recently we've flexed our collective songwriting muscles and recorded what I believe to be some pretty nifty original tunes.  I've hauled Les's awesome Yamaha stage piano and Hammond XK3 (and yes, they're Les'; pretty much everything the band has is Les') across parking lots and up countless stairs, and I've given my brain an incredible spatial configuration workout every time I've tried to cram that godawful keyboard stand into any vehicle, no matter how big or small (you keyboard players out there feel my pain). I even picked up a new instrument on account of the band, adding an accordion to my arsenal.

In short, I've had an absolute blast.

But earlier this year, I felt something change.  Not my feelings about the band, mind you.  I still loved making music with Doug, Jerry and Les.  No, it wasn't about subtraction as much as addition.  Something else was entering the picture.  It was fuzzy at first, but over time the clarity came.  And it revolved around my family - specifically, my two boys.  When I first signed on, our boys were four and two; young enough where neither really noticed when I was away at an evening practice or gig.

But now they were 9 and 7, and it was clear that they missed me when I wasn't around.  My absences were noticed - and felt - more acutely.  And this realization was the tipping point: in just a few years they would be teenagers, and they wouldn't give a rat's behind where I might be.  I had this window, and I needed to jump on it.

Telling the guys my decision was a hard conversation, for sure.  These are not just bandmates; they're good friends.  But they understood, because they're fathers too. And because they're good friends.

That was back in September.  I told them I'd be happy to honor the gigs we'd already committed to through the end of the year.  Which means my last stand as a Mediocre Bad Guy will be on the very last day of the year - a New Year's Eve extravaganza at Old North State Winery in downtown Mayberry (here's the Facebook event if you wanna come).  Going out with a bang for sure.

I know that Les, Jerry and Doug are making plans to keep Mediocre Bad Guys chugging along in some configuration. Which is exactly what they should do.  Those dudes are way too talented not to make music together.  And I'm excited about the transition I'll be making to being a fan of theirs.  I'll be the first to download the original tunes they'll keep releasing; I'll enjoy being part of the crowd at some 2013 gig.

For the record, I won't be hanging up the music thing completely.  Back a few months ago, we auditioned for a band reality TV show on AMC; and if MBG gets the nod I'll be part of that.  I'll keep doing the solo acoustic thing, hanging on to a few regular gigs.  And who knows - maybe an occasional guest appearance with the band if they should ever ask.  After all, it's a small musical community we're part of here in the Greater Mayberry metropolis. Like Bono once said, being in a band is a lot like being in the mafia.  You really can't say "never."

I'm like a lot of people, I think, in that I struggle to let go of things when it's time to.  After all, being human is about being a creature of habit.  And most of us spend our waking hours all wrapped up in "doing" rather than "being;" crossing things off the list rather than taking a step back to check out what's actually on that list.  I'm glad I stepped back earlier this year; and while it means saying goodbye to something I've really enjoyed, it's going to help me focus myself where I need to be focused going forward.  Who knows - maybe my boys and I are meant to start up a band.  

Letting go of being mediocrely bad is going to be weird, for sure.  But I'll figure it out. With a lot of great memories and music to stay with me.

Our Disney Trip in tweets, 2.0.

When our family took our first trip to Disney World back in May 2010, I honored my wife's request to not post our adventures in the social media world while away from home.  But I took good notes - well, tweets - and shared them en masse upon our return. 

It seemed to work well, so why not try it again?  Here's our most recent family foray into the world of Mickey.  Enjoy.

*****************

DAY 1 - TRAVEL DAY #1, PALM COAST

Just realized I won't open my laptop for a whole week. I'm so okay with that.

Disney, here we come! Driving this time, though. Pricey plane tickets. First stop: Palm Coast, FL. Nine-hour drive. Nearly double our longest family car ride. Prayers appreciated.

"Dad, he tried to bite me!" #eldersonspeaks #arewethereyet

Holy crap, this is a long drive.

Finally arrivee in Palm Coast, FL after ten hours in the car. Dinner at a place on the beach. Two old guys who look like Jethro Tull rejects playing acoustic & flute.

OMG. They actually play Jethro Tull.  Who would've thought...

My ten-year old is asking the Jethro Tull duo to play something from Aqualung. What the heck...?

Tom Petty's "Last Dance With Mary Jane" with a flute. Alrighty then...

Flute guy is now playing sax on The Stones' "Brown Sugar." Should I tell him at break that I've played with the actual Stones sax player? #bragging

Bed. Aaaaaahhhh......

*****************

DAY 2 - TRAVEL DAY #2, ANIMAL KINGDOM

Dear hotel management: your AC works. Very well. Too well. #FrozenChosen

Two-hour drive left to Disney. Hope this isnt a cold I feel coming on. Coffee, stat.

Drove by the Trinity Broadcasting Network campus in Orlando right next to I-4. Fake gold is as plentiful on the outside of building as it is on inside.

On the last leg of the trip: "Hey Dad, can you put in some Peal Jam?" #youngersonspeaks #proudpapa

All checked in at the Disney All Star Music resort. Rock section. Don't tell me you're surprised.

Animal Kingdom - it begins!  Fast Pass for Expedition Everest acquired. Now on to Kali River rapids.

For the record, the Disney mobile app is awesome for checking wait times.

Slightly damp, thanks to River Rapids ride. Heading to Kilomanjaro Safari.  Hungry, but our sit-down lunch isn't until 2:30.

Good lord. 1:49 and SO hungry. I could seriously eat whatever it was they were feeding that gazelle back at the safari.

Lunch, finally! Shrimp pasta. Some huge ice cream thing with brownies called the Volcano.

So I think I have either a cold or a sinus infection. Which, if true, kinda sucks.

Disney has people walking around with iPad devices whose sole job is to gather demographic info from you. Always planning their next move.

Mickey family pic: score!

William H. Macy's doppelgänger just walked by. Now that was weird!

Back at the hotel and out at the pool. Boys are swimming in this awesome Florida September weather. Still don't feel good. Grrrr...

Pool was close suddenly due to "unscheduled maintenance." Which apparently is the Disney way of saying "poo in the pool."

The best part? My eldest was the very last one out. In there for minutes with the lifeguard trying to get his attention. Just laying there. And no, he wasn't "that one"

Okay, enough of this. Heading to the nearest doc-in-a-box. Cue the "Steve gets sick on family trips" jokes...

Great. Apparently the best Mickey has to offer is an urgent care that closes at 8pm or a doc who will visit your room for $350. Will try to sleep it off. #DisneyFail

*****************

DAY 3 - MAGIC KINGDOM

Early start to the day. We've got an 8:30am breakfast at the Crystal Palace in the Magic Kingdom. Upward & onward!

Piglet just took my coffee order and I got my picture taken with Tigger. Now I can die happy.

Health update: feeling okay. Sore throat. Stocked with Halls cough drops for the long haul. I know you were just dying to know.

Buzz Lightyear Space Ranger Spin score: 39,600. Feeling pretty good about myself.

Space Mountain. The high-techie-ness of this ride was a pretty big deal when it was built in the 70's. Now it's a retro high-techie-ness.

Every ride exit leads straight to a gift shop with a theme consistent with said ride. I think I'm seeing a pattern here...

Random observation: there are a lot of Italians here. Or at least people speaking fluent Italian.

Holy cow. Ran into one of Eldest's best friends in his class at school & his family. It really is a small world after all.

How is it possible that I'm hungry again? Oh, that's right - it's Disney & you're walking non-stop. Plus the smell of food is everywhere.

Walking around the park, speakers are hidden everywhere playing theme music appropriate for that part of the park. It's the little things that count.

Dear dude walking around with your t-shirt hiked up above your pecs: please, for the love of all that is good and Disney, stop.

There's a guy riding the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad roller coaster with his camera out taking pics. He will officially lose that camera in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.....

In the middle of Its A Small World: "Daddy, they play this song too much." #youngersonspeaks

Is it bad that, on the slow rides that run through indoor air-conditioned spaces, my attention is drawn to crevices off to the side that I could curl up in & take a nap? #tired

Buzz Lightyear Space Ranger Spin again Younger's score: 300,100. Not feeling so good about my score earlier in the day.

The Peoplemover. Alladin's carpets. The riverboat. Ten straight hours & counting.  All the rides are starting to blend together now.

Twelve hours after arriving, Younger & I are heading back. He doesn't like fireworks. I wanna hit the bed. Tonight, at least, we make a good team. Wife & Elder will be troopers & see it through to the end.

*****************

DAY 4 - LAZY DAY, CHEF MICKEY'S, SCI-FI DINE IN THEATER

Temp back home in Mount Airy as kids go to school & parents to work: 45 degrees. Temp in Disney World as Lindsleys ease in to another Disney day: 73 degrees. Yesssssss.

"Man, that was the largest washcloth I'd ever seen!" #eldersonspeaks as he holds up a very damp hotel bathmat. Oh boy....

Family of 4-year old quintuplet girls & one younger brother waiting for brunch at Chef Mickey's. Girls are all made up in Mickey ears & bows. Mom looks pregnant. Dad looks tired.

Well, whadya know - more Mount Airy people! Good to catch up with Joey, Sally, Paxton & Kinley on their way out of Chef Mickey's!

Brunch consumed. Characters now visiting. Cool to see how my boys still get in to this.

The Dad at the table next to us is SO creeping on Minnie. Dude, control yourself.

Goofy just gave me a fist-bump. Dawg.

Realizing something today that I had picked up on when we were here last: there is absolutely no gum for sale anywhere in Disney, at any theme park. None. At all.

We are at Disney World, and what do the boys want to do on our free afternoon? Go to the cheesy hotel arcade. Sheesh.

Picked up some "Happy Anniversary" buttons for the wife & I at the front desk. It's a week away. The guy at the desk said the window was "anytime this year." I'll take that.

Oh my gosh. SO funny. Every Disney employee everywhere is wishing us a Happy Anniversary. Even some regular folks are joining in.

Sci Fi Dine-In Dinner theater at Hollywood Studios, where you sit in 50's cars and eat dinner while watching black & white Sci-Fi movies on the big screen. Awesome.

My favorite Sci-Fi movie title thus far: "Attack Of The 50-Foot Woman." This was an actual Hollywood movie, people. I need to find it.

On the bus ride back to the hotel, Younger falls asleep. At the moment, living vicariously through my boy.

*****************

DAY 5 - EPCOT

I like Epcot, if for no other reason than the foods from all the countries.

Words of wisdom from my wife, who has done her share of Disney research: walk to the left when you enter the park. Most people walk to the right.

Standing in line for the Nemo ride, the boys are harmonizing on Green Day's "American idiot." Censored version, of course. #proudpapa

Love it in the "Turtle Talk With Crush" show that the sign language person signs "dude" and "righteous."

Had something called a "Spanish coffee" with dessert at lunch. Thought it was just straight-up coffee. Believe me, there was a lot more in it other than jo. Not sure if this will help the rest of my day or hurt it.

Soarin' is so cool, we're gonna do it again. Rockin' the Fast Pass!

Mission: Space. Flight to Mars. The more-intense version. So, lots of spins & G-force. Wife is sitting this one out in the gift shop.

Agent P's World Showcase Adventure, where kids get a phone-like device & have to find clues all over the place. Last time we did this it was Kim Possible. Not a fan. This time it's better, as are most things with a platypus.

Malestrom Norway ride = 30 minutes of my life that ill never get back. Lame.

All the Disney employees in China are Asian, except one - the Mulan Disney character everyone's getting pictures with. #DisneyFail

Overheard in Japan: "Wait, this isn't Germany?" What, was it the chopsticks that gave it away?

Walking through these Epcot countries, one might be led to think that all countries are nothing more than an endless series of thematic gift shops.

Ran into church members in France. Again, a small world!

And now the long line to get pics with the characters. But hey, they're showing cartoons!

Bus ride home was so packed I was standing & nearly fell back into some old lady's lap. That would've been a wild ending to the day!

*****************

DAY 6 - HOLLYWOOD STUDIOS

It is quite obvious from watching TV while getting ready for the day that Florida is a swing state in the upcoming presidential election. #politicalads

"Come on in, Prince Charming!" says the Disney employee lady at the gate when Younger walks through. Big smile follows.

I gotta admit, I'm a little bummed neither of my boys want to do Jedi Training this time. #livingvicarioulsythroughymykids

Boys now playing in "Honey I Shrunk The Kids" playground. Which is cool, except last time we were here it was "Honey, I LOST the kids!"

Great. Honey I lost the kids. Again.

Honestly, I think they made HISTK to make parents look like complete idiots, running around trying to find their children.

Out with a head count of four. Thank God.

Dear dude standing in line: I'm pretty sure repeatedly dropping the "F" bomb is not part of the Disney experience.

Vomit alert in the Star Tours ride. Not from one of my boys, but on one of them. Eeew. Need a bathroom, stat.

Elder says he's not absolutely sure girl threw up on his leg & that it may have just been his sunscreen. Either way, we wash vigorously.

There are a lot of people in Disney sporting very bad tattoos. My fav was dude with a pic of some woman who looked nothing like the girl whose hand he was holding.

Eating lunch at a retro-50's place designed to look like grandma's kitchen. If the green beans taste like hers, we'll be in business.

Aerosmith's Rockin' Roller Coaster. A family affair. Zero to 60 in 2.6 seconds. That was some serious fun, and my favorite Disney picture by far!

My suggestion for Disney's next money-sucking venture: iPhone charging stations. Rates could increase in the afternoon. Would be more lucrative than overpriced food & gift shops.

About fell asleep in the Muppets show. This Dad is zonked. Miles to go before I sleep.

Toy Story Midway Mania. Where I give thanks to the good lord for Fast Passes that prevent a 75-minute wait.

And now, ladies & gents, the hour-long wait in line to get our family picture with Woody & Buzz, whoo-hoo!

This Woody/Buzz line is seriously starting to remind me of the line to see Santa in "A Christmas Story."

Kids in this line are dropping like flies. One little boy right in front of us is sobbing over & over again to his parents, "Take me out, PLEASE!" They're apparently not.

Honestly, Disney could have a beer stand in this line & make a killing. I'd personally shell out $10 for a Mich Ultra right now.

Kid in front of us is getting physical now. Dad is either giving him a drink of water or injecting him with a sedative. Can't quite tell.

Half an hour into things. More kids screaming. I fear a mutiny is upon us.

Okay, I'd pay $20 for that beer.

Getting close. Very close. Kid in front is showing hints of a smile. Maybe we'll get out of this alive!

Woody/Buzz family pic acquired! Now on to Pizza Planet for food and - you guessed it - an ice cold Yuelgling!

"This is freakin expensive," #eldersonspeaks, as he quickly burns through $5 in quarters in the Pizza Planet arcade.

Home. Bed. Another magical day in the books.

*****************

DAY 7 - ONE LAST HURRAH AT MAGIC KINGDOM

Up early & packing. Boooooo

Disney thinks of everything. They even slightly deflate the toy balls in their gift shops so kids can't bounce them around. This truly fascinates me.

Incidentally, I am not fond of gift shops on the last day of Disney. They sap away your remaining time. Just call me Grumpy.

Hunter scored over 900,000 this time on Buzz Lightyear Space Ranger. Sweet Lord, shouldn't that win us an extra night's stay or something?

After much field study, it's a close call, but Aerosmith's Rockin' Roller Coaster > Space Mountain.

There's a big ugly black crane sticking up behind the castle where they're building the next phase of the theme park. Kind of a bummer for classic photo ops.

Let it be known: I will never get tired of the Haunted Mansion. Never. Ever.

Flashback from riding Splash Mountain circa 1976: I couldn't make up my mind if the inside part was supposed to be funny or scary. Loved it anyway. Still do.

Whoa! An egret just snatched Elder's burger right off his plate & flew away. Now that's one very hungry & very brave bird! And one bummed-out boy.

Dang. Time is slipping away. The bewitching hour is fast approaching. Gotta make the most of what's left here.

Not sure I understand my younger son's fascination with the PeopleMover. Maybe it's because there are no loud booming sounds. Whatever the case, here we go again....

Pirates of the Caribbean. Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. Something with Mickey. Making every minute count!

The big gift shop on Main Street. This one I like. Searching for the perfect t-shirt before we hit the road.

So long, Disney. You've been great to the Lindsleys once again!

Kickin' back at the Wild Goose

Here's the first thing you need to know about the Wild Goose Festival: it's hot. As in temperature-hot. This is to be expected when you host an event in the heart of North Carolina at the end of June. It's going to be steamy.

Here's the second thing you need to know about the Wild Goose festival: it's a Christian festival, but not that kind of Christian festival. Taking its name from a Celtic symbol for unpredictability, beauty and grace, the Wild Goose Festival describes itself on its website as "a community creating a festival at the intersection of justice, spirituality and art."   Think Woodstock for Christian hippies without the drug use and with clothing.

And here's the third thing you need to know about the Wild Goose Festival, as stated by one of the organizer in their welcome Thursday (and I'm paraphrasing here): "If you are here because you know the truth and you want to make sure everyone else knows the same truth you do, then we want to encourage you to use this festival as your own personal retreat of solitude and silence." This was met, incidentally, with wild applause.  At the Wild Goose Festval, you learn quickly that personal agendas and soapboxes are left at the Shakori Hills entrance, and open dialogue and mutual respect and love take their place.

I had heard about the Wild Goose Festival from some family friends who went last year and absolutely loved it.  A few months ago I was asked to play music for one of the noon "Sacred Space" worship services at the festival, and the family decided to tag along.  We camped out one night and enjoyed a solid 24+ hours of the Wild Goose experience - more than enough to whet our appetite for next year.

So, what goes on at the Wild Goose?  A number of things.  Great music, everywhere, all the time.  On stage (David Lamotte and Derek Webb were two that I saw) and all around Shakori Hills under the shade of trees, people jamming away.  Wonderful speakers; folks whose books I'd been reading for years.  Brian McLaren, Phyllis Tickle, Shane Claiborne, Jim Wallis - just to name a very few. Booths all over the grounds for everything from seminaries and colleges and book publishers to the group against torture, the organization promoting clean water (very appropriate given our state's current flirtation with fracking), racial equality, world missions - you pretty much name it, it was there.  All while camping with the family under the shade of a cluster of trees, and with some former Mount Airy friends we hadn't hung out with in years.

The cool thing about the Wild Goose Festival is that everyone just kind of hangs out with each other, including the speakers and musicians.  There are no walls separating the "names" from the masses, and that's exactly the point.  So it was nothing to see Brian McLaren "emerge" from his tent just a few campspots away from yours, or Phyllis Tickle chatting it up over a cup of cool lemonade with a young couple holding their two-year old daughter, or Derek Webb discussing favorite bands with the guy at the seminary booth.  It's what community should be about.

You never know what might happen when you throw a bunch of free-thinking spiritual types together in a confined space for five scorching days (did I mention it was hot?), but everyone behaved and was kind and courteous.  Just in the small taste my family and I got of it, there was an air of excitement and engagement over what God was doing there - a sense that Christianity does not have to be so narrowly defined by a certain segment of society that wants to describe it in negative terms and make it about a single set of issues.  I think that's what attracted me to it the most - a freedom to embrace a more comprehensive and complete view of the faith.  It's the kind of Christianity I wish others could see more often.

Here's a few pictures I took of the event, just to give you a taste of what my family's experience was like.  The video that follows will cast the net a little wider.  You should make plans to go next year.  I'm pretty sure we'll be there again.

Wildgoose West August 31-September 2, 2012 from Wild Goose on Vimeo.

Why I am against Amendment One

I imagine it's been obvious, for anyone who's followed me on Facebook or Twitter the past few weeks, that I am opposed to Amendment One - the proposed change to the North Carolina state constitution that would read as follows:

Marriage between one man and one woman is the only domestic legal union that shall be validated or recognized in this State. 

This amendment, a staple in pretty much every other Southern state, was put on the ballot by our state legislature and has garnered tremendous attention over the past few months leading up to the May 8 vote.

Yet I realized the other day that, while I've done a pretty good job of expressing my opinion on the matter, I haven't really explained why.  And while there are many reasons why I oppose it and voted against it in early voting last week (see picture above), there really is only one true reason why I oppose Amendment One.

Amendment One is poorly worded and, in its attempt to prohibit gay marriage, would create all kinds of legal messiness for those who don't fit the narrowly-defined  "only domestic legal union" equation - namely, unmarried couples, domestic partners, children of those partnerships and even domestic violence victims.  It's bad that these folks have been unwittingly dragged into the fray, but it is not THE reason I oppose Amendment One.
 
Amendment One is 100% unnecessary, as there is already a law in North Carolina prohibiting gay marriage.  Proponents of the amendment say it will prevent "activist judges" from overturning the law at some point in the future.  This kind of flawed logic suggests that we need to create constitutional amendments to back up all "important" state laws, much the same way my Time Capsule backs up my Macbook every hour.  The latter is completely necessary (as evidenced by the demise of my computer harddrive last week); Amendment One is not.  But that is not THE reason I oppose Amendment One.
 
Amendment One is discriminatory.  Again, defenders balk at the use of this word because, in their mind, they are simply defending "traditional marriage."  And yet, the word "discriminate" means: "to make an unjust or prejudicial distinction in the treatment of different categories of people or things, esp. on the grounds of race, sex, or age."  This is precisely what Amendment One does for gay and lesbian persons - it deprives them of something everyone else has.  Besides, constitutions are about guaranteeing people's rights, not restricting them.  And yet this is still not THE reason I oppose Amendment One.
 
I have a cousin who is gay and currently in a loving and committed relationship (that in no way, I might add, adversely affects my marriage or endangers my two children, as some insist).  They've surrounded themselves with friends and family who love and support them, including mine.  Still, I know they are subjected to ridicule and scorn by those who can't see the person beyond the orientation.  Amendment One has the feel of kicking someone when they're down, heaping more burden on a population that has suffered enough already; almost to the point of cruelty.  But that is not THE reason I oppose Amendment One. 
 
No, the primary reason I oppose Amendment One is because of my Christian faith. 

I know, that sounds strange, doesn't it?  We're used to Christianity being used as a reason (if not the only reason) for supporting the amendment.  We are told, for instance, that the Bible says gay people shouldn't get married and marriage is between one man and one woman.  Which is some selective reading, I might add, since it never actually says that (as I've pointed out to the Genesis 2 crowd, Adam and Eve weren't married); and since the predominant model of marriage in the Bible is one man and multiple women (try King Solomon's 700 wives and 300 concubines on for size).

So while I can't change the fact that pro-Amendment folks try to claim exclusive rights to the Christian mantle, what I can do is claim some of that mantle back and draw attention to the increasing Christian voice against Amendment One, including myself squarely among its ranks.  And make no mistake - it is a strong and legitimate voice, and it is growing.

In a Letter to the Editor I submitted last week to the Winston-Salem Journal, I pointed out that, while there are at best six to eight verses in the entire Bible that are commonly used to denounce homosexuality (with, I might add, questionable interpretation), there are literally thousands of verses calling the faithful to love their neighbor, care for the “least of these,” tend to orphans and widows and most vulnerable, seek justice for all, use governmental power wisely and compassionately, and not mistreat the foreigner in their midst.  It's like an NBA All-Star team stacking up against the woeful Charlotte Bobcats' second string - it's not even close.  When it comes to the sheer weight of scripture, the message of love triumps in a landslide.

And when we look specifically at Jesus as he's presented in the gospels, what we see is a man who didn't just tolerate the oppressed and outcasts, but actually sought them out.  He made a point of hanging out with them, dining with them, immersing himself into their lives no matter who they were or what others thought of them.  It drove the religious authorities nuts.  And for all his talk about loving neighbor and self, Jesus never said a word about homosexuality or gay marriage.  Not one.

So when I look at the scriptures and Jesus' life, I see an overwhelming portrait of Christian tolerance, acceptance, non-judgmentalism, and unconditional love - none of which square with Amendment One.  Because make no mistake: there is nothing loving about Amendment One.   There is nothing loving about legislation that would have all the negative consequences mentioned above.  You could possibly argue that it's "principled" or consistent (in relation to the state law already on the books), but you can't say that it's loving and compassionate in the spirit of Jesus.

I realize there are folks who disagree with me, and I'm okay with that.  I will respect their right to believe something different and hope they will return the courtesy.  It's the wonderful and sometimes frustrating thing about being adherents of the same faith - we can see things differently and still be brothers and sisters in Christ.  I will say this: if I am in error, if I've totally got my signals crossed, then I am fully content with erring on the side of love, rather than on the side of legislation that I feel pretty certain Jesus himself wouldn't be in favor of. 

And that is ultimately why I voted against Amendment One - because I believe, with all my heart, that Jesus would have voted against it too.

We'll see what Tuesday brings.  If it's defeated, I'll give thanks to God and be proud of the state I've lived in all my life.  And if it passes?  I'll be disappointed, but I'll move on with even deeper convictions and a better sense of my voice in the matter.  I'll be enthused by the wide spectrum of folks - people from different generations, different backgrounds, and even different political parties - who have come together on this issue in the spirit of Christ's love and in defense of all of God's children.

And most of all, I'll keep on loving like Jesus, the best that I can.  Thank God that is something that needs no legislation.

Hope comes, as it always does, in new life.

The other night I engaged in my nightly pre-bed ritual of quietly tiptoeing into the boys' rooms.  I walk over to their beds where, God willing, they're fast asleep.  I lay my hand on their heads, just for a second or two.  I don't really say or do anything, but I guess it's kind of a prayer of sorts.  A parental blessing to end the day.

When I went into our oldest son's room, who turned 9 this week, I lingered a bit.  Something was keeping me there.  And then I heard it - well, in my head I heard it.  A question from my past, dragged out of my subconscious:

Do we really want to bring a child into this mess?

It was my wife who posed it, many years before.  She was the braver one, to be honest - brave enough to voice the question that'd been rattling around in both our brains in recent weeks but had, up until that moment, remained unspoken.

Even before we got married, we knew we wanted kids.  Eventually.  A few years to ourselves would be wise; get used to each other and this lifelong dance known as marriage.  But over that summer, things had taken a turn.  Conversations about having kids had gone from strictly hypothetical to more imminent.  As much as we ever could be, we were ready.

And then 9-11 happened.

When severly misguided and sick men fly loaded commercial jets straight into skyscrapers and government buildings and a Pennsylvania field, it can't help but cause you to second-guess your convictions.  And one of those convictions, for us at least, was being parents.  It's hard enough bringing a child into the world and dealing with paying for college and feeding and clothing them, and that strong desire to shield them from anything that would do them harm.  There's a certain accepted level of uncertainty to life.  But after the morning of September 11th, uncertainty kind of burst through the floodgates and saturated us.

The question came a week or so after it happened.  It was a legitimate question.  Why would we want to subject anyone, much less our own flesh and blood, to the sick world outside our doors?  It was hard enough making heads or tails of all things post-9-11 as a grown adult.  How could we ever expect a kid to deal with it?

In the end we realized that, on the contrary, this was the perfect time to have a child.  It was our dream, our calling to be parents.  And to give up on that dream would mean letting the terrorists win.  Because the truth of the matter is that they never really were after buildings and a body count.  They wanted to strike at the very heart of our soul.  And we weren't going to let them do that.

**************

Fast forward a few months.  My wife talked me into going to see some new movie about a kid named Harry Potter.  Kind of strange, two grown adults at a kids movie; but it seemed important to her.  Afterwards we dined at the Schlotsky's Deli down the street - good stuff.  We got into the car in the deli parking lot and I asked if there was anywhere she wanted to go before we headed home.  How about Babies R Us?  she asked excitedly, with a noticeable sheepish grin on her face.  I was confused at first.  Why in the world would we ever need to go to..... 

Oh.....!

And that's how my wife told me she was pregnant with our first child.

**************

It was the morning of September 11, 2002. I was parked in front of TV, and every channel that morning carried the one-year memorial observance at Ground Zero.  Amazing how beautiful the day was, just like before.  It had been a busy year, a jam-packed year. And yet watching the television, the horror of that morning came flooding back to me as if it had happened yesterday.

There was something different this time around, though. I was holding our two-day old son in my arms.

We were at the hospital, and we were getting ready to go home.  My wife was in the room packing her bag.  Any minute now the nurse would come with the wheelchair, and our family - now three strong - would head to our car parked right outside the hospital front door, courtesy of some strange kindness called "valet service."  We were prepping to leave the comfort and security of the hospital, the nurses and doctors who knew far more about taking care of a newborn than we did.  We were going out into the world that, just a year ago, seemed like it was falling apart.

I held our firstborn son and couldn't stop staring at him, then I glanced up at the TV and the memorial service, then back at our son.  And then I understood:

The terrorists lost.

Hope comes, as it always does, in new life.

Creating in and through our grief

Contrary to what you may think upon reading the first few paragraphs, this is not a post about saying goodbye to beloved pets, which my family and I had to do this past week. Nor is this only about bragging on my kids (not only). This is about the power of the arts in helping us cope with and encapsulate life - the good and the bad and the downright ugly.

My wife and I thought long and hard about whether we wanted to take the boys with us to the vet when they put Tigger, our cat of fourteen years, to sleep last week. It would've been easy to have it done while they were at school.  They knew he'd been sick for a while, and we'd mentioned the possibility of such before they headed out the door that day.  Death is difficult any way you cut it, any way it presents itself; and age doesn't make much difference.  Still, when I realized that my initial instinct was more about protecting me than them, I knew they needed to be there.

That didn't make it any easier, though. It's hard enough dealing with your own grief when you've got your flesh and blood dealing with theirs - grief you would gladly take on without a moment's hesitation if you could. There are a lot of times when we parents feel absolutely helpless when it comes to what our kids experience.  We'd take on that skinned knee in a heartbeat; we'd don their disappointment of not making the team if we could, and we'd certainly bear their burden of grief in the midst of saying goodbye to a family pet.

All of which made what happened when we got home even more powerful.  I plopped down on my green recliner with a glass of water and iPhone to achieve maximum distraction.  I was keeping my grief at arm's distance.  Meanwhile, my two boys dove head-first into theirs like it was their summer swimming pool.  The 8-year old retreated to his room and emerged to ask for his mother's computer and pictures of the cat. Within an hour he somehow manged to create this tribute video using that computer, his digital camera and ipod speakers.  At the same time, our six-year told me that he had a song he'd written for Tigger.  The first line was classic: He was a good old cat / but he died at the vet.  Now that's clever.  From there it talked about how it was sad that he died and how Tigger bit him one time but that's okay now; and there were also a lot of "oh yeah's" thrown in there for good measure, cause every good song has to have some of those.

Now I have no way to prove this, but I seriously doubt my wife and I would've experienced a video montage and new tune had our boys not been with us at the vet that day.  And while neither will be gracing the presence of the Cannes Film Festival or the Billboard 100 anytime soon, I was struck by how both of them - instinctively and with zero prompting from their parents - turned to art in the midst of their grief, as a way to help them through that grief.  Self-expression, through whatever medium, has an uncanny way of tapping into someting deep inside us; something that needs to find its way out but can't do so through conventional means.  And somehow it finds its way out much more naturally in pictures, in song, in paintings, in poetic expression, in dance.

And it needs to get out.  To a degree, we all are little pressure cookers walking around each day, harnessing the stressors and saddling the anxieties that are part of life.  For the most part, we excel at keeping them at bay with busy schedules and numerous distractions.  But at some point - usually in the dark of night when we're lying in bed and all around us is still - we feel the weight of the world on our shoulders. And at some point that weight has to give.

The best thing to do, as my kids showed me, is release the burden before it becomes too much to bear.  Proactive grief creativity!  Think of the number of amazing songs composed in the midst of turmoil and strife (Fleetwood Mac made an entire album out of them a few years back).  Check out the painting above, created by Karen when she was in the midst of her own grief.  I like the way she says in her story that she had no idea where she was going with this when she started.  She just "went."  She let the creative muse work its way from her hands and eyes to the paintbrush and canvas.

I always learn something from my boys; it's the nature of being a parent.  But I'm especially glad they took the time to teach me this particular lesson.  If nothing else, it's convinced me even more that before that we must keep the arts in our children's schools.  God forbid a generation that doesn't have self-expression to turn to when they need to feel something so deeply and completely.