A real gun

My first acting experience was traumatic I think. My memory is fuzzy on this point because I was in 3rd grade, which was more than a week ago. And I don't remember things past a week. It all just seems to blend into the haze of my past. I don't remember the play's name. Or what it was about. I don't think I had a line. I was more of a prop than and actor. Like the guys in red shirts in the old Stat Trek shows. You never noticed them. Until the met an untimely death. The guys in red shirts always died. Your agent calls and says he got you a spot on Star Trek. "Great! Whats my role"? Doesn't know. But you'll be wearing a red shirt. #%@&!!?@%

I do know I was a soldier. I think it was set in the old west days. Our teacher asked us if we had a gun, a rifle, to bring and use in the play. Boy did I! Santa had given me a whole cowboy get up for christmas that year. A cowboy hat (with the string. Can't have it flying off), two six shooters and holsters and boots WITH spurs. I never did get the horse though. But the best part of the ensemble was the Winchester 30.06 lever action rifle made out of real Corinthian plastic (I just made that up to make it sound better). When you pulled the trigger it made a bbburrr sound. Just like the real ones must have sounded.

Two things happened that scarred me for life. Ok, that's overly dramatic. But it made me cry. I was such a wuss. So I show up to school with rifle and what I saw made me want to run home. The other boys had REAL guns! A couple .22's and a couple bb guns. Made out of real steel. Corinthian steel! How could I possibly stand next to these guys on stage? Real guns? Are you kidding me? I remember hiding my gun behind anything I could find. "Let me see your gun twerp. Let's see it. Hey guys! Look! His mommy bought him a gun for the play. Did she buy you a tea set too"? I cried. I'm tearing up now.

The teacher made them apologize. Yeah. That helped. We practiced for ever how long and then came the big day. We're back stage getting into our costumes and our teacher is making the final adjustments to our get ups and then to my horror she whips out this tube of lipstick and proceeds to smear it on every bodies lips! No way, no how. I'M NO GIRL! I don't even have a tea set at home. "But honey, it helps people in the audience see you better". Ha! What they'd see was a cowboy wearing lipstick. And that wasn't going to be me. So I cried. And cried. Too late to get another cowboy so I went on without lipstick. In a red shirt.Sometimes a mans got to make a stand. Even if he has to cry.

I was reading Donald Millers book "Blue Like Jazz". It is such a good book and I'm in awe as I read it. HE'S ME! I can so relate to everything he writes. But in a way it's sooo discouraging.

I've never sat down and written anything in my life I didn't have to. I've never had an interest in doing this. I guess I can be a little creative in a pinch but I don't think much of my abilities in this area. That has changed in the last few months. Since Facebook I guess. Though I'd try a hand at and see what happens. I think I've said it before, I think I like to write. Or am starting to. Mostly, it's for me, to help me get my thoughts together. To help me in my walk (stumble) with my DAD. And maybe some one might learn from my mistakes. Or my vast knowledge..... .Right.

14 years ago I started a painting business I didn't want to start. But I knew I heard God say do it. I felt like Moses. "Not me! Have my brother do it. He knows more, a better speaker.....". I could give you a dozen reasons why I shouldn't have started it. But how do you tell God no? (Ok, so I do it all the time. Don't know why I stepped out of character then...) I looked in the phone book and it seemed like there were a million painters listed. How was I supposed to survive, much less thrive? But He said do so I did. Zig Zigler said anything worth doing is worth doing poorly. Huh? Poorly he said, until you do it well. I've done ok.

So I sit here at the computer and try to think of some thing to write about. I have ideas and sometimes I'm coherent enough to write something that makes sense. To me anyway. But when I read other peoples stuff I feel inadequate. I read Donald Millers book and feel like, whats the use - some one has already written my story and it's soooooo good! I feel like I felt in 3rd grade. I have a toy gun.

Have you ever felt that way? Maybe God said do something and all you can see is everyone else that's doing it ten times better than you ever could? Discouraging isn't it? Well, keep going. Do what you're called to do. Even if you don't do it well.Learn to accept failure. Embarrassment. The I don't want to's. Put the lipstick on and walk out on stage. Someday, you'll find you're holding a real gun...

She thinks I'm special

I stoped and talked with my friend Dale today. She's a she. Don't know if Dale is short for something. "Dalene"? Maybe her dad didn't get that son he wanted. She's a wonderful woman. In her 60's I think. I'm happy to know her. We almost lost her a couple of years ago. She had some kind of "routine" surgery on her brain that went wrong and she almost died. She was in the hospital for months. I'm glad she's better.

We were talking about some work I'm going to do in her house and before we finished up the conversation she asked me to pray for a friend who was just told they have brain cancer. It doesn't look good.She asked because she said I was good at it.(at which God did a double take and said "Say what"). Maybe she thinks that because I went and prayed for her when she was in the hospital. I'm always hesitant 'cause I don't think I'm good at it. of course, she's still with us.....

I'm afraid to die. Maybe afraid is the wrong word. I just don't want to. Not yet anyway. I want to be really old, like 105 or something. I want it to happen in a field on a sunny spring afternoon under the shade of an old oak tree. Terri and I will have just finished a picnic lunch of bacon wrapped brats, chips and cokes. When you're 105 you don't worry about fat, cholesterol or sugar. We lay back on our blanket and listen to the birds sing and fall peacefully asleep and just never wake up. sigh.( you don't know how much I wanted to spin a yarn about being run over by an 12 ton articulated John Deere tractor....)

I care about what people think of me. Maybe too much. My mom is this way. Sometimes it's crippling. I want people to think I'm worth something. Something special. Donald Miller in his new book said something that clicked into place like another piece of the puzzle. It was a throw away line really. "No one wants to die average". As in "average Joe". I think that's what I'm afraid of. I hope that's not prideful. I just want to have made a difference. To someone.

I think we all on some level want to be remembered as really special. Like Mother Teresa. Or Billy Graham. I know he's not dead yet but when he goes there'll be no shortage of people who tell how special he was. A lot of teenage boys who grow up playing football or basketball dream of "going pro" some day. Very few are that special, maybe 1 in 10,000. The rest of us will just be average. But they have a chance to be special. If just to a few.

I am average. Not so special. Not Billy Graham special. Most days, to tell the truth I don't feel special at all.Special? heck. I don't feel even average. Just a face in the crowd. But despite how I feel I know I am special. Special to a Guy who spends his off time counting hairs on heads.

Each day I get to BE special to a small number of people in my small world if I'll take the opportunity. My wife. My kids. My neighbors. The Dales of my world. I get to get up each day and connect with my DAD and walk together. Maybe we'll bump into each other along the way and I'll get to help make you feel more than average. To make you feel valued. To help you feel like I feel when I talk to Dale. Special.