It's hard to believe that I couldn't see it previously, but I totally encountered Jesus in the middle of Disney's "High School Musical."

 Now, I fully realize that this statement smacks strongly of that cheapest sort of evangelicalism -- with a demon behind every stubbed toe and an angel behind every discovered penny -- but you'll have to take my word for it that I'm not typically that sort of person.  I know that it's highly unlikely that the original song-writer(s) or lyricist(s) meant to create anything other than sappy, snappy, bubble-gum pop songs about high school romance.  And I am not at all in favor of re-writing the words to classic songs to somehow make them more "Christian," like that old song,  "Some Kind of Wonderful" by Grand Funk Railroad, that was re-written to be addressed to "my Jesus" instead of "my baby."

But even so, there's still something cool about how God can sometimestake a random set of circumstances and blend them into a truly meaningful spiritual experience.

All week, I've had this song in my head from Disney's "High School Musical." It's a song called "What I've Been Looking For" (which actually occurs twice within the movie, with two separate arrangements; for those of you who might be curious, it's the Ryan and Sharpay version that's been on the brain).  Likemany of the other songs from the film, it's a catchy tune.  Without even trying -- and actually with some deliberate effort to get it out of my head -- I just find myself humming the tune as I'm ridingmy bike, or cleaning up the kitchen, or whatever.  "Doo Doo DooDoo - Doo Doo DooDoo - Do Do.  Woa-ah-ah-oh."  If you've heard the song, you probably know what I mean...

Simultaneously, I've been spending a lot of the week feeling kind of awkward and lonely.  A combination of church leadership transitions, general season of ministry, and personal relationships have worked together to create this general sense of malaise in my life.  Nothing extraordinary.  Nothing alarming.  Just kind of tough, you know?  I've had these persistent questions bouncing around about ministry partnerships, healthy balances in my life, finding the right mix between personal responsibility and giving things to God -- that kind of stuff.  And while I've been seeking God on these questions -- through prayer, meditation, reading the Bible, and talking with others -- I hadn't found any soul-satisfying reassurances about the situations...

That is, until this morning.  I was riding my bicycle down the Rokin, right in the heart of Amsterdam, when I finally connected the words bouncing through my head (from "High School Musical") to my current life circumstances -- creating a kind of bizarre pop-worship song.  Again, I know it soundskind of cheesy.  But read the words for yourself (totally unedited!), and see if I'm not totally off-base:

It's hard to believe
That I couldn't see
You were always there beside me

Thought I was alone
With no one to hold
But you were always right beside me

This feeling's like no other
I want you to know
I've never had someone
That knows me like you do
The way you do
I've never had someone
As good for me as you
No one like you

So lonely before
I finally found
What I've been looking for

So good to be seen
So good to be heard
Don't have to say a word
For so long I was lost
So good to be found
I'm loving having you around

This feeling's like no other
I want you to know
I've never had someone
That knows me like you do
The way you do
I've never had someone
As good for me as you
No one like you

So lonely before,
I finally found
What I've been looking for

Cool, huh? Maybe you will just think I'm thanking my lucky angel (or moon-rock, if you're more inclined towards New Ageism) for such "wisdom from heaven."  And I'm certainly not offended if you write it off as such.  But it was a cool enough moment for me that I thought I'd share...

There's no such thing as time off for a Roving Paramedic. When
not out saving lives, Chad and Jonas make their way to the Bowling
Green State University Student Recreation Center to train. Hours and
hours of physical training are required to give the Roving Paramedics
the strength and stamia they require to save countless lives. Although
they make it look easy, being a Roving Paramedic is tough work. But
even training gets put on hold when danger calls... 

The video quality here is pretty embarrassing -- but I figured it was still worth posting.

Back when I was a student at Bowling Green State University, much of my time was devoted to two particular pursuits:  (1) training for a career in video production, and (2) developing a personal connection with God and Christian community, through a student church called h2o.  "The Roving Paramedics" is where the two of these intersected.  Even though my video skills were still very raw and developing (I had not even graduated from the old-school A/B roll editing equipment, still back in the analog days!), I cooked up a video story-line with some friends from the church about a pair of blundering super-heroes called the Roving Paramedics:

Once promising physical therapy students, Chad and Jonas decided to leave their life of endless studying and experimental cadaver dissection. Why? They discovered a higher calling: to seek out those in distress, to come to the aid of the suffering, to save the world as THE ROVING PARAMEDICS! 

With the support of the church leadership (which is quite remarkable, actually, as the videos had absolutely nothing to do with faith or spirituality), my friends and I produced three episodes of this mini-series for "broadcast" at our weekly "Thursday Night Live" gatherings.  And against all odds, they became something of a sensation (albeit very localized).  It's probably one of those situations where "you had to be there" in order to truly appreciate the humor and action of the Roving Paramedics videos -- but I still look back on those videos with a great deal of fondness.

So I finally decided that I needed to figure out a way to digitize these old "classics" -- considering the fact that the only surviving copies were on a single old (deteriorating) VHS tape.  Someday, I might get around to sending the tapes into a proper video transfer/duplication house, to retain as much video quality as possible -- but even before I could feel comfortable (temporarily) parting with that sole copy of all my college memories, I decided that I needed to try a crude "digitization" process of my own:  thus, the current version now uploaded to YouTube (as seen embedded above).

Again, I apologize for the video quality.  Part of the issues relate to the original technology involved in producing the video (a Super-8 mini-camcorder, a Wal-Mart microphone, and an old BGSU A/B roll editing suite)... part is the inevitable degradation of magnetic particles on the old VHS tape itself... part is the way that I made my digital transfer (direct-line audio, but video that is nothing more than a digital camcorder set up in a dark room, with a television screen playing the old tape)... part is American (NTSC) and European (PAL) video standards conflicting with each other, causing the horizontal banding that can be seen in the video... And, last but not least, part of the problem is the inexperience reflected in the work itself (yes, the audio, camera-work, editing, and acting really were that bad!).

But with that said, I hereby present to the world the first episode of "The Roving Paramedics!"  In the next week or two, I hope to post the other two episodes (plus the "Bloopers and Outtakes" video that was also originally shared at another one of the Thursday Night Live gatherings.  But for now, I'm sure that this is all you can handle. :-)

This has got to be one of my favorite movie scenes of all time.

It's ridiculous, really, to realize how often I think about this scene -- when I'm in the midst of everyday conversations (and particularly church leadership situations).  Something about the scene rings so true to our human nature and social dynamics... And I really think there are some valuable leadership lessons in there.  But it's just funny that it comes in the package of a film about a frog and bear helping to break a pig out of jail.

I hope you enjoy the clip as much as I do.

We've built a treehouse in our backyard this summer.  Except there's no tree.  It's just a little play house up on stilts -- but it sounds dumb to call it a "stilt-house," so I call it a treehouse.   Now, I can't take too much credit for the project, since it was Marci's idea, and it even ended up being assembled from a kit (not from scratch).  But all the same, it's pretty cool...

And last night, Elliot, Olivia, and I decided to christen it with a sleepover.

That's right, I volunteered to sleep in a tiny treehouse (so small that my legs had to stick out onto the balcony, in order for me to fit full-length).  It was a mix of insanity and idealism that caused me to go for the idea.  But in the end, I'm glad I did.  We spent the whole evening gathering supplies (sleeping bags, blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, flash-lights, batteries for the flash-lights, etc.).  And then, when it was time for bed (around eight o'clock in the evening), we tucked our pillows under our arms and headed out to the tree-house, dressed in our pajamas.

We spent time reading from books (finishing the last two chapters of "The Boxcar Children").  We told stories of our own invention.  We played around with the flashlights (to the point of annoyance).  And then we tried to go to sleep.

We tried.  Very briefly.

Personally, I think I actually could have done just fine, up there in the tree-house, for a single night.  But it ended up getting a little bit too dark for Elliot and Olivia (who typically have a night-light in their room).  And since I had padded the front-end of the evening with plenty of reminders like, "You know, it might not be the most comfortable sleeping arrangement -- so we can always plan to come back inside, whenever we feel like it"),  the kids decided fairly quickly and unanimously to transition to our regular beds after just a few minutes of tossing and turning and trying to get settled.

We came back in around a quarter to ten.  Just an hour and forty-five minutes after we had started.

But I'm not complaining.  I would actually say that it was pretty near to the ideal way of managing a treehouse sleepover.  All options were extended to the kids (i.e. I didn't have to be the "wet blanket").  We got to experience the fun of planning and preparing for such a wonderful adventure -- which is probably a disproportionate percentage of the fun that goes into any such adventure anyway.  We got to enjoy some special time in the treehouse together, with just the three of us.  The kids were ecstatic with the opportunity to stay up "way past" their normal bed-times and snuggle up with Dad for awhile.

But at the end of the night, I was able to get to sleep at the usual time, in my usual bed... feeling unusually satisfied.

Forrest Gump say, "Life is like a box of chocolates.  You never know what you gonna get."  But that's not right, man!  'Cos if you gotta box of chocolates -- and even if you get one that you do not like so much, it's still a chocolate.  Right?  I mean, come on...

No, no, no.  I tell you what it is.  Life is like a box of rocks and chocolate.  And you are blind-folded, and you gotta pick with no looking.  And sometimes, you getta chocolate.  And sometimes, you getta rock.  And when you bite it, you break your teeth.

The light is red.  I hover above my bicycle, left pedal cocked, waiting for the light to change.  Other Amsterdammers fill in around me, on their bicycles.  As the red light lingers, the crowd has perhaps swelled to a dozen riders.  And then the light turns green.  I shove off from the curb with my right foot, while pushing down hard with my left, in a smooth, practiced maneuver that immediately juts me to the front of the pack.  Other riders push their way across the intersection, close at hand.  My eyes are locked on the zebra-striped cross-walk on the far side of the intersection.  I get up off the bike seat to pedal with full thrusts of my weight, leveraged with long, alternating tugs on the handlebars.  It's down to me and some punk who had the good fortune of just perfectly timing his drift into the intersection with the light-change, thus transferring his full-speed momentum into the cross-roads.  But I will not be denied.  As the cross-walk finish-line looms, I pedal harder and harder.  The tendons in my forearms stand taut and sinewy.  I stretch my legs to full extension.  My neck even leans forward...

And then, joy!  Victoire!  The front tire of my bicycle crosses the line a full tire-length ahead of the other guy.  I pick up some valuable sprint points in being the first to reach the other side of the intersection, and I feel incredibly satisfied, settling back onto the bike seat and pedalling in a more regular rhythm... I feel good about myself.

The sad thing is that the situation described above is not exagerated (or at least not by much).  I get into this frame of mind for about three weeks almost every summer -- where my afternoon enjoyment of the Tour de France subconsciously transfers itself into my daily commutes.  Every intersection is a sprint.  Every bridge is a climb beyond category.  Every tourist roaming into the bike path is one of those ridiculous Norwegian fans on the Alpine inclines wearing a viking helmet and waving a red-crossed flag within centimeters of the spokes on my front wheel.  Every time I lock up the bicycle is a return to the team bus at the end of a day.  My imagination gets the best of me.  And though it feels like the fantasies of a nine-year-old boy on his BMX (though, to be completely honest, those were actually more the days of my bike being a speeder zipping through the forests of Endor, just like in the "Return of the Jedi"), I only feel a little bit embarrassed to publicly admit these thoughts.

The Tour de France is a lot of fun for me.

Ironically, when I watch the Tour de France on television, it's actually more of a relaxing experience than a thrilling adventure.  The coverage is slow-paced (except at the end of the day).  The announcers' voices are subdued.  The vast panoramic views of the course -- provided by helicopter -- are like postcards or fairy-tale books, with a modern-day bicycle race running through them.  Coverage lasts for hours every afternoon, for three weeks.  When I get home around supper-time, I can usually just catch the last five kilometers of the stage before settling down to a pleasant summer evening.  Like so many Americans, Lance Armstrong was indeed my gateway into the Tour de France.  And I have to admit that his return to the Tour this year has made things more interesting than they've been for four years -- my love of the Tour transcends my admiration for Lance Armstrong.  Even so, I'm thinking that if Armstrong looks like he might be in a position to win this year's Tour, our family might need to organize a last minute trip to Paris to see him accomplish the historic feat... Who knows?!?  That remains to be seen.

But in the meantime, I'm definitely enjoying the ride.

I don't want to be a crusty old cynic... And I can't say that I'm overly grounded at some particular point on the Capitalist - Communist Ideological Spectrum... But this poster, photographed (with my camera-phone) at a local eating establishment earlier today, piqued my curiosity, nonetheless.

Isn't there something strange about a Communist revolutionary leader being used to market the launch of a new line of salad products *** now on sale at Wok to Walk *** ???

I know that advertising is intended to be somewhat provocative... But this strikes me as just plain silly.

You?

Marci and I try to get away each year -- for at least one night -- in celebration of the anniversary of our wedding.  This year (our 11th anniversary), the opportunity for this came a month and a half late, but we still were able to manage a two-day (one-night) trip to the island of Texel, just off the coast of North Holland...

It was kind of funny to realize the parallels between this trip and our original honeymoon.  Both were taken to small islands, just barely off the coast of the mainland in the vacation-region of the country in which we lived at the time.  Both destinations were full of beautiful dunescapes, with tall grasses waving in the wind.  Both times, we got to stay in a room with a view of the beach, where we could watch the sun setting.

We actually ended up with lots of photographs that paralleled each other from these vacations.

Compare the above photograph (taken yesterday) with the picture below, taken on our honeymoon in 1998.  We didn't exactly get the same "pose" of our hands -- but it is interesting to see the ways our hands have aged over the last 11 years...

We also got parallel pictures of sunsets, individual shots as we enjoyed the nature, and views from our rooms... but I won't go to the trouble of posting all of them (considering that the entertainment value of these pictures for others might not be so great)... You'll just have to take my word for it, that there were some interesting parallels between Siesta Key (Florida), USA, and Texel, NL.

I do, however, have to post these pictures of ourselves -- also aged a bit (more noticeable with me than with Marci)... Aged like fine wine, right? :-) 

It's strange to observe the passage of time, isn't it?  The photographs from our honeymoon already have a distinct patina, separating them from the pictures of today.  My hands and hairs reflect the changes... But I've been very privileged to have a wonderful wife, with whom I can observe it all.

I can't help but think of the words to an old Jim Croce song:  "There never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do, once you find them... I've looked around enough to know, you're the one that I want to go through time with."

Here's to the next 11 years (and 41 days)...

I haven't been blogging so much lately because I've been busy with some bigger writing projects.

Still, I had to post this.

It just so happens that Elliot has been doing some writing projects, too.  To help alleviate (or prevent) summer vacation boredom, Marci gave him a writing prompt this morning -- suggesting that he come up with a story for the photograph here on the left (which she had randomly torn out of a magazine).  This is what Elliot came up with (originally, written out long-hand, with pencil and paper):

Once upon a time, a long long time ago, when the grandmothers and grandfathers of today were little boys and girls, there was a boy named Kevin.  But he was not like most boys.  Kevin had special powers.  He could see through things.  He could turn invisible.  He could make ropes come from his belly.  Unlike most superheroes, Kevin always had diguises on.

One day, Kevin and his family were just about to jump into the swimming pool.  Kevin saw a bad guy trying to steal pool money.  His father and mother went diving to see the bottom.  Kevin turned invisible, went up to the bad guy, tied him up, and gave him to the police.

The End.

Isn't that a great story?!?  Maybe it's just "Proud Papa Syndrome" -- but I thought that story was classic.  Definitely worthy of publication.  I hope you may have gotten half of the enjoyment that I got out of it...

I saw this photograph on the The Big Picture, and I was so moved by it that I thought I'd post it here as well (with its original caption copied beneath). 

President Obama bends over so the son of a White House staff member can pat his head during a family visit to the Oval Office May 8, 2009. The youngster wanted to see if the President's haircut felt like his own. (Official White House Photo by Pete Souza) 

Now I'm not totally ga-ga over Barack Obama, like many others.  I have genuine issues with some of his policies -- but I really respect him as a person (at least what I know of him).  And it's especially meaningful to see the way that his life offers significant hope for future generations of African-Americans.

Today is the last day of school for Elliot and Olivia.

Bringing them to school this morning, I could not help but feel nostalgic about my own school days.  The last day of school was always warm and breezy, shorts and T-shirts.  Cheeks were flushed, arms and legs were just starting to get tanned.  The sense of anticipation for the summer was palpable.  Very little actual education happened on the last day of school -- but maybe some games, some movies, some awards presentations.  The last day of school was always a great day.

It also seems to me that the last day of school often held some sort of surprise.  In first grade, I remember learning that Mrs. Luckey was going to have a baby.  In fifth grade, I remember discovering -- with a sense of shock -- that Mrs. Robb was a smoker.  In junior high school, I remember the year that we learned that Mr. Grady wasn't coming back to teach the following year.

Well, today I learned that the student-teacher in Elliot's class is named Jihad.

Of course, I had heard the name plenty of times before -- but always envisioned it spelled as Jiette or Jea-ette (sounding kind of like the name Jeanette without the middle "n").  But it turns out that her name is actually Jihad.  It's an unusual name to begin with -- but it's all the stranger, given the fact that her ethnic background would appear to be Middle-eastern!  Who knows the story behind that name... But it is significant to note that her personality does not in any way resemble an Islamic holy war. :-)  In fact, she's a very sweet, soft-spoken, patient person, as far as I've been able to tell.  But we learned today (from an end-of-the-year letter) that her name is, in fact, Jihad.

Funny, huh?  Seems to be kind of par for the course on the last day of school...