I think I have spent the last 15 years trying to sing a song that I've only heard once or twice. The melody got stuck in my head on a service learning trip to Cuba.

I was 19 and had never left the country before. I had never experienced church outside of my overwhelmingly white Baptist denomination in South Carolina. I had never truly seen a body of believers stand in that gap of poverty on a consistent, week in and week out basis. I had never truly seen the work of the church spill into its community.

I have spent the last decade and a half grappling with that trip because I saw something beautiful in those churches that I had not quite seen before. Their practice and their passion melded in a way that seemed vibrant. They were hospitable. They pulled us into conga lines as we sang "Hallelujah" in a sanctuary full of joy. But they also prophetically spoke to us with concern about the war that our nation was about enter. They backed up what they preached with practice. They sought to bind the wounds of a drug-riddled community through gardens and baseball teams and dance troupes.

I went to a Predators game this past Monday with a friend from church. It was the first time I’d been to a Preds game since EA and I went to one back before we had kids. The thing that struck me a week ago—and I think this is the thing that stands out to a lot of first time visitors—was all of the unified chants that roared from the bleachers. It was ritual, with perfect timing thousands of people knew what to say and when to say it.

I’ll go ahead and get out in front of this: the fans tell opposing players that they—and this is the particular word—suck. They do this a lot. There’s no way around it. But these fans know all of these chants by heart. It’s an odd connection to make, but I told Erik that it reminded me of a liturgy at church. It was like people reciting the Lord’s Prayer or responding “Thanks be to God” after scripture is read.

Liturgy mean “the work of the people” and the chants, calls, and responses were definitely the work of these gold-clad people. Their aim was slightly different than what happens at church; they were trying to get in the heads of any Ottawa Senator they could. But it shared a common point with the movements of a church service.

I was curious where these chants came from. There weren’t any cues or guidance from the Jumbotron. No one was saying over the PA, “And now let us remind the opposing goalie of his ineptitude.” The roar emanated from the stands. It was grassroots.

Billy Graham passed away at the age of 99 this morning. Throughout the day, people have rightfully been lauding his impact on the world. He preached good news to millions of people and brought hope to individuals from all over the globe. He was not perfect nor would he claim to be. But his life is a testimony to the difference that an individual can make. Reflecting on his life has caused me to look on the past, but also to look towards the future.

In the wake of the tragic mass shooting at Parkland, I have been amazed at the courage and boldness of high school students who have spoken out. In a world in which many adults, including myself, have reluctantly resigned themselves to the perpetuation of this violent madness, these young women and men have drawn a line in the sand.

Today they have gone to the state capitol in Tallahassee to hold their representatives accountable. Students across the country are walking out of schools in solidarity. They are speaking with conviction in front of large crowds. I have not been able to tear my eyes away from Florida all afternoon.

The right words are sometimes difficult to find.

Last night was my second time on the other end of Ash Wednesday. I stood at the front of the sanctuary in my robe (I was also wearing a tie, which is a bit unusual seeing as if I had a dollar for everyone who mentioned the fact that I was dressed up, I could have taken EA to a nice Valentine's Day dinner) and administered ashes. And I found myself struggling with what to say as I made the sign of the cross on each individual's forehead.

The fretting is on me. These women and men weren't coming to hear whatever I said. They were here for the ashes. But I still didn't want to be pithy. I didn't want to water down this holy moment that has meant a great deal to me. I still remember Lisa Allen speaking to me one Wednesday many years ago and how her words were like oxygen to my spirit. It's not that I wanted to be grandly eloquent, but I wanted to minister. I'm probably too lost in my own head sometimes.

The right words are sometimes difficult to find until you realize they are right there in front of you.

It's gray and gloomy outside today because of course it is. Throughout the day, many of us will slide into a church pew and hear some variation on these words:

"You are dust and to dust you shall return."

There is harshness there. It's a slap of reality to the face and its hand is cold and brittle. We don't like to think of not being here. Our entire frame of reference is being alive. We may understand that death creeps around some unknown corner, but we don't really like to dwell on it. Well, poets might. Yet on the whole, humanity does not like being reminded of its finite nature.

I have come to the not-so-enjoyable conclusion that I have gotten really good at shoving anger deep down into my system. I thought I was getting rid of it or letting it roll off my back. But anger doesn't work that way. You have to deal with it. But I didn't want to deal with it. I thought it was wrong to deal with it.

I'm not supposed to feel anger, right?

I love the Sermon on the Mount. God, I wish that I could live out that beautiful dream of three chapters more fully in my life. But I took the wrong message when Jesus said that if you are angry with someone then you are liable to judgment. In the framework of "all sins are the same" (which I now realize is a dubious framework), anger equals murder. I don't want kill people so if I feel anger, I must avoid it. Engaging with it would mean acknowledging it was real and that would get my hands dirty. My wires got crossed. I neglected the reality that Jesus got angry multiple times.

Christmas is not over. Yeah, the kids are back in school. The Pa-rum-pum-pum-pums are pa-rum-pum-pum-done. Santa has vacated the mall. And one of my sons and I came home yesterday to find our Christmas tree lying on the ground beneath our front porch as if it had been pushed to its death*. But Christmas is not over.

You might know this. There are no shortage of bloggers or that guys on Facebook who will remind you of not-yet-doneness of the holidays. After all, there are the Twelve Days of Christmas and, as of this writing, we're at ten lords a-leapin' in that unhinged bout of gift-giving. More importantly, the church still observes Christmas season through January 6 when we celebrate Epiphany to remember the Magi visiting the Christ Child.

There is something poetic about Christmas still lingering around; no longer the center of attention. There is a moment after the birth of a child when the extended family members return home, the meals stop coming into the house, and everything is calmer...except for the fact that there's a new life in the house. Life settles into routine but there is a child there that has fundamentally transformed life. It's ordinary yet it's not. And it will never go back to being the same. A new life changes everything. Christmas is supposed to change everything.

One of the best parts of being a parent is getting a second chance to see the world through the eyes of a child. You even get to see things you never got to see yourself. On the last day of 2017, I got to see my young sons see a Star Wars movie on the big screen and it was pretty magical.

I grew up loving the adventures in a galaxy far, far away, but I initially knew them only from VHS tapes. It wasn’t until I was 13 when I saw the Special Editions in the theater, which was cool but it’s not quite the same as being a wide-eyed seven year old.

Our family went to see The Last Jedi with some friends from church. Liam sat to my left, Jim, the oldest, to my right. When the movie started, I read the opening crawl to him. He responded, “I could’ve read that Dad.” And we were off. 

We were rushing out to our car in the frigid cold. Suddenly our oldest son froze in the middle of the park and our entire day with him. With a quiet concern that masked panic, he wondered aloud, "Where's George?" George, his stuffed monkey. His constant companion since he could barely talk. At first, I said he didn't come inside the mall, but with horror I immediately corrected myself.

George did go inside with Jim. And now he wasn't with Jim. And I couldn't remember the last time I had seen him.

I cursed under my breath as I rushed back inside the food court to check the table where we had eaten lunch. No George. I ran to the one store we went to after we had eaten. I looked around. I asked the employees if they had seen a stuffed monkey. They checked behind the counter. "Sorry, no."