Plan? What Plan?

I was supposed to have been a Jesuit priest, or a Naval Academy grad
That was the way that my parents perceived me,
those were the plans that they had
But I couldn't fit the part, to dumb or too smart
Ain't it funny how it all turned out
I guess we are the people our parents warned us about

-Jimmy Buffet, "We Are the People Our Parents Warned Us About"

No doubt, Chuck & Carol had big plans for me when I slipped into the hospital room 40-something years ago.

Heck, within a decade even I had formulated what I was going to be: a weatherman, maybe a florist, err, garden store owner.

By high school I was making a bee line for DJ, while college had me throwing down the "keeping my options open card" in the form of an English major. Barely.

In short, I'm not so sure I ever had a clear plan A. I do however, have a resume of Plan B pursuits.

Sure,  I've set some goals, moved down some paths toward a vision of what I might become.There was two years as a commercial loan analyst; a year as a Young Life leader; two years managing part-time jobs delivering pizza and supervising recreation facilities while adding two years to my college transcripts. They've all been a means to an end. But plan A?? I think they've all been, in a way plan B.

For that matter, this morning I realized even teaching is itself a Plan B.

Don't get me wrong, I dig my gig. The kids keep me honest and fresh. And, I am for sure challenged unlike any of my friends working outside the classroom. But, I'm not so sure it's the Plan A I ever had in mind.

Which brings me back to the notion of Plan B.

This morning, during a break in my day, I  read Chad Este's Captain's Blog review of Pete Wilson's latest book, Plan B.

Based on this review, I've come to understand (1) Wilson's the pastor of  Cross Point Church in Nashville (2) he's writing about how our vision for what we'll do or become rarely matches the reality of what transpires, and (3) he points out we do, however, get to choose the why behind whatever it is we are doing. 

For me, as I assess my 20-year teaching "career" and its present manifestation, I know (1) I've started and maintained and alternative education program (2) I never would've imagined I'd be doing this a decade after I began, (3) God's given me an amazing opportunity to be Christ's hands, ears, and voice to a group of kids desperately in need Him, and (4) God's most certainly used this to humble me and teach me the value of trusting in Him to mold me and deliver me where he sees fit.

I may not always understand my Plan B, but I can tell you this Chad Estes has me thinking Wilson's Plan B is one I can't wait to get my hands on.

-Schlegs

Postscript - Talk about irony. Current events and Wilsons own blog, Withoutwax.tv, point out how Wilson's congregation and hometown are presently living out the whole plan B idea.

Please, pray for Nashville and the surrounding areas

Cletus - He's What's for Dinner, And I'll Take a Helping

Minnesota made the news-scape map this week when an unidentified buyer from the Land O' Steaks, err Lakes, dropped close to $1,700 on a nearly 3,000 pound steer from the Big Sky state. (read in the Washington Post here).

At that size, Cletus, as the big fella was known, was enough beef to make Carl a senior, Sonic go "Boom!", and Ray turn flips in his McGrave.

As for me, well, I'm just licking my chops knowing that Cletus may just find his was into my local Twin Cities Cub, SuperTarget, even or neighborhood Lakewinds Cooperative (if the grasses he ate can be certified organic, that is).

Now that a ton and a half of aged, finely marbled beef is about to hit the marketplace. this is one Minnesotan looking forward to a summertime steak or two. So, I'm wondering, do you have a favorite cut and a flavorful manner of preparing it? How about sending it my way!

Space Monkey Splashdown

(This is a follow-up to Sunday's Space Monkey Wherefore Art Thou?)

On Friday night 9 year-olds Peter & Josh were at odds over the former's discovery of the coveted Space Monkey Might Bean in the party favor package.

Meanwhile, the likes of fellow 9 year-old Jack were confusedly wondering, "Mighty whaaa?"

Unfamiliar with the whole craze because he attends a private school with concerns much higher on Blooms Taxonomy than those of the average public school 3rd grader, Jack was left to look about the table for sings of protocol.

• Overturn package and rip through the cardboard backing. Got it.
• Marvel at the trio of characters pressed into the forms. Check. 
• Point out the silly expressions. Did it. 
• Consult the accompanying paperwork for the "rareness" of each Mighty Bean. 
• Oooh yeah, I got one common and two rare. 
• Hey, these are sooooo cool!

Soundly innitated into teh Might Been Craze in all of 3 minutes' time, Jack was down right evangelical by the next morning.

With a peristence of a 4-laws-wielding Campus Crusader on the Spring Break sands of Daytona, Jack paraded about his home extolling the merits and virtues of the low unit cost/high profit craze that is the Migty Beanz collection of 2010.

So vigilant was he in his recitation of the Mighty Beanz gospel, and so convincing of his need for more icons in the Beanz catherdral that once was his room, Jack's mother had little choice but to head to the nearby SuperTarget to gather more for the collection.

good thing they were there about when teh doors opened - not long after jack's sunrise eccumenical Might Beanz  service, I'm sure. There were onlya handfiull of packages on the hooks.

In the car, the two packages were quickly pried open.

And a miracle happened. Jack met up with not one, but two, yes, two Space Monkey Beanz.

A house call was in order.

Yep, the Might Beanz neophyte, the zealous convert to the craze was poised to make a sacrifice.

In a scene that makes you realize there is innocence and good in the world, on their way home Jack had his mom stop by Josh's house  where he promptly delivered the coveted Space Monkey off to the one who cared so much the night before.

For his generosity, Jack was rewarded with his pick of Josh's Mighty Beanz. After all, what good is a collectible if you can't trade it for something better?

Wherefore Art Thou Space Monkey Bean?

Early last week, in the 9-year old boy equivalent of a feigned yawning stretch of an arm around an "unsuspecting" date, my son, Avery,  dropped a pre-birthday hint: "Uh, yeah, a lot of the boys in third grade, well, they're trading these things called Might Beanz. I dunno why, but they're really popular right now. Everybody has 'em. Uh. yeah."

So, you want Might Beanz for your 9th birthday do ya. Got it.

Now, for the uninitiated, Mighty Beanz are the 21st century equivalent of Weebles, except they're perfectly symmetrical.

Whereas Weebles (above, top) resembled highly medicated smiling baby-people-eggs in colored underpants and merely wobbled, Mighty Beanz (above, bottom) reflect all that is rough, tough, hip and relevant, and are meant to spill over and tumble, preferably in epic clashes atop cloths or paper towels stretched taught between your hands.

Enlightened as to the import of the Might Beanz, my wife embarked on recon mission to acquire small packages of these coveted characters for each boy attending last Friday's birthday celebration. By 4:30, each boy had a party bag replete with a 3-pack, waiting for them.

With the main event bowling out of the way, we returned home for backyard play, gifts and cake, and a campfire.

Safely through the "Insurance claims pending" phase of trampoline, whiffle ball, and ladder golf - nothing says party quite like events involving projectiles, human or otherwise - we moved thing inside for cake and gifts.

A shower of money and gift cards fell upon my now nine year-old Avery before he became owner of, yep, an assortment of Mighty Beanz and a carrying case.

What happened next has only been witnessed on late night Animal Planet or Discover Channel episodes. You know, the ones that open with the disclaimer, "Some content might not be suitable for younger viewers."

The room erupted with clamoring hands and shrill cries of "Let ME see 'em."

"Nevermind the cake," they seemed to say, "let us at those Beanz!"

So we did what any sane party host would do. We passed out the party bags.

Attention diverted from the collection my son just received, each boy focused on the 3-pack that would be their own. And then it happened, what every birthday host fears but fails to plan for - things went awry.

At one end of the table sat ardent Mighty Bean collector, Peter. Opposite him, standing, was Josh, a Beanz-head in own right, the type who scours metro area target stores and e-bay for that one particular Mighty Bean character, Space Monkey Bean.

I don't need to tell you who opened their package to find the afroementioned Space Monkey, and which boy was left slack-jawed, dumbfounded that the object of his affection had been here, in our house, within his reach, undetected, for 90 minutes (an eternity to a 9-year old boy).

What followed was nothing short of a psychology/sociology 101 experiment. There was baiting, taunting, negotiating, resentment, and even a "nanner-nanner foo foo," and an alleged punch in the face.

   Are you familiar with Lord of the Flies? Well, we didn't have quite get Piggy with it, but let's just say that nothing kills the birthday party mojo quite like one kid getting what another covets.

In the end, there was peace at the party place, even if Josh was unsuccessful in his bids to acquire the Space Monkey from Peter. Avery was tickled to have had his buddies over to celebrate, and he made out like a bandit - a fat wad of gift cards and cash, and a collector case 1/2 full of Might Beanz.

Now, if only my kid can find that damned Space Monkey Bean...

-Schlegsofminne

The Wages of Inappropriate Attire, part 2

In my recent post, "The Wages of Inappropriate Attire, part 1" I took a jab at an imam in Iran who linked earthquakes to immodest attire among the ladies of Tehran and greater Iran. And, given teh restrictive nature of Iranian culture as we see it here in the West, it's not so much the immodest attire, but the "pushing of the envelope" via revealing hair and wearing things a little too close to the hips.

The whole suggestion that the wages of attire led to earthquakes got me to thinking not so much of the folly of teh connection - but it did give me enough fodder tow write, now didn't it? Instead, I was taken back to my mid-1980's involvement in Campus Crusade for Christ where I met up with the 4 Spiritual Laws tract.

Spring Break 1985. Bike Week. People soaked in Panama Jack, Budweiser and Spring Break frivolity in Daytona Beach Florida. And 130 pounds of scrawny little me timidly approaching strangers "to share my faith" via a survey and follow-up presentation of those 4 Spiritual Laws.

I'm not so down with the drive-by evangelism - wasn't so down with it then, and I'm less so now, but  I am down with these "laws" as spiritual principles defining our relationship with God, His authority, and our responsibility to Him.

The idea of consequences for "immoral" behavior reminded me of Spiritual Law #2,

"Man is sinful and separated from God.
Therefore, he cannot know and experience
God's love and plan for his life."

and uses Romans 6:23 to substantiate our separation:

"For the wages of sin is death; but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord."(American Standard Version)

In his khutbah (that's a sermon in a mosque), imam Hojjat Sediqi remarked,

"Now if a natural earthquake hits Tehran, no one will be able to confront such a calamity but God's power, only God's power. So lets not disappoint God."

This is where I love being a Christian - the kind the laws lead you to, the kind with a realtionship with Christ and a community of believers. Yeas, imam Sediqi is Muslim and I am not, but don't for a second go thinking there aren't Christian equivalents to Sediqi's adherence to dogma - plenty of us were raised to avoid dancing, improper hair lengths, and adult beverages becasue they are what separte us from God.

The bottom line truth is that, and I recognize the irony of this, Law #2 is right on the money. We're  not going to avoid God's consequences, earthquake, tsunami, or eternal death, by tucking hair beneath a hijab, concelaing ourselves with a loose-fitting burkah, or cropping hair above our ears or turning it up in a bun, for that matter. Sure, it may reflect a discipline and symbolize a devotion, but regardless of such hollow outer efforts, we still remain separated from God, and our wages for that separation is death, separation from God.

No matter what the Hojjat Sediqi's or (insert dogmatic preacher name here)'s preach our actions are not the bridge; instead, we only cross over closer to God via accepting His gift of "eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord."

-Schlegsofminne

The Wages of Inappropriate Attire, part 1

Today, I must admit I stand corrected.

Apparently I had learned in error that the moving and shifting of tectonic plates along their boundaries causes what we call "earthquakes."

In fact, the real source of earthquakes is human in its nature. Yep, that's right, we, not the movement of the earth beneath it's crust, are to blame for that shifting rolling that's turned upside down the lives of Haitians and Chileans alike this winter alone.

Well, let me correct myself further. It's not really a we thing, it's a girl thing. Yep, that's right. We can blame the ladies for the earthquakes.

Well, you can if you're willing to buy into the teachings of Hojjat ol-eslam Kazem Sediqi, the acting Friday prayer leader in Tehran. According to a recent BBC report, the cleric told followers last Friday (4/16/2010), "Many women who do not dress modestly lead young men astray and spread adultery in society which increases earthquakes."

Really? That's a seismic leap in logic, now isn't it?

Worse is the fact this ridiculous correlation of a woman's failure to conform to a dress code with natural planetary activity overshadows a rather fair point. The BBC  added, "Mr Sediqi was delivering a televised sermon at the Tehran University campus mosque last Friday on the need for a "general repentance" by Iranians when he warned of a "prevalence of degeneracy.""

I think even the average Tom, Dick, or Hojjat would agree there has been a general moral decline over the last 20 to 30 years. Globally, our self-absorption, obsessive self-serving, sexual objectification, and general disconnect from the Almighty, or, worse, the justification of our wrongs in the name of the Almighty have reached levels that make even a Pollyanna's head spin.

Is our world marked by a "prevalence of degeneracy?"Do we need to repent? Iranian or not, the answer is, "Heck yeah!"

That said, I'm  not so sure showing a little hair from beneath your head-covering, or wearing more "clingy" clothing qualifies as real "degeneracy," but one woman's casual interpretation is another's provocation of the menfolk, and, worse, the tectonic plates.

-Schlegsofminne
(I'll suggest a better alternative in a future post)

From Gossip to Unclassifiable

(Author's Note: I originally wrote this on April 10, 2010, just as this blog was coming to fruition)

This is the stuff of teenage dreaming, fiction, and a Disney/Nickelodeon movie swirled into one heaping serving:

You get your big break only to find it’s not really your big break.Then, your trial finds a columnist’s ear, one thing leads to another, and you really do get your big break. And in the process an icon notices your plight, encourages you to “break a leg,” and goes on to his merry way.

In the end, though, you’re elated, uplifted and buoyed by the experience yet still, “unclassifiable” by iTunes on someone else’s hard drive.

Such is the story of how I came to know of Minneapolis singer songwriter Alison Scott.

Link hopping between national news, Twins coverage, and the miscellany of the StarTribune, I was intrigued by the line, “Bon Jovi comes through for Alison Scott.”

I couldn’t resist.

I clicked, and found myself at one of my least favorite (sorry CJ) haunts at the Strib.

Undeterred by my usual aversion to the column (that’s another post altogether), I was completely taken by Scott’s plight. So smitten I clicked deeper into the world of Twin Cities gossip to find the original post concerning her “winning” the chance to open for Bon Jovi in St. Paul this past week.

The story bears reading. It makes you feel “warm and fuzzy” when you read how Alison won, didn’t won, then found herself bailed out by none other then JBJ himself (read CJ’s follow-up the story here, and the story to start it all here).

More than intrigued, I followed the threads to Alison Scott’s website where I found some of the best music I’ve encountered lately. There’s a sultry, smooth feel to Scott’s vocals, the kind equally fitting with a steaming dark roast and blog/news reading as with an evening around the fire pit with good friends and a glass of wine or a pint.

That doesn’t exactly describe Scott’s music, I know. But how, exactly, do you descrivbe someone who bounces through the rhythms and melodies of “A Little Bit,” then flows seamlessly in to a mellow yet heated crooning questioning and second-guessing of self, love and relationships in “How Do You Know”?

What I do know, is that while iTunes may considers Alison Scott “unclassifiable,”  this young singer songwriter takes me some place new and fresh, a place where, when I’m there, I can’ t help but do as she asks, more than willing to “Stop...step out of yourself to notice everything else.”

-Schlegs