Kevin DeYoung as the Judgment of God

Here's a confession, I think I'm cool.

Sometimes it's involuntary and subliminal and sometimes it's a little less nuanced. Like when I look in the mirror, put on my sunglasses and say to myself in my best CSI Miami voice, "Well...it looks like someone just got a ticket...to awesomeville" YAAAAAAA (the screaming is optional - but I usually do). Now, to my credit, I only do that about five times a day.

But, you know what's funny, God has this way of doing something I (and James I guess) like to call "opposing the proud". And so every now and then, I get a reminder that I'm not that cool. And to be honest, I don't think I'm alone. When I look at the Bible I'm comforted because I see a guy like Peter in whom I feel like I can identify. I'm probably way off, but I see Peter as thinking he was
kind of cool. I mean, the way he would say and do things exudes a certain amount of confidence that only cool people have. But then again, Peter got humbled a lot. Here are some of my favorite moments from a new translation I'm working on:

John 13:37-38

Peter: Jesus, nothing bad's gonna happen to you. I'll die before that happens.

Jesus: Really? Because you're gonna deny me three times before the rooster crows.

Hours later...Peter denies Jesus three times...the rooster crows.

Matthew 14:28-30

Peter: Jesus, that's really cool that you can walk on water. Let me do that too.

Jesus: Okay, come here.

Peter gets out of the boat and walks toward Jesus.

Seconds later...Peter starts sinking and cries out in fear

*Editor's note: I'm not sure what this sounded like but I know that when I "cry out in fear" it sounds remarkably similar to a junior high girl.

Mark 8:31-33

Peter: Jesus, quit talking crazy. You're not going to die. You just admitted that you're the Christ, and we all know that the Christ is going to come and release us from oppression. Cough, cough...kill-the-Romans...cough, cough.

Jesus: Peter, remember that whole "Blessed are you Simon Bar Jonah" thing from a few minutes ago? Well, I have a new title for you....and it's Satan.

(I can only guess) Seconds later...Peter not so quick to give Jesus "biblical admonitions"


I'm not trying to be flippant with the text, honestly I'm not, I'm just trying to show, in my own words, how I see Peter continually being reminded that sometimes his confidence is misplaced. Needless to say, my life is filled with many of these same types of reminders.

Recently, I had just such a reminder when I went to The Gospel Coalition 2011 conference in Chicago. This was my first time going to this conference and, admittedly, I went into it with somewhat of a "fanboy" attitude. I was all to eager and a little "geeked out" to see and hear all of the many authors that I read and respect. Unfortunately, in my opinion, this approach to the conference is fairly common. In my case, it led to my demise.

Now, here I am at The Gospel Coalition conference and I decide to step out of the main speaking area. As I step into the sunlight, I spend a few seconds trying to let my eyes adjust to the natural light that is pouring through the windows into the hallway. Natural light was something in limited supply during the TGC 2011 conference. After my eyes adjust, I spot about five gentlemen gathered around two men having a conversation. This is a fairly common sight at TGC, but as I look closer I notice that the two men standing there are Justin Taylor and Kevin DeYoung. Now, these names may mean nothing to you, but in the "young, restless, reformed" crowd these guys are fairly well known for their contributions, and so at TGC these guys, like it or not, are stars.

Here's the thing. I think of myself as being somewhat socially adept and so I am constantly saying to myself "Don't be that guy. Don't be that guy." Case in point, when I was in seminary, I worked at the place where the Dallas Mavericks worked out and I always talked to the players only when they talked to me because I remember thinking the last thing I would want is having to constantly humor grown men who want to talk to me just so that later they can blog about it (there's an irony here). I also took that approach with my seminary professors who I considered to be very busy, godly men who could do without my interference in their lives. So, I sat back and watched other guys initiate conversations with the Dallas Mavericks and I pictured my friends moving into Dirk Nowitzki's pool house and becoming godparents to Steve Nash's children. I also watched my fellow classmates buddy up with the profs that I loved talking about books they planned to co-write together and trips they planned to Martin Luther's childhood home. All this while a single tear rolled down my cheek. But I felt pretty good about myself because I showed constraint and I wasn't "that guy".

I say all that to say this. Evidently, I am that guy.

My brother and I like to talk about theology. We can spend hours talking about theological issues that would drive other people nuts. I've come to realize that we are somewhat unique in this respect and some of the things we talk about don't necessarily interest approximately .0001 percent of the general population. But this is easy to forget. Recently, we have been having one of these discussions, and for whatever reason I feel like Kevin DeYoung wants to join our conversation.

As I said before, usually I have an inner voice that prevents me from doing things like this, but I'm not sure if it was the fifteen cups of Starbucks or the years of watching others steal my chances, but this time the inner voice wasn't there. It was just my voice, and that's never good. So, I notice that Kevin is taking a moment for himself to relax from all the craziness of the conference and I think to myself, "I bet he really wants to talk to me about an obscure theological issue". Because I know this, if I was in his position, I would love as many grown men as possible approaching me to talk about whatever is on their mind at the time so that later they can...well, you get the picture.

So, I step up to Kevin DeYoung and ask him if I can ask a question. He says yes (because he is really a nice guy) and then proceeds to cough. Now, when I say cough I don't really mean cough as much as I mean choked on some small animal and almost needed resuscitation. He excused himself and went to get a drink. Again, I usually have an inner voice, really I do. And at this point, normally I would say to myself, "He doesn't feel good, this is a sign. Leave him alone and go look in the mirror and tell yourself you're awesome". But alas, sigh, no inner voice.

I stood there with a smile on my face. I'm pretty sure it was a dumb smile. An uncomfortable smile that says "I like your books but I don't want to perform CPR on you." It seemed like a long time, but eventually he stopped coughing. That's when I asked him my question. And that's when he responded.

Confused look..."Never heard of it".

Okay, I'll say it again, inner voice = on vacation. I should've taken the hint. "Don't worry about it. Thank you for your time. I enjoy your writings. I'm a dork. See you later." Yeah, that's not what happened.

I decided I was going to explain the obscure theological issue, because, you know, that would really impress him. I decided I would give him an illustration from a movie.

Confused look..."Never seen it".

I hate my inner voice. I really do.

I kept talking and talking. Kevin kept nodding and nodding. I've got to give him credit he tried really hard to be as nice to me as possible. Eventually, I noticed his eyes kind of glaze over and guess who should show up but...my inner voice. "Abandon ship! Abandon ship!"

I thanked Kevin for his time and walked away. I could feel my inner voice giving me a look like "I leave you alone for a second..."

I have to say this. Kevin DeYoung is a really nice guy. He took time to answer me, he engaged in the conversation, he was very cordial, and he called me by name when we were done. He didn't have to do any of those things, but that's the kind of guy he is. I have to thank him for taking the time out of his life (when he was no doubt very busy and stressed) for a socially awkward person like myself. But there's something Kevin doesn't know and he probably should. At that moment, he was really just being used for God's sovereign purposes, and I think those purposes were to judge me and remind me of two things. One, all of us pastors are in this thing together and when we become "fanboys" and elevate another person because of their name it only leads to uncomfortable moments for everyone. And, two, I really need to work on my relationship with my inner voice.

All in all, I feel like I learned some things, and I hope by reading this you do too, but the real question is, "Would I do it again?". The answer to that question is complicated, but I'd probably say "Yes". Why? Because I'm cool.

For the Graduating Class of 2010

(Hebrews 12:1-2)

With a crowd of witnesses cheering us on our way
We set out on the race before us each and every day
Our feet they hit the pavement and our brow fills up with sweat
We’re not quite sure where the finish line is but we know we’re not there yet

The world around us weighs us down as we seek our prize
We find ourselves tangled fast in sinful lusts and lies
“Cast off the sin and every weight!” is shouted from the crowd
Look to those who’ve won the race, who’ve made their savior proud

This race is hard. It wears us down. It makes us feel so weak
The valleys seem so dark at times and the future seems so bleak
But we press on. We must endure. For we seek a heavenly crown
And we know that when the race is won we’ll trade joy for every frown

So fix your eyes on Jesus. Press forward in the race.
Trust in Him to guide you and let nothing slow your pace.
Do not stumble. Do not stop. Run Christian Run!
Run the race before you, until the race is won.

Abra Cadabra

One thing I remember from being a kid is the magic. I’m not talking about David Copperfield or Gandalf the Grey. I’m talking about the magic and wonder that seemed to be all around me as a little boy. I could take a walk in the woods and truly believe that I was going to end up in some exotic and foreign land like India, if only I could make it over that giant rock-covered cliff. Or maybe I would stumble upon some invaluable treasure that lay forgotten for centuries only to be discovered by a curious 8 year old boy. And maybe this treasure just happened to look like an old crumpled up can of Shasta. It didn’t matter if I was still in shouting distance from my parents; I was worlds away, exploring new and exciting territory, surrounded by danger and mystery. I was in the woods.

My dad recently said something profound to me about this very concept. He said, “When you get older, the world gets so much smaller”. I think this was his way of saying that the magic disappears. As a child, everything is unknown. Everything is exciting. Everything is magic. But when you get older, the world just seems less magical. One of the more mysterious times of my childhood was bedtime. Just as we were in the middle of perhaps the most significant GI Joe war, wrestling match, or TV show of our young lives my parents would usher my brothers and I off to bed with a callous disregard for the importance of our endeavors.

I didn’t understand. Why did we have to go to bed? Did we do something wrong? Did I act like I was tired, because I certainly didn’t “feel” tired? And most importantly, what were my parents real motives in condemning us to our beds? These were the questions that haunted me as I lay in my bed on cool summer evenings, sometimes before the sun had even completely set (oh the horror).

But I had answers to these questions. I was on to my parents. They hadn’t tricked me. The only conceivable reason they would send us to bed kicking and screaming had to be because they had something they wanted to hide. Something was going on downstairs after we went to bed, something way too fun and mysterious for kids. I imagined parties involving fountains of orange soda and lots and lots of cake. I pictured Ronald McDonald entertaining scores of adults and all of them laughing hysterically while simultaneously jumping on trampolines. My dad, no doubt, had pilfered our toy gun supply and was fighting off imaginary enemies in our basement. My mom was busy cooking an endless supply of pizza and French fries for all the guests. Either that, or she was running through the house intentionally disobeying all the “rules” she so strictly enforced during the day. Walls were being colored on, windows were being broken, candy was being consumed, and my toys were being played with. All this, while I was stuck in bed.

My parents had this down to a science. I knew this because occasionally I would sneak down to the landing on the stairs and I would listen in on what was going on. I would even use this fancy amplifier from a toy spy kit my parents got me for Christmas. But every time, without fail, my parents would know what I was up to and would immediately change their conversations to something mundane like the weather or the news. Oh how I wished, just once, that I could get a glimpse into the magical world of adults after the kids went to bed.

It wasn’t until I became a parent myself that I actually got a glimpse into that world. Very routinely my wife will give me a glance or a not-so-subtle statement suggesting that it is time for the kids to go to bed. And to be honest, we are quite eager to get them to bed. Some nights more than others, we will rush them through their bedtime routine and secure them in their rooms, but unlike my childhood imagination, it’s not so we can party. It’s so we can sit and talk about the weather or the news. And even though we thoroughly enjoy the peace and quiet the magic of my childhood is gone. Our world is smaller.

But the thing about it is, is that the magic isn’t completely gone. And that’s what I love about being an adult. It’s not that there’s no more magic, it’s that “the magic” is bigger and deeper than you could have ever imagined. Sure some things aren’t how you imagined them as children, but some things are way more than you could’ve imagined them as a child. There is a magic in the world and it’s way more fascinating than any of the goofy or cultic stuff we tend to think of. It’s the true power of God. It’s the kind of magic Pharaoh’s and Nebuchadnezzar’s court magicians had to learn about. It’s the kind of thing that lead C.S. Lewis to call Christianity the “true myth”. The truth is that in God there is such an infinite source of mind-boggling beauty, complexity, and wonder that it will keep us awe-inspired and worshipping for all of eternity. That’s one of the truly sad things about the people in this world who suppress the truth of God. They confine themselves to the “small world” of their own reasoning and in doing so they miss out on the big world. They miss out on real beauty. They miss out on real magic.

I also like being an adult because I get to relive the magic of childhood once again through the eyes of my children. My son is just getting to the age where he wants to go “exploring” in the woods, and I am still at the age where I like going with him on these explorations. The other day we wondered into a little stretch of “woods” just down the street from our house. I put woods in quotes because this particular section is pretty small, but big enough for my sons imagination. We spent some time climbing past fallen trees, jumping over creeks, picking up forgotten “treasures”, and throwing rocks into the water. I could see in his eyes the kind of wonder that was trying to make sense of the big world before him. I could see him trying to soak it all in. After a little while, I sat down on a fallen tree trunk and I picked up my son so he could sit next to me. We sat there and played “I Spy” for a little while, as I marveled at how many different trees or branches resembling the shapes of numbers my son could find. “I see an eight. I see a five. I see a six.” Eventually there were a few moments of silence and I looked around and said, “Isn’t it amazing that God made all of this.” My son leaned his head on me and with a sigh said, “Yeah”. That’s what he does when he doesn’t fully understand what I’m saying. We sat there quietly as my son's eyes looked all around. Finally, my son looked up at me and asked, “Dad, how did God make all of this?” I sat there with my arm wrapped around him tightly and I looked at the beauty around me. I smiled and said, “Magic”.

Piano Lessons in Life

I’ve always promised myself that I won’t do it. I won’t use those tired, old phrases that every parent uses. You know the ones, “What? Do you think we live in a barn?” or “If Timmy jumped off a bridge, would you?” and then there’s the old standby, “Well, when I was your age I had to…”

I’m not going to do it. It’s non-negotiable. I grew up with too many of them, and they stick in my mind like that piece of gum I stepped on in the parking lot yesterday. Some of those phrases still haunt me to this day.

When I was young my mom made me take piano lessons. Now, this was a problem because I had a lot of things that I had to get done. For instance, there was Scooby Doo, GI Joe, and Different Strokes that all needed to be watched. And that’s not even mentioning my “rad” BMX bike I had gotten for Christmas. I didn’t have time for piano lessons. My life was already filled with lots of important things. Whenever I tried to explain this to my mom she always had the same response, and it infuriated me, “You may not like it now, but if you quit, someday you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

Now when you’re a kid, the word “someday” is in the same sphere as unicorns and the Easter Bunny. There was no way that my mom could even be remotely right about this. I knew what I wanted, and I did not want piano lessons. After a few reasonable conversations with my mother, which involved me throwing myself on the floor; screaming; and writhing as if in pain; she relented, but not without throwing her final jab. “If you quit piano, you will regret it someday.”

I remember her saying those words as if she said them ten seconds ago. I remember, because I made it my mission to prove her wrong. I would never know how to play piano, and I would never regret it. That worked just fine for me…for about a year. Now I am a grown man with children of my own. and my son is learning how to play piano. He loves it for now and I’m trying to learn with him. I’m sure there will be days when he doesn’t want to play, and he may even want to give up some day. At that moment I know that I will remember the words my mother said, and those words will sting, because she was right. (There, I said it. My mother was right.) I will encourage my son to keep with it, because someday he will be glad he did.

For now, I help my son as he stares inquisitively at his piano books. And if he stares too long I’ll gently say, “Noah, if you keep staring, your face will freeze that way.” If you can’t beat ‘em…

Parents: And the kids who raise them

It’s a funny thing having children. Actually, I mean raising children as opposed to giving birth. There’s nothing really funny about the actual process of giving birth. In fact, it’s quite disturbing. Fortunately, once you are done with the whole birth process everything after that is a breeze. Now, you may be wondering how I could possibly say something like that. It’s easy, I’m lying.

Everyone who has actually tried to raise a child (as opposed to the parents that don’t really try) knows that it is an extremely difficult task and only the most qualified professionals should ever attempt such a task. And that’s the tricky part. You become a professional by experience. It really is trial and error. That kind of makes me sad for the firstborn children.

I’ve concluded that the reason that a lot of firstborn children end up being CEOs, engineers, and presidents is because A) they’ve been hardened by a lifetime of their parents mistakes and B) they want to be in positions of authority so they can inflict the same sort of pain they endured upon others. There really is no other explanation.

Take the first few days of my son’s life for example. I remember going to the hospital in the middle of the night after my wife’s water broke with an eager anticipation to meet my baby boy. We had prepared for years for this moment. And by “prepared” I mean that my wife had read approximately 8,000 pregnancy books and I had read ESPN.com. All of that preparation was about to payoff. I remember speeding down the busiest street in Cedar Rapids with a reckless abandon almost hoping that a cop would pull me over. I had the perfect excuse for speeding. That, and I also thought it would be cool if a police officer delivered my child in the backseat of our two-door Tercel. Surely he would be so scarred by the incident that he would tell has his buddies never to pull my vehicle over ever again. It was a rather ingenious plan. My wife didn’t like it. She told me to slow down.

Eventually, we got to the hospital and we rushed into the birthplace with much drama and fanfare announcing that my wife’s water had just broke. I was prepared for what would happen next. There would be shouting, rushing, panic, beeping noises, screams, and eventually a child. I think I read that in a book somewhere. But that didn’t happen. At least not right away. Instead, a little old lady calmly and quietly walked up to us from behind a desk, grabbed by wife’s arm and walked us down to our room. I reminded her that my wife was in labor in case she forgot, but that didn’t seem to induce the panic I was expecting. Instead she smiled at me and I think patted me on the head. Little old ladies tend to do that to me. After a while, our nurse came into the room and told us that our doctor wouldn’t be in for another 6 hours so we should go ahead and get some sleep. I’m not sure if that was a joke or not, but I remember thinking it would be like telling someone on the Titanic to get some sleep because the boat wasn’t going to sink for another few hours or so. The doctor finally came in and after what I can only guess was about 382 hours of labor followed by an emergency C-section, my son was born.

I thought the first few nights would be a really hard adjustment as we learned the ropes of being parents, but it wasn’t that bad. And I think I realized why it wasn’t that bad. We weren’t being parents. You see, the system at the hospital is pretty fantastic, but it’s also sort of dangerous. Here’s why. After your child is born you have nurses (not to mention the 3 million visitors) coming into your room to hold your child, bathe your child, feed your child, and essentially raise your child. And if you ever get tired of that, well there is this nice little button you can push where the nurse will come into your room and take your child away. I remember using that button once when my wife was sleeping. I told her to get some rest and that I would watch over our son for a while. However, that was before I knew that he would be crying and pooping black stuff. As soon as my wife was asleep I found the button.

Beep
Nurse: Yes, may I help you?
Me: Um, my baby is crying.
Nurse: Okay, would you like me to help
(Now, I’m pretty sure at the sound of a male voice she already knew that I needed some help, but it was nice of her to ask)
Me: Um, okay. What do you have to offer by way of help?
Nurse: Well, if you would like to get some sleep, we could take the child to the nursery for you.
Me: You can do that? What’s that cost?
Nurse: Sure, it doesn’t cost anything (except for the $28,000 you’re already paying). I’ll be down in a little bit.

Several hours later my wife woke up and noticed that we didn’t have a child anymore and calmly asked me if I had lost him. I explained to her that I sent him to the nursery. I saw it as his first social opportunity. She saw it more as neglect. Be that as it may, we utilized the nursery on more than one occasion while were there and we were just starting to get the hang of the whole parenting thing when they threw a rather large curve ball in our direction. The nurse told us we could go home. And that’s when things got kind of scary.

I wasn’t quite sure what they meant by “go home”, but I was certain that they couldn’t possibly mean that they were going to send us home with our child all by ourselves. I mean we loved our son and we were happy to be parents, but we were in no way prepared to deal with the noises, smells, and fluids that this child was producing all by ourselves and yet, this is precisely what was expected of us. And when the day came, they wrapped him up, put him in his car seat and handed him to us. I remember feeling like someone had just handed us a nuclear warhead and sent us on our merry way. Now, just so that you understand, I don’t know what to do with a nuclear warhead, but I’m pretty sure that if I did the wrong thing bad stuff would happen. This is what I was afraid of. Bad stuff.

Well, we went home and the next few days and weeks and months and years were certainly interesting. I’m not sure if it is a man-thing or a me-thing, but the way learn about a new computer is not to read the manual (or 8,000 manuals) on the subject, but to sit down with it and start pushing buttons and seeing what happens. Sometimes I like what happens and I find myself more and more comfortable with the technology. Other times I’ll push a button and give out a, “GOOD GRAVY!!! What did I just do???” as I see smoke rise from the back side of the monitor. This is how it has been with my son. But, you know what, it seems a little easier with my second born, my daughter. I know that I shouldn’t touch that button, cause I don’t want to see the smoke. And I know if I push another button something good might happen. Of course, we’re dealing with the differences between boys and girls which is not really comparable to the Mac vs. Pc analogy as much as it is to a Mac vs. Emotional ticking time bomb. So, obviously there is a learning curve there. And she’ll have to take her lumps as the first girl in the family. But I’ve already learned a lot in these first few years. When we went to the hospital for my daughter’s birth it was a lot easier. We knew what to expect. And I’m guessing if, Lord willing, we go again it will be even easier. I find myself now concerned with what’s on the hospital’s menu more than anything else. And I’ll realize that “the nursery” is just a temporary luxury, and the nurses aren’t going to come home with us, and our child really isn’t all that scary. Well, mostly anyways.

So, I’m learning. And that’s what parents do. And that’s how you get qualified to be a parent. You have to go through all these steps. You have to play around with the new computer and see how it works. You have to spend hours and hours doing good stuff and bad stuff with that computer. And eventually, you’ll know a little bit more about computers. I’m on my way to being qualified to be a parent. I’m on my way to being an expert in computers. And if it takes a process of trial and error then I will eventually get there. I’ve done some rough calculations and in order to finally be considered a professional in the area of raising a child all my wife and I have to do is have 43,656,743.8 more children. I wonder if there’s a big nursery we can send them all to?

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

The evening’s activities were over. Presents had been opened, prayers had been prayed, and lots of sugar had been eaten. My parents gently tucked my brothers and I into our respective beds so that we could begin dreaming about sugar plumbs and whatnot, but what they didn’t realize was that this Christmas was different. A dramatic shift had occurred in the Guthrie home. At the tender ages of eleven, nine, and seven my brothers and I had figured it all out.

You see, every Christmas Eve we would open up the majority of our presents, but an “extra special” gift would be reserved for Christmas morning along with some stocking-stuffers. We never fully understood how the Christmas morning gifts got there. All we knew was that we would go to sleep and they would be there in the morning. But this year was different. The gig was up.

What my parents must not have seen as they tucked us in was the sparkle in the eye of a child that says, “I know it’s you, and when you’re asleep tonight I’m going to sneak downstairs and peak at my gift”. There’s no way they saw that sparkle. We were much to clever.

We waited in our beds for what seemed like an eternity, until it was positively assured that our parents were asleep. And so, after the longest fifteen minutes of our lives we crawled out of our beds with surgeon-like skill and precision. We moved through the upstairs hallway like a cool breeze moves through the morning air. We dared not turn on any lights for fear that we would get caught, but this didn’t concern us. This was our territory and we knew exactly where we were going and nothing could get in our way. Or so we thought.

You know how when something terrible happens it feels like time stands still. Here’s how it played out for us. It took approximately one second for the following to occur. As I attempted to descend the stairs the first thing I felt was something under my feet. Immediately, I heard the rustling of paper and plastic. Both the sound and the feeling of something under my feet caused me to panic and I quickly lost my footing.

There’s an unwritten rule with brothers that goes like this, if one brother is falling it is his duty to grab his nearest brother so that he might fall with him. Of course, I felt compelled to follow this rule. My brother, as he was falling, also felt the same compulsion. And so, in the next few seconds, all three of us were tumbling down the stairs in unison and accompanying us was that same mysterious sound of paper and plastic.

You know how when something terrible happens it seems like you can figure very complex things out in an amazingly short amount of time. Here’s how it played out for us. Somewhere between the top of the stairs and the bottom of the stairs as our bodies twisted and bent in ways we previously thought was impossible it occurred to us. Somehow, against all odds, our parents had seen that sparkle in our eyes. Somehow their old, dormant minds had figured out what our young fertile minds were planning. And somehow, they had outwitted us. At the top of the stairs they had placed an ingenious trap. They had taken the garbage bags filled with wrapping paper from the evening’s previous activities and placed them strategically between the upstairs and downstairs. The unmistakable sound of rustling paper would awaken them and they would expose our ruse. Most likely, they didn’t anticipate the debacle that would follow.

And so, here we were. Three clever boys enjoying the fruit of our labors. A jumbled mess of humanity lying at the bottom of the stairs covered in bags of garbage. The moans of my younger brother came from somewhere underneath me. My older brother rubbed his head in a mix of confusion and affliction. I felt pain over my entire body. We laid there for a few seconds anticipating the inevitable. Our parents would rush to our aid caressing and kissing our wounds. Perhaps they were already dialing 911. And then, in the midst of the darkness, we heard something. The reassuring voice of my father coming from their bedroom. “Go back to bed” The gig was up indeed.

As I laid my bruised head onto my pillow drifting off to dream about sugar plumbs (whatever those are) I could hear the moans and sniffles of my brothers and I couldn’t help but think that there was a sparkle in my parents eyes.

Continuing Education

I’ve tried and tried to remember the first time I met Michael, but I can’t seem to place the actual moment. When I was in college, during Spring Break one year, some friends and I drove to Clemson, South Carolina to visit a young church primarily made up of students from the university. We left that trip very impressed with the church, the school, and the town itself. I quickly bought as much Clemson attire as I could to show my affection for the school that I knew about for approximately three days. A few years later my wife and I were preparing to head to Dallas Theological Seminary. As the preparations came together, we heard from a friend that someone very involved at the church in Clemson was going to be starting seminary at the same time. I was very excited to hear this and immediately made plans to meet this guy, knowing that anybody associated with the coolest church I had ever been to, in the coolest town I had ever been to, had to be cool.

I’m not sure if I met Michael the very first week of school, or if we were “fixed up” by friends, but somehow we ended up being involved in the same Spiritual Formations group. This was a small Bible Study group, organized by the seminary, intended to keep the students spiritually nurtured and connected by interacting with other students in a more intimate atmosphere. We had chosen to be part of a group that would involve our wives. So, when our SF group started, my wife and I eagerly went to meet our new compatriots in this exciting journey called seminary.

Both my wife and I immediately seemed to “connect” with Michael and his beautiful wife Jen. We had the church in Clemson in common, which I’m sure was a little awkward for them since I pretended to know all about it having spent about 72 hours there. But they humored me, and my wife was drawn by their easy going and good natured attitudes. They didn’t seem like “high maintenance” friends and this was exactly what we needed at this potentially stressful time of our lives.

Michael was about as likeable a guy you could find. In fact, I’d be interested to know if anyone ever didn’t like Michael. I’m pretty sure it couldn’t happen. Michael and I had a fairly immediate connection over his love of sports. Of course, he was particularly obsessed with all things Clemson. I’m sure I probably tried to humor this obsession as much as possible, while maintaining my Midwestern roots, something his wife shared in common with my wife and I. We would get together to watch the occasional football or basketball game and would always enjoy the time together.

Perhaps the most intimidating thing about Michael was how smart he was. At first I thought that Michael was just a mere mortal and that he was just as frightened and intimidated by the academic undertaking that we were all facing. In fact, I thought that maybe I had a little edge over Michael because of my undergraduate degree at a Bible college, but I was wrong. After knowing Michael for a while, he finally admitted, rather reluctantly, that he had just finished his Master’s degree before attending seminary for another Master’s degree. And of course, his Master’s degree was in Engineering, a subject that transcended every conceivable area of my intellect. Anybody can get a degree in Biblical studies, but only smart people get degrees (let alone Master’s degrees) in Engineering. Furthermore, I learned of Michael’s intentions for his Master’s degree at seminary. He planned to complete his degree in three years, a feat which was spectacular in it’s own right. The ThM at Dallas Theological Seminary is intended to take four years and I believe the average student takes about 4 ½ to 5 years to complete it. When Michael announced his intentions to complete the degree in 3 years we were all amazed. Unfortunately, I also felt a twinge of competitiveness, and decided to join Michael in the three-year-plan. Had I known how difficult it would be I probably would have left Michael to tackle that feat alone with his academic super powers, but I was young and foolish. I’m sure that Jen would attest to the fact that Michael didn’t have any academic super powers and all his success was due to hard work and determination. This is probably closer to the truth, but as we all observed how calmly and resolutely Michael attacked his studies, we were certainly impressed by his academic prowess.

In the years that followed, Michael and I spent many hours separate and together studying, praying, laughing, and working our way through school. When we would meet together as a group of men to discuss the various struggles and pitfalls of seminary life I always marveled at Michael’s singular mind. He was a very devoted individual. He would not sway from his devotion to his Lord. This was evidenced in his love for his wife, studies, and church. I remember Michael’s insistence that we as men should not waiver in our diligence toward those things. It seemed such an easy stand for him and so difficult for the rest of us. But I never felt that he was putting on a show. Michael was always genuine, and because of that his singular devotion was all-the-more impressive. I remember thinking as I sat at a table with a group of guys that Michael was truly the best of us and it was because of his passion that wouldn’t allow him to be otherwise.

Unfortunately, after seminary we didn’t stay in contact as much as we should have. This was mostly due to my laziness. Michael took a job at a church in Atlanta and my wife and I moved back to Iowa. We exchanged an occasional email and the annual Christmas card. Even through those small windows into his life I could tell that his passion had not waned. Instead, the focus had shifted from academic pursuits to a constant devotion for his wife, two sons, and ministry.

One Christmas we received the Colwell family Christmas card and in it Michael mentioned something about some tests that he was going to have done on some spots the doctors had detected. I was completely shocked, as this was the first time I had heard anything about this. I immediately sent Michael an email and he calmly responded that he was trusting in the Lord and appreciated our prayers. Several months later I emailed him to find out the test results and didn’t hear anything back. I figured no news was good news and didn’t bother following up. About two weeks later I got an email from a friend in South Carolina who knew the Colwell’s stating that Michael was having brain surgery. Needless to say, the news hit me like a ton of bricks. I scoured the internet and was able to get updates through Michael and Jen’s Facebook pages and eventually a blog that Jen began to keep.

As Easter 2008 approached my family decided to take a trip Myrtle Beach in South Carolina. Robin and I were not able to go due to finances and the fact that my wife was going to deliver our second child in two weeks, but as the date approached, I had an idea. I would go with my family and have them drop me off in Greenville where I would rent a car and drive to Atlanta to see Michael. Unfortunately, this would require me to leave my very pregnant wife at home and potentially leave me in Atlanta when our second child was being born. I agonized over the decision and when I learned that Michael and Jen were going to have family in town and potentially be very busy I decided it might be a little selfish of me to leave my family and interrupt their busy weekend just at my whim. At the very last minute I told my family I wouldn’t go with them to South Carolina. Michael and Jen never even knew of my spontaneous plan to come see them. I’ve often laid awake at night and thought about that decision. That was the last chance I would have to see my friend alive.

My daughter arrived on time about two weeks later and in all the business of having a newborn, I didn’t keep up to date on Michael’s condition. The last I had heard Michael was having tests done on some tumors in his brain and they were researching different medical options. Then one day, about a month after Easter, I got an email from a friend informing me that Michael had passed away. Perhaps it was the utter shock of it all, but it took a while to sink in. As I write this, about eight months later, I’m still not sure that it has. I find myself thinking about Michael often and trying to reconcile the fact that my friend is gone and that his wife and two young boys will have to live without him now. I find myself tearing up at random times thinking about the time we spent together and the opportunities I lost due to my laziness to remain in contact after seminary.

Michael and I shared a period in our lives where we were seeking to grow in our knowledge and understanding of God through academic pursuits. But the funny thing about such pursuits is that you often end up learning more outside the classroom than you do inside. I think about this a lot as I remember Michael and what he taught me with his life. A picture of Michael with his wife and two boys now permanently resides on the front of my refrigerator and it serves as a reminder of the education that I got at Dallas Theological Seminary. An education that never really stopped, and continues to tutor me in areas of friendship, sorrow, pain, love, and ultimately passion. An education I’m receiving from the Lord thanks to Michael Colwell.

As hard as try I can’t seem to remember the first time I met Michael. And the more I think about it, the more I think that maybe God intends that, because it reminds me of the next time Michael and I will meet. Someday I will see him again at the pierced feet of our Savior. And for now, I eagerly anticipate that day when I will see my friend again, when I know that no sickness or laziness will ever again separate us, and when at long last my education will be complete.

Pride cometh...

Winter in the Midwest is always interesting. This winter was particularly weird. We experienced all kinds of different weather, including record-breaking snow. But it wasn’t the snow that threw me off this winter as much as the ice. Generally, ice storms occur a little more south, but this year it seemed that we got the full force of “old man winter”. For some reason, the ice was really brutal earlier in the winter. I remember one storm was especially bad.

I went to sleep at night and everything was peaceful. As I slept I heard the faint pitter-patter of rain on the windows. I slept fairly well as I drifted off to a dream world that involved hand guns, Alex Trebek, and a kangaroo that had a face that, believe it or not, resembled my great aunt Erma. I woke up earlier in the morning than expected due to the ringing of our phone. On the other end of the line I heard the gravely voice of a fellow teacher informing me that classes at the school I teach at had been canceled. I stumbled into the bathroom, wiped my tired eyes, and looked out the window. To my surprise what I saw was anything but a rain soaked lawn. Instead, I saw my neighborhood covered in, what looked like, glass. But it wasn’t glass, it was ice. Sometime during my escape to the land of gun-wielding Jeopardy hosts and kangaroos, the rain that was lightly falling against my windows turned to ice. And the ice, although beautiful, did some damage.

Multiple homes down our street had large tree branches littered throughout their yard. We were lucky because we didn’t suffer extreme damage, but we did have one large branch that just couldn’t bear the weight of the heavy ice. That branch sat in the middle of our front yard for most of the icy day until my wife finally convinced me that I should stop spending my day off playing X-Box and I should start cleaning up the ice damage in the front yard. As the leader of the house I decided I should stop spending my day off playing X-Box and I should start cleaning up the ice damage in the front yard. I was proud of myself for coming to this conclusion.

I spent the next fifteen minutes putting as much clothing on my body as humanly possible. After I felt that I had single handedly kept the winter clothing industry in business, I decided to brave the outdoors. I stepped outside and looked at the “crystal” world that surrounded me. I stood in awe at how absolutely beautiful it was. Little did I know, how dangerous it could be.

I stepped onto the snow in my yard to begin my trek toward the fallen branch. I immediately heard the crunching sound of ice breaking beneath my feet. Occasionally, the ice would not break right away and I would feel my feet sliding out from under me. I walked as though I were on a tight rope hundreds of feet above the ground with both my arms stretched out to either side to help me balance. I’m sure it was quite a site for the neighbors.

I finally made it to the middle of the yard. In front of me was the large branch that had fallen from the tree. I wasn’t quite sure what I should do with it and then a thought occurred to me. Just behind our house runs a creek and this creek is rather useful for the occasional disposal of leaves, dog poop, and broken branches. I decided I would haul the branch to the back yard and I would throw it into the creek. With any luck the branch would eventually float down stream and make a nice home for an impoverished beaver. It was the humanitarian (or beavertarian) thing to do.


After I had, rather daintily, walked across the ice in the front yard I thought I needed to do something to assert my manliness. I grabbed the branch with two hands and with as much testosterone as I could muster I hoisted the branch above my head in what I can only describe as, an impressive feet of strength. As I held the branch above my head, I felt the familiar feeling of the ice crunching below my feet. Suddenly, with my chest puffed out and my pride swelling I was no longer concerned about slipping on the ice. I was doing my manly duty and nothing could stand in my way. It was quite a rush.

I quickly made it to the back yard and I stood at the edge of the creek bank. About 12 feet below was the creek and somewhere downstream was a helpless beaver awaiting a branch to build his home. I was ready to do what was required of me. In fact, I was so excited and secure in my manhood that I didn’t even notice that the ice below my feet had stopped crunching. I was now standing on a fairly solid sheet of ice. I hoisted the branch even further above my head and in a moment of sheer power and majesty I hurled the large piece of wood into the creek bed below. I felt a sense of exhilaration flow through my veins having just completed one of the most masculine things I had done in a while. I could almost hear my neighbors cheering as they watched me from their windows. But then I felt something strange.

The momentum of throwing the branch pulled me every so slightly toward the creek. Now, normally this would have been no big deal since I can rely on my cat-like reflexes to regain my stability. But I was standing on ice. I felt my entire body sliding forward over the edge of the bank. I looked at the icy creek below and I knew I didn’t want to end up down stream with the beaver, so I did what any man would do given the circumstances. I flopped onto my belly in desperation. The problem was that I was already on my way down the side of the bank and I was still on a sheet of ice. Gravity can be an awful thing.

I’m not quite sure what I did to stop myself from sliding down into the creek. Really, it is all kind of a blur. I’m pretty sure that the next few moments included me flailing my body in every conceivable direction while offering shrieks of horror and uncontrollable fear. Slowly, I began to work my way up to level ground. I pounded my elbows into the ground beyond the ice and tried to wiggle my body in ways I previously thought impossible. Eventually, I had done it. I was safe on level ground again.

I stood up, wiped the tears from my eyes, and straightened out my jacket as best I could. I quickly looked around at my neighbors’ windows. My only hope was that they had watched my macho exhibition of branch throwing and walked away impressed without seeing the horrific events that followed. I didn’t see anyone in the windows and I concluded that no one had seen what happened. I had dodged a bullet and I would live to tell the story. Better yet, there were no eyewitnesses so it could be as majestic and adventurous as my imagination would allow. I began walking toward the house already concocting a story that involved heroism and bravery, when, all of a sudden, I heard something horrible.

My neighbor is a young single man who grew up on a farm, mows the lawn proudly displaying his chiseled body, and has a house full of hunting trophies. I try to impress him whenever possible. But as I was walking back to my house I heard the familiar creak of his back door opening. I was just beyond his door so I stopped dead in my tracks hoping my black coat would somehow blend into the snowy terrain. He popped his head out and said, “Tristan?”. “Yeah”, I replied with as deep and booming a voice I could manage. “I just wanted you to know, I saw all that.”

I walked through the snow and came to the front door. I went inside and peeled off the many layers of winter clothing. I poured myself a cup of hot chocolate and I told my wife we were moving.