Simple Rules for #NextGen

Once upon a time I had a Twitter account. No teens followed me and life was good. I could tweet whatever I wanted. Then teens started for follow me. So, I changed accounts. They found me again. Like trying to get rid of cockroaches I tell you. So, I decided to say "To heck with it!" I am still gonna tweet my life and if they can't deal with it then they can fly away.

Soon I had a small following of people who were half of my age and were friends with my bio teens. Most have been over to the house more times than anyone could count. At some point I figured that I had better come up with some guidelines on how I relate to them in this space. Boundaries, so to speak.

So, here are my twitter ground rules for the next generation (These rules apply to my behavior, they are not a requirement for your behavior.)

1) If you follow me, I shall follow you back.

2) What happens on Twitter stays on Twitter...unless I suspect suicide: then I am going to pull out ALL the stops.

3) I will not DM you. Anything an adult has to say to a teen needs to be able to stand up to public scrutiny.

4) I will creep your timeline and your list of follows/following. Mostly looking for the bad kind of creepy creepers.

5) Once in a while I will pray for you. You are welcome to pray for me as much as you would like.

6) I may ask you thought provoking questions. If you don't like it, don't answer it.

7) You may ask me questions. I will either answer them honestly, or dodge them openly. But, I shall not lie about the answer.

8) If the other rules don't work for you, block me or ask me to quit following you and then quit following me. Or, feel free to challenge me on the rules and I will try to find a way to amend them.

9) My Linked-in account is G rated, strictly business. My FaceBook account is PG/PG-13 as I have lots of middle school aged teens following me there, and my mother. My Twitter account tends to have an R rated nature about it. I trust that anyone following me there has heard the word "fuck" on more that one occasion, and has probably even used it once or twice.

10) Kindly don't give the bio-teens shit about what I say on Twitter...you wouldn't like to get crap about your parentals. Would you?

11) I spend a lot of my life chaperoning church teens. The world of youth ministry hasn't caught up to the electronic age yet. Linda B has my FaceBook and Twitter passwords. It is her prerogative to decide if she wants to check to make sure that I am not sending creepy messages to teens. Any adult that has 'secrets' with teens needs to not be working in their space.

This blog seems like it doesn't really have a great way to wrap up the topic. So I'll just post it anyhow, perhaps one day I will come up with a clever conclusion.

The Girl

I have seen and done a lot in my life. My travels have taken me, on separate trips, to: San Diego, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Orlando, Atlanta, Dallas, Milwaukee, WI; San Antonio, St Louis, New Orleans, Chicago, Denver, and Winnipeg. Compared to many people, I get around.

For mission trips alone I have traveled to Rapid City, SD; Green Bay, WI; Duluth, MN; Wind River Indian Reservation; Vancouver, BC; Quad Cities; Kansas City, KS; Philadelphia, PA; and Montego Bay, Jamaica.

In my travels I have seen thousands of people. 40,000 in one turn of the head in a concert venue. Thousands as I work my way in and out of airports. I suppose that I have seen something over a million people in my life…probably more.

But, there is one girl, on one trip, that is etched into the back of my brain in a way that I cannot forget and probably never will. She was a resident of an orphanage in Jamaica. A young lady of (17? 18? 19?) years. I had seen her before. On previous mission trips. On previous days of this trip. She has some disabilities, lots of them. I don’t know what her diagnosis is, and given where she lives it probably isn’t even an accurate one. In many ways she was in better condition than other orphans, she could stand upright and didn’t spend her life in a poorly adjusted wheel chair. If there was enough staff to keep an eye on her she could move about as she wished.

She can’t talk, but she can shriek in madness. Like someone out of an early 1900’s insane asylum. Some of her behaviors are difficult to recall and difficult to write about. For some reason she would grab and tug and pull on her breasts until they looked like than had been rung through an old fashioned washing machine. When I had seen her previously she had a shirt on, but would reach in through the neckline and pull. It was painful to watch. I cannot imagine what drove her to such madness. Being a middle aged, middle class, white guy on a mission trip I guess I just kind of stood there. There wasn’t really anything for me to do. There was no way that I could help.

This young lady also has a mean streak in her. When she has a chance she will push over the wheel chairs of the other orphan children. She doesn’t seem to have free will in the matter, it seems to be something that she is driven to do. Where a couple of steps transition from the green grass of the quad into the cottage, she will push wheelchair bound children right off the edge.

All of that seems extreme enough, but that is not the image that is blazed in my mind.

Sunday morning we well-meaning Christian missionaries show up at the orphanage to help some of the orphans make their way to church. It’s perhaps a half mile up a gentle hill. Some of the higher functioning children can walk with us, or be pushed up the hill in wheel chairs. Some of the more challenged kids ride up the hill in our buses.

I was sent into a cottage to get a wheelchair bound girl who I would push up the hill for worship that Sunday morning. As I entered the cottage to get my wheelchair girl, there stood the one who would shriek in madness. Stark naked. Tied by a dishtowel around her waist to the kitchen door. Pulling on her breasts as hard as she could. Shrieking in madness. The house mother completely ignored her and told me to hang on for a minute until my orphan was ready to go. So, there I stood, in the middle of the cottage, next to the wheel chair girl, and across the room from the single most hideous sight that I have seen in my life.

There was nothing I could do for her. Nothing. Not a single thing.

In every other situation that I have ever been in there was something for me to do. Call the cops, call an ambulance, stand forward as a big man to block danger, stand back as a coward, e-mail a counselor, or call a youth director. In every other single uncomfortable moment of my life there has been something for me to do to make things better. This scene froze for a short eternity, perhaps 5 minutes. Me waiting for the house mother to prepare my orphan, her screaming and tugging and twisting.

That scene messed me up. Bad. I cried every time I was along for days. Slowly I came to realize that being tied to the kitchen door was the best care available to her on the island. She couldn’t be let free. She couldn’t take care of herself. There wasn’t enough staff to keep the other children safe from her. So the very best care that was available to her was the care that she was getting.

It bothered me then, and it bothers me now. But what really bothers me is that while I am in my comfortable house writing this blog, almost 2 years after that day...I realize that she is there tonight, shrieking and pulling. She is in hell and there is nothing that I can do to save her.

When I got back to my comfortable office my co-workers asked what I did for my vacation. Most I told that I chaperoned a youth trip to Jamaica. To a couple of my closest co-workers I tried to tell of the girl. Buy my words fell on deaf ears. Their eyes glazed over. It was as though I was speaking in tongues and they thought I was drunk on new wine.

Love

Love

I love chocolate ice cream.

I love you.

I love my wife.

I love my children.

God is love.

Love one another.

Love your neighbor as yourself.

To Write Love On Her Arms.

Make love.

There is only one other word in the English language with more connotations, but that is a blog for another day. Love has so many facets it’s like the surfaces of the diamond on a ladies’ engagement ring, each facet is its own plane, each adjoining the next facet by the thinnest of lines. Some facets are adjoining to each other and others are on the opposite side of a stone. Yet, no facet can be removed; they are each integral to the whole.

Love as in God is Love. I get that God is love. I probably didn’t get that until a few years ago. Now certainly God might also be some old white dude with a white kid that died on the cross for you and me. God might be the Judeo-Christian interpretation of what God is. But, at it’s core, below all of the opinions on what scripture says: God is love, the rest is just details.

Love of a son. I love my children. 95% of parentals secretly say that they love one child more than the rest. I do truly love my children equally, I don’t even like one more than the other. They are each awesome and they each teach me a lot about being a decent person. Somewhere there might be a father that is more proud of his children than I am of mine, but I haven’t met him yet.

Love of a wife. (I have no reference on how to love a husband; you’ll have to make up your own.) In India marriages are arranged. In America everyone gets to try to pick their own spouse, and many people pick several times. One of my key indicators of the mental health of an adult is the number of times they have been married: once, ok. Twice, time to be looking in the mirror. Three, you need to be spending more time in the counselors office and less time in the bar. Four, I’ll make idle chit-chat with you if no one else is handy, but please don’t expect me to invest in a relationship with you. Five, don’t bother even saying “Hello”.

But, the thing with those arranged marriages: they work. Meet a couple who has been married for 50 years and they will be happily married. It doesn’t seem to matter how you pick your spouse, assuming that they are not abusive to your and\or your children it seems that simply by sticking it out through all of the fights that somehow love grows in that space (Side bar: if your spouse is abusive to you or the kids – get out. Now!)

I am convinced that which young people think is love is little more than a Darwinian attraction to the person who can best help them procreate and carry on the genetic lines. Simple biology. Survival of the fittest. Meet someone, they look like decent breeding stock, fall in love, make babies. Darwin is satisfied, the blood line propagates. But, then about 7 years later things fall apart. One or the other throws in the towel, calls the divorce attorney, and it’s splitsville. Now, don’t get me wrong, if abuse of anyone is in the picture than that is the only reasonable choice. But, if the mate is simply not in love any more, it might be worth sticking around for a few years. Remember even the arranged marriages in India end up with happy endings. But, it takes like 50 years to get there. News flash: it takes about 50 years here too.

Ok, those are the big ones, and there is probably nothing just too shocking in what you have read so far. Now comes the whammy: I love hundreds of people. Many dozens anyhow. And, given the relatively small percentage of the 7 billion people on this planet who read my blog, the odds are really good that if you have read this far that I love you. Yes, I said that, and I mean that. I love you.

Here is the deal, here is how I define love: Would I probably cry at this person’s funeral. If I would cry at your funeral then I love you. If I wouldn’t cry then I don’t love you. Take a look at the next person you see and think “If I heard that this person died, would I cry at their funeral?” Then do that to the next person you see, and the next, and the next.

I have a son that dates girls. A lot. I suspect that he loves them. I suspect that they love him. But, that is that Darwinian kind of love, not that old couple in the front pew at church kind of love. But, at a different level, at the level of “would I cry at this person’s funeral?” I love those girls. Same thing happens for many of my children’s friends. Guys and gals both and equally. Look at the people who walk through my front door, knowing that at the very least some peanut butter and jelly is available to them. Do you think there is one of them that I wouldn’t cry for at their funeral? Not a one.

To the guys and gals that wander into my world: Know that I love you and I wish the best for you in this world.

To the gals who have wandered into my world as a result of dating my son: Know that I love you as a decent father should love his daughter and if any guy ever treats you with less respect than you need to drop him like a rock and find a guy who treats you like a princess.

With this long diatribe on love I still feel like I am just scratching the surface. What of that first girlfriend that I innocently kissed once. What of the college friend that I kissed but she didn't think of me that way. What of that co-worker who knows things about me that even my wife doesn't know. What of that preacher who I reveal my most confidential thoughts to. What of the co-ed who I worked alongside of two years ago for just one week, but to this day makes it known that she prays for me. What of the guy at work who takes the time to be my mentor. What of the church youth director who has seen me at my best and at my worst. What of the old preacher who invites me into his man cave to watch football, knowing that I don't follow the game. What of those 3 key adults that helped me grow into a decent human being yet I haven't seen since 1986.

I recently came across a phrase that I use when dealing with people: Love them all and let God sort them out.

Now, as far as loving chocolate ice cream: As I write this TJ is at the store buying groceries. And, if she really loves me she will pick some up. But, if not, I shall stick with her for life anyhow.

My wardrobe is all wrong

Yesterday it hit my like a ton of bricks: My wardrobe is all wrong.

1/3 of my closet contains a collection of what I call my "chaperone shirts". Each is a shirt from a youth trip that I have chaperoned. I can no longer count how many trips I have chaperoned in the last 17 years, but add them all up and it works out to over 6 months on the road.

Before each trip I count up the days, anticipate the work, ponder which young people were on which trip, double check the fit and then pack by bag with chaperone shirts for the trip.

My first chaperone trip was AMAZING, a mountain top experience. 40,000 teens descending on Atlanta for a national youth Gathering. I had pictures of the bus, pictures of the lines, pictures of the crowds, pictures of 40,000 people singing the same song, pictures of the speakers. I had pictures of all of the cool and amazing things. I got home, excited to show my bride and the world all of my exciting pictures....and no one cared. You haven't taken a camera on a trip since.

But, that collection of T-shirts is something of a postcard collection for me. I can look back over the years by looking in my closet. And I can feel good about doing my part to help an entire generation of young people find their way in the world as I earned each of those shirts.

But, yesterday it hit me: My wardrobe is all wrong. There are sooo many important projects going on in this world and my choice of wardrobe does absolutely nothing to expose the young adults that I am working with to these projects.

To Write Love On Her Arms // Clothe Your Neighbor As Yourself // Polaris Project // ......

Imagine the conversation I would have over breakfast on day 1 of a trip if I was boldly wearing a bold shirt. And, I don't mean "I <3 Boobies" (Which is fine if you are a lady, or are a guy who truly is into the cause....but comm'on guys at least get honest about why you are wearing the shirt) Then a second bold shirt on day 2. By day 3 the young adults would be asking what my shirt was about. By the end of a week I would have had something like 50 conversations about how young adults can become engaged in the world for justice.

Then, instead of wearing postcards about where I have traveled, I begin to create a road map of where they could travel.

Censorship

I live in a fine country, one that tends not to censor what I say or what the press can report about. Well, at least on the surface anyhow.

There is another kind of censorship, an inner censorship, that pops up most frequently in my social media interactions. At one level I put a lot of myself out there via FaceBook and much more so via Twitter, at another level I hold so much back....out of my perception of what would be fair to those around me.

It wouldn't be wise to post certain things about an employer or supervisor.

It doesn't seem like it would be fair to my wife to Tweet about our fights. Word would get back to her, or to my bio-teens and that would be hurtful to them.

It doesn't seem like it would be fair to my bio-teens to Tweet about the road bumps they hit in life. Too many of their friends follow my Tweets.

It doesn't seem fair to the young adults who so richly bless my life to Tweet about them and their issues. Too many of their friends follow my Tweets.

So here I sit. Putting a lot out there, but also keeping so much back. FaceBook and Tweeting (and blogging) let me vent so much, and let me express emotions and inner turmoil in ways that I never used to before. And, yet, there is soooo much more that I would like to put out there but is of a confidential nature.

I don't know what to do with this inner struggle of what to post and what to hold back. It is a continuous tug-of-war in my mind. Daily. Hourly. Each time I post.

Reading the red letters

Some years ago I came across an inspirational fellow named Tony Campolo. I have heard him speak twice, and from each speech I am left with words that will likely be part of my psyche until the day that I die.

The first time I heard him speak was about 15 years ago at a National Youth Gathering. He talked of visiting Cuba, and the poverty that he saw. He talked of being approached by a pimp on the way to his hotel, with the offer of of the use of 2 pre-teen girls for the night for $20. He walked away in disgust. But, then he went back to the pimp, paid the $20 and rented the girls. He took them to his suite, ordered kid food off the room service menu and let them watch movies in his bed while he slept on the floor. He couldn't liberate those girls from their hell, but he could give them one night of being treated like decent human beings.

The second time I heard him speak was at Concordia, perhaps 5 or 7 years ago. He spoke of happening into a local restaurant of a major US City that was frequented by working girls. The working girls would come in for some food before turning their next trick. He showed up for a few days and the young ladies got to know him a little bit. After a couple of weeks he heard that one of the hookers birthday was coming up, so he went out and got her a cake. On her big day he presented the cake. She said: "Hey, I thought you were a preacher, what kind of preacher are you?" He said: "The kind of preacher who would buy a hooker a birthday cake." It was the first birthday cake she had ever received.

Tony Campolo talks of being a "Red Letter Christian". Some older bible translations have the words of the Great JC written in red, with every thing else written in black. When he talks of being a Red Letter Christian he is talking about following the words of the Great JC. Not the words of my mother, nor my wife, nor my mother-in-law, nor my preacher, nor the blue haired lady in the church choir. Not the TV evangelist nor societies view of what a Christian "should" be. But, trying, as closely as possible, to follow the words of the Great JC.

I don't follow Tony Campolo, I am not a Camoloian. I don't follow Rob Bell, I am not a RobBellian. I follow the words of the Great JC. I am a Christian, and a red letter Christian at that.

I don't go out of my way to upset the apple cart, that just isn't a good way to get along with other people. But, when I have to choose between what some old woman at church would have me do vs what the Great JC would have me do, then there is no contest.

That kind of behavior gets me in trouble all of the time. There are those who would have me stop flipping pancakes on days when there are church fundraisers. There are those who hide doughnut balls from small children, and get upset with me when I give doughnut balls to 4 year olds. There are those who get upset when I leave my hat on to pray. But, when they asked the Great JC: "Dude, teach us to pray!" He didn't start out with "take off your hat, fold your hands, close your eyes, bow your head and assume an attitude of prayer." Instead he said "Our father...."

If that kind of praying was good enough for the Great JC, it is good enough for me.

I'm back

I'm back.

I created a few blog posts a few years ago, and got into some trouble with a relative who read my writings. At that point I simply gave in. I gave up. I quit blogging. I quit being honest with the world via this space about what was rolling around inside my head.

Now, 2 years later, after 'blogging' rants via Twitter, a young man asked me if I blog. My initial answer was "well, I used to but I don't any more." But, the reason I quit blogging has been bugging me since he asked that simple question.

I quit blogging because a relative couldn't handle what I was blogging about. I didn't figure that my blogging was worth a broken relationship with someone who has the capacity to make my life a living hell (select relatives have that capacity...it's part of the role). It didn't seem fair to my kids, to have my blogging be some kind of wedge between their relationship with the relative.

Relationships are funny things. Power is a funny thing. Power in relationships is like some kind of funny thing squared. Weather I blog of not, I suspect that I will never been a good enough Christian in some people's eyes. But, at the end of the day, when I look myself in the mirror, I am very comfortable with the kind of Christian that I am.

So, if people wanna read my blog then good on them.

If people don't wanna read my blog then good on them.

If people wanna throw crap in my face about my blogging, then they can go to hell.