American Poverty Isn't About Lack of Resources

The myth that poverty is a result of underprivilege is a common one. However, it is also a myth which is far removed from truth and reality. Homelessness in America, especially, is something that is very rarely caused by systemic dislocation or oppression. Instead, in most instances in America, both poverty and homelessness are the result of consistently poor lifestyle choices. I have worked in various ministries with my church that reach out to the poor, and I also go out of my way to help those who are in need whenever I can. Because of this, I have a lot of firsthand experience dealing with those who are in need.

Generally, my policy is that if a poor person asks me for something, I will do my best to offer them something, within reason. Typically, I shy away from giving cash, since monetary gifts often are used to support drug and alcohol addictions. However, I am more than happy to take a poor person and buy them a meal, if they are genuinely hungry. My stance on this stems directly from the words of Jesus Christ. "Give to him who asks you, and from him who wants to borrow from you do not turn away." (Matt. 5:42)

Last night, I stopped at a gas station near my home, to fill up my car. Leaning on one of the garbage cans was a middle-aged fellow who looked fairly unkempt and wore bedraggled clothes. As I stepped out of my car, he looked at me with a pained expression and mumbled in broken English, "I haven't had a thing to eat all day. Could you give me a little money?" I wasn't feeling in a particularly hospitable mood, so I just simply looked at him and shook my head. However, while I was pumping gas, I didn't feel quite right giving him nothing at all. I quickly glanced around my car to see if I had anything to offer him. There was a half-empty box of goldfish crackers and a full cup of warm tea that I'd just gotten from Starbucks.

After pumping gas, I walked over to the fellow and asked if he was hungry. He replied, "I haven't had anything to eat today. If you could just give me a little money... maybe a dollar or two." I told him, "Would you like some crackers? I have a box of crackers, if you're hungry." He looked a little bit perplexed or confused and said again, "Could you just give me a little money? I'll take anything." I repeated myself, "I have a box of goldfish crackers, if you want. There are plenty of crackers in the box." He looked at me rather unenthusiastically. Thinking that maybe he was confused or didn't know what crackers are, I took the box out of my car and brought them over to him. He took the crackers rather wistfully and set them down next to him. I asked him if he was thirsty, and offered him my tea. But, he didn't seem too excited by that proposition.

He mumbled some other things that I couldn't understand. After fruitlessly trying to converse with him for a minute or two, I patted him on the shoulder and told him, "God bless you. Enjoy your crackers." As I walked back towards my car, he began to mumble something else, and then he told me, "You're an asshole." I hopped in my car and left. I fail to see how offering him some food and a nice warm drink could possibly be considered asshole behavior. It only made sense if he didn't actually want food, but instead was only seeking money. It simply supports my hypothesis that most homeless and poor people aren't primarily in their condition because of mere circumstances. Time after time, this sort of thing is precisely what I experience in dealing with such people. More than 60% of the time, they are lying ingrates. I certainly care about their plight, but in such cases the issue isn't lack of resources. The issue is poor lifestyle choices and a pathetic attitude. American poverty isn't really about a lack of resources much at all.

Game - Applicability Within the Financial Domain

As I have written previously, psychosocial dominance, or Game, is something that is useful in a broad array of settings and situations. Today, I was again reminded of the practical value of utilizing Game. Yesterday, when I went online briefly to print out a concert ticket, I had an e-mail in my inbox informing me that I had been charged a fee on my Chase Checking account. At first I was quite puzzled as to what could possibly lead my account to be charged a fee. Then, I logged in online and read the fine print. It certainly wasn't worded the way the banker explained it to me when I opened the two accounts in January. Of course, like all stories, this one begins at the beginning.

Sometime in January, I received a promotional offer in the mail. Financial institutions are always proselytizing and marketing their products. If you're like me and have an excellent credit rating, you typically receive about 3 offers for pre-approved, high-limit credit cards every month. This offer was a bit different. In this offer, Chase was offering $250 if I would simply open a checking account with their bank. The free money was definitely tempting, but there was yet another incentive that sweetened the deal even more. Last year, Chase offered a credit card that had a rewards program far superior to the one attached to my Citibank card, and so I decided to change my primary credit card. Interestingly enough, the credit card rewards could be boosted significantly by also having an active Chase checking account. Neither of those offers would have been quite enough to convince me to open an account, but the combination of the two made the deal worthwhile enough that I decided to open an account. $250 free cash as well as effectively doubling my credit card rewards was simply too much to pass up.

Since I never like to do things without proper consideration, I looked into the details of opening an account and talked to a Chase banker, to ensure that I understood the account terms and conditions. The banker recommended that I open a Money Market account in addition to the Checking account. He said that as long as I maintained a minimum daily average of $1500 between the two accounts, there would be no fees. I figured that it wouldn't hurt to have another account setup, similar to my existing one at Citibank. Because I thought the accounts were linked, it didn't seem to matter how I split my money between the two new accounts. So, I happily set up the two new accounts and transferred a reasonable amount of money into each of them. Three months passed by with no incident.

Consequently, I was quite surprised to find that they charged me a $12 service fee last Friday, seemingly out of nowhere. Of course, when I looked at the fine print on the statement, it told a different story than the banker had told me when I opened the account. It said that the daily minimum balance for each account was $1500, and that for multiple accounts the fee would only be waived if the combined daily average exceeded $5000. This was a bit of a shock, but given my inner game state, I knew that it would be very simple to resolve the whole misunderstanding/deception. Today, before making the call, I decided how I would respond to any given outcome. If they were willing to transfer the funds from my money market account to my checking account and refund the service fee then I would continue to do business with them. If they were not willing to waive my fee or quickly and painlessly handle my request, then I would close both accounts and do no more banking with them.

In this sense, subconsciously I held the following views:
- I am a high value customer
- Many banks desire the privilege of handling my money
- I have numerous banking options
- If any bank does not treat me right, they lose my business
- All banking that occurs happens on my terms

As you can see, this mindset embodies the inner game traits of assertiveness, calmness, confidence, independence and indifference. Assertiveness is embodied in the fact that I would be completely clear and up front about exactly what had occurred and precisely what I want. Calmness is embodied in the fact that no matter what they do or say, it will not shake my resolve or negatively affect my emotional state. Confidence is embodied by my realization that I am an excellent banking customer with a proven track record and my business is welcome anywhere. Independence is shown in the fact that I take responsiblity for my own money and am not dependent on any organization or institution. Indifference is shown in the fact that I have prepared for all eventualilties, and therefore am not further harmed or particularly inconvenienced no matter how they respond.

Having prepared myself and thought through all my options, I called my bank and spent the necessary 20 minutes of time needed to resolve the issue to my satisfaction. As expected, reasonable results are nearly always granted to those who are assertive, respectful and dominant in their dealings. Precisely as I desired, they refunded the service fee, clarified the fee policy as it actually stands (rather than being incorrectly communicated as it was initially), and merged my money account into my checking account. The proper application of psychosocial dominance nearly always results in a satisfactory outcome in any area of life. In this case, Game ensured a successful reversal of the unreasonable service fee.

Just like in any relationship, the issue at hand is never the real issue. $12 is never about $12. The real issue is always behavior and relational dominance. Any issue that is properly handled can be nipped in the bud, so that it never becomes a serious problem. In this instance with the bank, I don't ever want any institution to get the idea that they can do whatever they wish with my money. They are my stewards and they serve my interests. So long as they take good care of what is mine, they are welcome to earn a profit from circulating my money and earning interest on it. But, if they ever cross my will and are irresponsible with my funds or unreasonable in their behavior towards me, the business relationship ends immediately.

The Little Pineapple

Once there lived a little pineapple. He lived in an exotic land on a small plantation which was surrounded by towering trees and bushes of all sorts. The little pineapple was always well cared for and was about as happy as he could be. Every day he had plenty of time to lounge in the sun. Refreshing well water was brought to him every morning by a man wearing a large straw hat. He lived with many other pineapples, and every afternoon all the pineapples would talk amongst themselves about what life would be like once they were all fully grown. They would blissfully talk for hours about their future aspirations.

"I want to be juicy and yellow," remarked one pineapple. "I want to be the best-looking pineapple," remarked a nearly-grown pineapple. "I want to be tangy and delicious," declared another one. The little pineapple always happily joined in imagining the future with the other pineapples and gleefully cried, "I want to be tall and tasty!" All the pineapples would talk like this for hours until the sun finally began to set, at which point they would slowly begin to fall asleep, one by one. Every day of the week, they would do the same thing, and every morning when they awoke, each pineapple would find that he or she had grown a little bit larger and juicier.

One day, when the little pineapple and his friends were fully grown, a tall man with a shaggy grey beard came out and walked among the rows of pineapple plants. At each plant, he stooped down and examined the fruit. Some of the pineapples he plucked from the plant and gently placed in the large wicker basket that he was carrying. Others, he passed by and left them to grow a little longer. As the little pineapple watched the man slowly work up and down the rows, he couldn't help but think to himself, "I hope he picks me!" The man was finally in the same row as the little pineapple and moving slowly down the row. The little pineapple was filled with anticipation and excitement, increasingly so with each step the man took. Finally, the man knelt down by the little pineapple's plant and looked him over. Sure enough, the man plucked the little pineapple from his plant and placed him in the large wicker basket.

The little pineapple was overjoyed! He had never been chosen for anything before, but now a new exciting adventure was about to unfold! The pineapples in the basket began to talk amongst themselves in energetic, high-pitched voices. "I can't believe I was chosen!" "Who is that man?" "Where do you suppose we are going?" "What will happen to the others?" They talked so animatedly that the next few hours flew by and they were quite oblivious to whatever was happening outside the basket. When they pineapples had finally finished discussing their journey into the unknown, a couple of them looked around in time to see the man with the grey beard carrying them off of a strange moving platform and into a small building. They were put in a small windowless room and left alone. All of the pineapples felt quite worn out by this time, so they quickly drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, the pineapples were woken up earlier than usual by a burly bald fellow. He picked up the basket and took them out of the building. Carefully, the burly fellow reached into the basket and took out a pineapple. Then he grabbed another. The little pineapple was next. He was gingerly taken and placed in a crate that was leaning at an angle, along with his other pineapple friends. Beneath the crate was a little red sign with some letters and numbers on it. All around the crate were numerous other crates and boxes with all sorts of other unusual fruits. Once the burly fellow had finished placing all the pineapples in their new crate, he took the empty wicker basket and left. The little pineapple looked around him at all the neighboring fruits and said, "I'm a pineapple, what are you?" Each fruit responded differently. A long, yellow one said, "I'm a banana." A bright green one said, "I'm an apple." A tiny, purple one said, "I'm a grape." A round, orange one said, "I'm an orange." Each of the other fruits also responded in kind. The little pineapple was surprised and delighted! He never knew that there were so many different sorts of fruit.

"What is this place?" the little pineapple asked, to no one in particular. A huge, striped, green watermelon who looked like he had been there some time replied, "This is a fruit stand. People come here and look us over. They buy whichever fruits they like best." All of the pineapples were quite excited by such a possibility. "I'm sure I'll be chosen quickly, since I'm so yellow and juicy," said one of the pineapples. "They're going to choose me first, since I'm the best-looking pineapple" said another of the pineapples. Still another happily cried, "I may not be the first chosen, but I will delight whoever chooses me, since I'm so tangy and delicious." Finally, the little pineapple (who wasn't quite so little anymore) cried, "They will be sure to choose me, since I am so tall and tasty."

And so it was, not long after the sun arose, that people began to visit the fruit stand. Some people bought a bunch of bananas. Others bought some apples. Some people moved from crate to crate and selected a few different fruits. One woman came over to the pineapples and began to look through them. All of the pineapples were excited! After examining a couple of them she took the particularly good-looking one and left. "I could be next," thought the little pineapple. As the day went on, many people came and went and numerous fruits were purchased. Two more pineapples were selected from the crate, but the little pineapple wasn't one of them. By this point, the little pineapple wasn't feeling quite as excited about this whole affair. He began to say to himself things like, "Maybe being tall and tasty isn't what I should be aiming for," and "Maybe I don't really want to be a pineapple." In the late afternoon, a few more people came by the fruit stand and bought other fruits, but then no-one else came to the fruit stand. Finally, as the sun began to set, the burly fellow came out with a large blue thing and placed it across all the crates of fruit.

The little pineapple wasn't ready to go to sleep yet and so he talked with one of the apples for a bit. The apple, who had come from a far away place by boat, regaled the little pineapple with all sorts of stories about fascinating lands and odd creatures. One sort of creature that the apple mentioned especially interested the little pineapple. The apple told him about a strange creature called a "kangaroo" that was tall, yellow and liked to hop a lot. Filled with curiosity, the little pineapple wanted to know more about this kangaroo. "I haven't actually seen one before, but I've heard that they have pointy ears, and some of them have pouches in front, to carry little kangaroos," continued the apple. After talking together for a while longer, both the apple and the little pineapple fell asleep.

When morning came, the little pineapple woke up before any of the other fruits, and thought to himself, "Maybe I want to be more like a kangaroo. I'm already tall and yellow, so I just need to learn to hop." However, the little pineapple wasn't completely convinced that it was a good idea to try to be kangaroo. The little pineapple wanted to know what the other pineapples would say about his newfound aspiration. When the burly fellow came and removed the big blue thing that was covering the crates of fruit, several of the other pineapples woke up. Unsure of himself, the little pineapple hesitantly said to the others, "I have decided that I want to be a kangaroo." While a day ago, all of the pineapples were quite happy to be pineapples, now some of them weren't quite so enthused about being pineapples. One of the pineapples, who now felt wiser and more intelligent than he had ever felt before replied, "Well, you can be whatever you want to be." Another pineapple chimed in, "If that's what makes you happy, then go for it." Still another said, "You're free to do as you please."

Now the little pineapple felt that he was on the right track. "Today," he thought, "I am going to try my best to be like a kangaroo." Soon, people started to come by the fruit stand. A bunch of them bought some of the newly-arrived grapes. Several people picked out peaches and bananas. As a young man passed by the crate of pineapples, the little pineapple thought to himself, "Now is my chance to get noticed." With that thought in his mind, he steeled himself and tried to hop. To his dismay, he wasn't able to move much at all. The young man passed by the pineapples without even giving them a second glance. A little bit later a mother with two little children came over to the pineapples. The little pineapple mustered his energy and tried to hop again. Success! He managed to hop a couple of inches into the air, just far enough to fall off the crate. For less than a second (though it seemed much longer), the little pineapple felt the strangest sensation and then, with a dull thump, he hit the ground. Although he didn't feel nearly as well as he wanted, the little pineapple thought to himself, "There! Now that I've managed to hop, I'm certain I'll be picked." But the mother, thinking that one of her children had knocked the pineapple onto the ground, hurriedly put the little pineapple back in the crate, said some words to her child which I won't repeat, and hastily grabbed another pineapple before scurrying away from the crate.

Though the little pineapple had managed to accomplish his goal of being more like a kangaroo, his tumble had an unexpected side effect. Now, there was a big brown bruise on his side. Throughout the remainer of the day, people came and went, and a few more of them bought pineapples. A couple of the people even picked up the little pineapple and examined him. But, upon seeing the bruise on his side, they quickly put him back in the crate and chose another pineapple instead. By the end of the day, over half of the pineapples were gone, and the little pineapple still hadn't been chosen yet. When the fruit stand closed in the evening, the little pineapple was feeling quite discouraged and disappointed. He asked the other pineapples, "Why has nobody chosen me?" But the other pineapples were too timid to have opinions of their own, so they just said things like, "That's just how it goes," "Maybe you'll be chosen tomorrow," and "Someone will be sure to want you." None of these answers were especially helpful, so the unhappy little pineapple asked the apple, "I acted just like a kangaroo today, I even hopped, and yet nobody chose me. Why?" But, the apple was reminded of another story from his past, and began to launch into tale after tale which were completely unrelated to the little pineapple's question. Frustrated and feeling quite alone, the little pineapple spend quite a while trying to figure it out by himself, before falling asleep from exhaustion.

Through the next few days, the little pineapple gave up the idea of trying to hop, and just sat there hoping that someone would recognize that he was still a perfectly good and delicious pineapple. Eventually, all of the other pineapples had been chosen by various people, and yet the little pineapple remained in the crate. Because of the brown bruise on his side, no-one seemed willing to take him home. A couple of days later, when the burly fellow brought another basket full of pineapples and put them in the crate, he also took the little pineapple and put a bright orange thing on him. The bright orange thing had some strange black markings on it, which the little pineapple could not figure out. Because he had the orange thing on him, more people examined the little pineapple, but still there was nobody who chose the little pineapple. With each passing day, the little pineapple became more depressed and discouraged, and with each passing day he looked a bit less lively and yellow. After several more days, the burly fellow took the little pineapple and placed him in a huge rectangular metal thing, which was dark and smelly. There the little pineapple thought of all his other pineapple friends, and he missed them. He imagined them all being happily enjoyed by the people who had chosen them. His last thoughts were, "Oh, how I wish I had been content to be a pineapple, rather than trying to be a kangaroo!" So, the black lid was placed over the top of the huge rectangular thing, and the little pineapple was never seen or heard from again.

Thoughts About My Father - Part 2

Continued from Thoughts About My Father - Part 1...

My other favorite memory of my father is from my early adulthood. My father was the sort of person that you felt like you fully knew and yet didn't know at all. He's the kind of person that, while you might know who he is, you never felt that you knew who he used to be. His life, as a story, was one that was largely untold. That is the reason why this is a memory that I cherish greatly.

When I was 17, I graduated from high school. Now that I was finally entering adulthood, I was beginning the journey of figuring out who I was, what I wanted to do, and who I wanted to be. After completing high school, I decided to go on a mission trip to Romania for about three months. My experience in Romania is a vast story of its own, but, in short, it was one of the most painful and lonely periods of my life, while simultaneously being one of the best periods of growth in my life. I hated it, and yet the whole experience strengthened me far more than I could have imagined that it would. Upon returning from Romania in early December, I spent a couple of months at home with my family. Not long after my return, I distinctly remember my father telling me that he wanted to spend some time with me. Being such a rare occurence, I was delighted to have the chance to spend some time with my father. We planned to go and take a hike together on Saturday morning. I wasn't sure quite what to expect. I figured that mostly he would want to hear about my trip to Romania. In any case, I was excited that my father wanted to spend time with me.

When Saturday morning came, we drove to a spot that I knew of in some hills nearby. Neither of us had hiked at this particular park before, so we figured it would be a fun adventure. The weather was neither especially ideal nor particularly foreboding. Light grey clouds covered the sky uniformly and the air felt refreshingly cool. My father and I donned our sweaters after parking the car and began our hike by heading off in a randomly-chosen direction. He was curious about my trip to Romania, and so I recounted my European adventure to him in vivid detail. Then, he began to tell me about a trip he took to Europe in his young adulthood. At one point he had become fed up with life and decided to travel across Europe to see if he could find himself and find any meaning to life. As we hiked, he told me all about the many experiences that he had on his trip, about all the train rides, about all the places he stayed, about all the people he met, and about all the adventures he had. But, it didn't stop there. Not only did he tell me what he did, he shared a bit about what he was thinking, what he was looking for and what he found. His trip across Europe was more of an existential quest for purpose, meaning and answers than it was a mere vacation. What he was looking for wasn't something geographical. In one of the countries he visited, he met some young people, stayed with them in a youth hostel and, through them, found that Jesus Christ was the answer that he was looking for. That part of the story I had heard before, but in hearing more about his journey and the despair he felt, the conclusion of his quest made much more sense to me than it ever had before.

By this point, the clouds were getting a bit darker and looming closer to earth. We had hiked to the end of the park in one direction, and were following some other paths across the tops of various hills. But, my mind was hardly on where we were going. Instead, I was enjoying getting to know my father. As we walked on, he shared more about his life as a teenage and as a young adult. Since I was starting to learn to play guitar, he told me about the time he played keyboard in a rock band when he was young. That was part of his life that I knew very little about, especially since by the time I was born, both my mother and father were convinced that rock music was demonic. As a beginning musician, it was fascinating to hear him share tales of his own musical days, what led him to pursue music, and what his experience of being in a rock band was. We had a rational, adult discussion over whether rock music is truly something that is innately evil, or whether it is something that can be used for either good or evil. He also told me about his dating experiences before he met my mother, and how he had approached relationships. His lack of success with women in his early adult years was something that contributed to the sense of disconnectedness and despair that led him to go to Europe in search of himself. He told me about his own father, and how little his father interacted with him, when he was young. We talked as we hiked, and the hours flew by. Next thing I knew, we were returning to the car and heading somewhere for lunch.

The entire morning was a beautiful blur. For the first time in my life, I actually felt that I had began to understand my father. Prior to the point, I had always seen him as distant, detached, busy and impersonal. Up until that Saturday morning hike, I never felt that I really knew my father. But, that morning, I felt that he really had opened up to me and shared parts of himself with me. Just hearing his stories and experiences helped me to connect with him in a whole new way. After our hike, when I looked over at my father, I didn't just see my father. I saw another human being. I saw someone that I could relate to. I saw someone who was real, who was imperfect, who wrestled with real issues, and who had found some answers. That was the first day that I began to really see him as a father. Even as I write this, I cannot help but feel that our connection that morning went far beyond a mere intellectual exchange of information. That was how we normally communicated. Most of our conversations were very businesslike. But, during that morning hike, we connected not only intellectually, but also emotionally and spiritually.

My father is still an imperfect person. However, this memory was a huge milestone in our relationship, and it is one of my most treasured memories of any time I ever spent with my father. For those few hours, I felt valued, I felt important, I felt that I mattered to him. During the course of those few hours, I connected with him more than I had in the previous 17 years combined. He opened himself up to me and shared his heart with me. I treasure that. I love my father--not because he's perfect, nor because he's a great example. Instead, I love my father, because he is a real person, and because he is a good person. Beneath his tough exterior, there is a man who is real, who feels, who wrestles, who seeks and who hurts. Though he is relationally clueless, he has a good heart. He loves truly. He lives a life of conviction. He loves his family. That day, I felt, in some small measure, that he actually loved me. That day, I finally caught a glimpse of who my father was. I will never forget that morning hike.

Thoughts About My Father - Part 1

Last night, I went to bed a little bit on the early side, but I wasn't feeling sleepy yet. Somehow, while lying there, I started thinking about masculinity, and about how I've grown as a man in the past two years of my life. After thinking about the various ways I've growed and matured, I suddenly felt an urge to read a chapter of The Way of the Wild Heart, a brilliant book on masculinity, written by John Eldredge. Three years ago was the first time that I read both Wild at Heart and The Way of the Wild Heart. While I didn't fully grasp the entirety of what John Eldredge was trying to convey, I certainly knew that what he wrote resonated deeply with me. He writes a lot about masculinity, about the masculine journey, about how a boy becomes a man and about how a man comes to know deep down that he is a man. He writes about the plight of modern America due to the lack of strong fathers who lead their sons and teach them how to be men. His words resonated with me then, even though what he wrote about seemed new and unfamiliar to me.

As I picked up the book and began to read, this section really stood out to me:

A boy has a lot to learn in his journey to become a man, and he becomes a man only through the active intervention of his father and the fellowship of men. It cannot happen any other way. To become a man--and to know that he has become a man--a boy must have a guide, a father who will show him how to fix a bike and cast a fishing rod and call a girl and land the job and all the many things a boy will encounter in his journey to become a man. This we must understand: masculinity is bestowed. A boy learns who he is and what he's made of from men (or a company of men). This can't be learned from the world of women...

When I was young, my father would take me fishing early on a Saturday morning. We'd spend hours together out there, on a lake or a river, trying to catch fish. But the fish were never really the issue. What I longed for was his presence, his attention, and his delight in me. I longed for him to teach me how, show me the way. This is where to drop that line. This is how you set the hook. If you can get a group of men talking about their fathers, you'll hear this core longing of a man's heart. "My father used to take me with him out in the field." "My father taught me how to play hockey, out in the street." "I learned to frame a house from my dad." Whatever the deatils might be, when a man speaks of the greatest gift his father gave him--if his father gave him anything at all worth remembering--it is always the passing on of masculinity.

Reading that passage got me thinking about my father. What memories do I have of him, that I really cherish? What were the most meaningful times I spent with him? In what ways did my father teach me how to be a man? I pondered this question a bit, and had quite a few thoughts. The truth is, my father is not a very good father. By that, I don't mean that he's bad or evil--I just mean that he is very bad at being a father. He had no idea how to lead well, how to connect well with his wife and his children, and how to teach us about life. He was, and still is, an unfinished man, who never fully grew up into being a man. While he is very competent in several areas of life, he lacks the strength and confidence that he needs to be a fully relational man. Because of that, I have very few significant memories of my father at all. Probably all of the most defining moments I had with my father, positive and negative, number less than ten. Yet, there are at least two memories that I have of my father that really instill me with respect for him.

The first memory isn't a single memory--it is a series of memories. I don't remember precisely when it began. I know that at least from 1994 onwards, there was something my father did almost every morning.

During the week, he would come into our bedrooms just a little bit before 6 every morning, and rouse us from our sleep. Only half-awake, my younger siblings and I would grab our comforters, climb out of our bunk beds and slowly shuffle down our long hallway towards the "Big Room." In the Big Room, we had an old upright piano, two couches, one loveseat and a long, dark-brown coffee table in the middle of the room. Seating was available on a first-come, first-serve basis and so whoever actually arrived in the Big Room could always take the most desirable seat. This always mattered somewhat, since there were a good number of us (I have ten siblings). But in the winter, this was a much more pertinent fact, since we had a centralized furnace, which had two floor vents that pumped warm air into the room. As nice it feels to sit on a couch with a comforter, it feels even more amazing to sit right next to the heater vent and enjoy fifteen minutes of wondrous warmth. Since there were only two of them, in the winter it almost became a race to get the furnace seating. The instant father woke any of us up, we would leap out of bed and fly down the hallway in hopes of getting one of the two furnace seats on the floor. While in the winter people would come quite swiftly, it wasn't always like that the rest of the year. Sometimes it would take up to fifteen minutes for my father to get us all awake enough to actually arrive in the Big Room. Often there would be one or two stragglers who had fallen back to sleep or who were having troubles bringing their blankets down the long hallway.

After all of us were situated in the Big Room, father would pass around a stack of Bibles and then sit down on one of the couches with his own Bible. The Bible that he had was larger than any of ours, and it had a well-worn black cover, with his name engraved on it. My father would say a word of prayer, and then open up God's Word and read whatever chapter we were currently up to. Typically, we would systematically read through a book of the Bible. Whenever we finished reading any book of the Bible, my father would choose a new one for us to read. His favorite book to read was Proverbs. He liked it because it had precisely 31 chapters, and because it was filled with practical wisdom. He always read slowly, clearly and deliberately. Every few verses, he would stop to ask a question or two. His purpose in asking questions was twofold. First of all, he wanted us to be actively listening and actually learning from whatever passage he was reading. Secondly, asking questions was a great way to help keep us from falling asleep. When it's 6 in the morning and you're sitting on a comfortable couch with a warm blanket, it's quite easy to drift off to sleep. Sometimes, rather than ask a question, he would stop reading and explain a little historical background on whatever verse we had just read. With the Proverbs, he would sometimes stop and share a short personal story or anecdote to illustrate the usefulness of a particular proverb. I especially remember how vividly he warned us about surety and debt. This morning ritual we always referred to as "Bible Time." It was a family tradition for years.

For some reason, that is one of the memories of my father that I most treasure. There are several things that I really appreciated about having Bible Time every morning. First, father always wanted to read the Bible to us because it was something that he himself loved. I never had the feeling that this was just for our good. He awoke us every morning to read the Bible with him because he enjoyed reading the Bible, and he wanted to share something that he loved with all of his children. He never did it out of duty, because he had to. He just wanted to. He loved reading the Bible, and he loved reading it to us. I felt included in his life for those 30-45 minutes every morning. Second, I really enjoyed it whenever he would stop reading a passage and explain to us what made those verses so important or meaningful. Whenever he shared a personal story, it not only helped the passage to make more sense, but it also gave us a brief glimpse of what sort of person he was. Third, not only was Bible Time one of the few times when I felt that I was part of my father's world, but Bible Time also was one of the main ways he provided direction and guidance for us. He read the Bible to us not just because he enjoyed it, but also because he wanted us to learn God's ways and to live in accordance with the teachings of the Bible. Regardless of how much direction he directly provided to us through other interactions, we always knew that he wanted us to follow God. He showed us the path that we should walk in.

That is one of my most cherished memories of my father from my childhood. I really admire him because he shared that part of himself with us, his children. I respect his dedication to teaching us truth, and showing us the path that we should walk in.

An Unexpected Phone Call

On Friday afternoon, I was feeling quite happy to finish work early. With a 40% off coupon in my hand, I was blissfully browsing Borders, looking for an interesting new book to buy. While looking at various books in the psychology section, my phone rang. The number was one that I did not recognize, and, drawn by curiosity, I answered it.

The voice on the other end asked, "Is this Silas?"
I said, "Yes."
He continued, "Do you live in apartment 151 at Summerwood?"
Again, I said, "Yes. What is this about?"
With a flat tone he said, "Your apartment has been broken into. How soon can you get here?"
Slightly taken aback by what he had just said, I replied that I would be there in about a half an hour.

Part of me still wanted to find a fantastic book to buy, but the urgency of the situation forced me to hurry home. I quickly called my roommate, Dominic, and then high-tailed it home. While driving home I was trying to determine what sort of emotional stance I should adopt. Part of me felt angry and violated. How could people just break into my apartment! It seemed so wrong, so foreign to my nature. Part of me was frustrated that I hadn't brought my laptop with me to work. Part of me thought, "It's just stuff, I should just adopt a stoical attitude to it all." But, being divided is always the worst mental stance, so I decided to focus on the injustice of the situation and fully embrace my rightful anger.

Upon arriving at my apartment, I saw that our door had been smashed in, and splinters of wood were strewn all over the ground and carpet. The wall had a gaping hole in it, where the doorknob had smashed it. Dom had arrived a bit before me and assessed our losses. The thieves stole all three of our laptops, the PS2, our Guitar Hero controllers, Dom's iPod and dock, and my collection of DS video games. I felt really angry and pissed off at the damn thieves!

Then I saw something that made me laugh. On the mini-dresser next to my bed, I always put my spare coins. I rarely ever use pennies, nickels or dimes, and so there were a ton of random coins heaped up on the dresser. While the theives were mostly stealing valuable consumer electronics, worth hundreds of dollars, for some reason one of them decided he wanted my coins. I can imagine the dialog must have gone something like this:

Thief 1: Sweet! Here's another laptop. We are scoring big time on this place!
Thief 2: Hey, look over there. There's a bunch of coins. We've hit the jackpot!
Thief 1: Coins? Really?
Thief 2: Yeah, man. Maybe we can hit up a vending machine and get some candy bars once we're done here.
Thief 1: Dang straight! Grab them all!

Apparently they are as thorough as they are brilliant... there were quite a few nickels, dimes and pennies sprinkled on the floor of my room. The Summerwood maintenance fellow, Cliff, showed up and hung out with us while we waited for the police to arrive. Apparently, two other apartments had been robbed around the same time. For insurance purposes, I took pictures of the door, to prove forcible entry. For the most part, the excitement of the moment had past and now the inconvenience of the situation entered play. Talking to the police, filing a report, calling my insurance company and beginning the processing of planning to replace needed items aren't especially exciting.

However, the philosophical impacts of the theft have been enlightening. The odd thing about negative and traumatic events is that they always force you to reconsider your perspective on life, at least in some small degree. Stepping outside myself to consider my own thoughts and reactions to everything yielded some interesting observations:

First of all, I realized that I felt a lot more upset that people broke into my apartment than that they stole things. To me, the injustice of the thieves’ actions bothered me far more than any loss that I suffered. The fact that they violated my abode is absolutely unconscionable! They deserve a harsh thrashing!

Secondly, my emotional reaction showed me that my life focus is not primarily materialistic and possessions-oriented. My mindset towards possessions is that they are both highly fungible and highly ephemeral. Nothing lasts, and nothing that I have is ever truly secure. Additionally, all of it is easily replaceable.

Third, to some degree, the robbery reminded me that any item is only as valuable as it is functional. If I am using a $1,000 laptop to do things that only require a $300 one, then I would be better off having a cheaper laptop and a little more cash. A corollary to that principle is that anything I don't actively use has a practical value of $0, rendering my ownership of it completely immaterial.

Fourth, from a social perspective, it is more valuable to have an interesting story and a new connection point than it is to have a few little electronic trinkets.

All things considered, I think the whole robbery might have been a win-win scenario. The thieves gained some proceeds from their ill-gotten gains. I have a new story to tell, some fresh observations about life and I'll be getting a little money from my insurance company. However, most importantly I have learned the following theft-prevention technique. Scattering enough loose change around your apartment will distract thieves so much that they will forget to steal anything of value. The more dimes, nickels and pennies you have strewn across your shelves, counters, tables and floors, the better!

Never a Dull Moment

Adventure and excitement seem to be encompassing my life this year. Trying new things, pushing my boundaries and being intentional about living life fully brings interesting experiences more frequently than I expected. And I'm loving it!

Last night was an incredible night! I bought a new shirt, talked to my mother on the phone, met up with a friend for coffee, joined another church's college group for an informal night of worship and ate some delicious ice cream with some friends at Safeway. After all the ordinary evening festivities had concluded, I was blissfully engaged in a joyous phone conversation with a friend who just started a new Bible study. Midnight had just past and the outdoor spring air felt refreshingly nice. As is often my custom, I love to walk around while talking on the phone. So, after arriving at my apartment I set out for a leisurely jaunt around my neighborhood while chatting with my friend about the humorous idiosyncracies of youth and the challenge of packing lightly. My jaunt took me down another side street and across a cute little bridge, though I hardly noticed such details since I was happily caught up in conversing.

SUDDENLY, out from behind a fence, two fellows in dark clothing lept out and accosted me! A heavy-set Hispanic-looking fellow with a red bandana over his mouth snatched the cellphone out of my hand and ordered me to give them everything I had. Dumbfounded and surprised, I stood there for half of a second not quite sure what to do. My very first thought was that maybe this was a practical joke, but that thought very swiftly vanished. Seeing my hesitation the two guys closed in on me and gruffly repeated their demand to empty my pockets. Frightened and still somewhat discombobulated I reached into my pockets and began handing them items. They hastily grabbed my wallet, MP3 player, keys and earbuds. Before I had a chance to think, the second guy, a wiry fellow asked me if I had anything else. I vaguely remember mumbling something about having a pen and some guitar picks, and then one of them handed me back my keys as they started to hustle off back in the direction they first appeared. Quite bothered at my phone conversation being disturbed and considering the hastle it would be to rebuild my contact list, I asked them if I could have my cellphone back, but they were gone in a flash, just as quickly as they had appeared.

My heart was racing as I dashed home, quite thankful that I still had my keys--without them I wouldn't even be able to return to my apartment or my car! I hurried inside and fumbled around in my roommate's bedroom looking for his cellphone. The phone in hand, I took a few deep breaths before dialing 9-1-1. Within 10 minutes I was riding in the back of a police car as numerous squad cars searched the area for the suspects. As expected we did not see any sign of them, even after driving around for a bit. With the search concluded, I told my story to the officer filing the report and called my banks to have them cancel my debit and credit cards. Apparently the thieves had bought gas and picked up some fast food from Jack in the Box.

All in all, it was quite an adrenaline-pumping affair, and I am very thankful that they didn't harm me in any way. They really didn't end up with much ($3 cash, a cheap cellphone, a tattered wallet and a $30 MP3 player). While I got a pretty good deal since I got to keep my keys, my flash drive and lost nothing that 3 hours of work and a couple errands won't replace. As a nice little bonus, I have an exciting story to tell! Out of the three times I've been robbed, this is definitely the most exciting and the least detrimental--though it still would have been nice to finish that phone conversation...