Fistfight faith formation.

I only got into one fistfight with my brother.  I stole his bike when I was in sixth grade and let my friend Scott ride it.  When Scott and I returned from our tour de neighborhood, my brother looked at me with disgust and couldn't believe what I had done.  I dismissed him with a typical adolescent scoff and he proceeded to let me know that my commandeering of his choice vehicle would not go without punishment.  Being in front of a friend, I thought I would show off a bit and take a swing at my rather large brother who out weighed me by 25 pounds.

He literally caught my fist in his hand. Like something out of a Jason Statham movie, he looked me dead in the eye as if to say, "I see that you have attempted to take the matter to another level.  This level will no doubt produce an unwanted reaction by me which will in turn leave bruises on your face." He then proceeded to pugilisticaly pummel me.  I only remember getting a couple hits in.  Okay, none.  And I am sure my brother didn't actually think all those things.  He was probably just pissed. 

He was a big guy.  After beating the crap out of me, my brother carried me to my mom and informed her what he and I had done.  Telling her the story of the bike, my friend and my saucy attitude. My mother looked at me with my slightly bloody nose then looked at my brother with his sincere eyes and determined intent.  She then proceeded to punish me.  Can you believe it?  I was the one in trouble!?!  Mr. perfect youngest son was getting sent to his room over a bike?  Have you seen my face?

It was a great moment in my adolescence on a number of levels.  First, I learned about my brother's limits.  I never crossed them again.  Never.  He and I had our differences, but never went to blows. We grew up sharing a room most of our years and could not have been a more different pair.  My brother is a scientists and I am, well, not.  He is a well thought out and well spoken Dr. of Geochemistry and I am, well, a youth minister.  You get the picture.

Second, I learned about integrity.  You can act all you want based on your own moral understanding.  You can convince yourself that your actions have merit and will be judged true because of your own intentions.  However, when your actions affect another person and their will...there are consequences.  My parents probably lectured me on this a thousand times.  I never really understood it until my brother's fists took me to school.  I had learned my lesson regarding moral relativism and decided to stick with absolute moral norms instead.  Better said, I began to subscribe to the power of the informed conscious and a life of faith formed intuition. There would be way less hitting for me.

There is truth and there are lies.  There is right and wrong.  Human relationships our in a balance because these things are beautifully God given.  Thank God. When we act out of social pressure or selfish need, imbalance can seem justified but usually only ends up driving us into a place of self induced timeout or...worse.

My brother is a father of six children, a husband and a professional.  I love him dearly and still look up to him as a friend and as a man.  Honestly, I am thankful for the lesson.  It probably saved me from entering into a number of unwanted moral dilemmas.  Needless to say, I never took his bike again.  Now, his car on the other hand...   

What if God wrestled The Rock instead of Jacob?

Yes, I stood in line starting at 5AM in Puyallup, Washington to get tickets to see The Rock perform at WWE Monday Night Raw in 1999.  No, I did not make a poster board sign.  Yes, I did dress up in a costume...or what I thought was a costume...before I arrived.  No, I did not stand out in the least bit.  It seems that there is a fine line between monster truck racing and WWE Wrestling clientele.  The latter certainly have a more disciplined fan base.  The reason for my commitment was simple.  My roommates and I...these are my pre-married days...loved to watch pro-wrestling.  I mean, we loved it.  We had our favorites.  My roommates were both former high school football players and certainly knew how to holler!

Upon attending the raucous, my spirits were dashed a bit.  You are not going to believe this, but I don't think that they are really wrestling?!?  It was funny, actually.  My friends and I had way more fun watching other people than we did watching....um...the show.

The Rock came into the Tacoma Dome toward the end of the performance, danced around, got the crowd into a frenzy and then yelled into the microphone, "...know your role and shut your mouth!"  To which the crowd screamed with approval.  I laughed quite loud at the sheer irony of the moment.

I love this line.  I love it because it sounds like something Jesus would have said.  There are so many times when we are called to obedience and we let it terrify us.  We think obedience is cowardice or blind surrender.  This couldn't be further from the truth.  Look at St. Joseph...his step son and wife were perfect.  How was leading grace at the dinner table for that guy?  How do you think he felt about being a provider to those two?  How much do you think he wanted to run ahead to Bethlehem and secure a room knowing they would be taken and his pregnant wife would be sleeping in a cave?  Have you ever tried to go camping with a woman that is nine months pregnant?  Do you have a death wish?  Sorry, I digress.

Joseph obeyed.  In the face of social failure and ridicule he married a pregnant teenager.  He fled to a foreign land and established a household to form the adolescent Son of Man because God asked him to.  How many of us can say we would do the same?

Jesus wants our love and obedience.  He knows what we are going to say before we say it.  He knows are hearts.  If you are having a hard time knowing your role, take time for silence.  If your are living a life of defiance, submit to his will. If you need to wrestle with him this holiday season, go for it. He is the creator of the universe.  I'm pretty sure he can handle you.  He did nickname James and John "The Thunder Boys."  Who knows, maybe they went a couple of rounds?

How to impress girls by becoming unconscious.

In high school I did speech and debate.  This was a huge thing in Spokane, Washington where I grew up.  Our speech team had over 50 people and was coached by one of the nation's best.  Across town at one of the rival schools was a girl named Abby.  Oh my goodness.  She was beautiful.  Shoulder length curly hair, deep brown eyes and hypnotic hips.  It was all I could do to be around her in my adolescents. I used to go to speech tournaments and "accidentally" bump into her as much as possible.  Of course if we were competing against each other I would try to crush her then respond sympathetic so as to appear sensitive, you know, high school.  This was before sensitive vampires wooed teenage women.  No glitter was necessary to put on the moves.

One of the largest tournaments per year was held at Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma, Wa.  This competition was a big deal and I usually fared pretty well.  When I was a Sophomore  I decided to make my move on Abby at this particular gathering.  I traditionally did not have a problem being around girls, but this particular one threw me for a loop.  She and I went for a walk and found ourselves in a field house at PLU.  Near one of the side entrances to this gigantic practice facility was a huge climbing rope hanging from the ceiling.

Being an avid pursuer of fun, I decided to run and grab the rope and swing as long and far as I could.  The rope spun as I grabbed it but I hung on in desperate attempt to impress Abby and preserve my pulse.  Abby giggled.  It worked.  I would land and she would be so impressed with my antics that she would throw herself into my arms and invite me to be hers forever, or at least until the next speech tournament. Or not. Gaining confidence as the rope swung back toward her I whipped my legs underneath me and held myself upside down.  Little did I know that the sudden movement would spin the rope and alter my course.  I was now heading directly towards a set of folded up bleachers.  I turned to brace for impact but it was to late.  Abby whispered, "watch out" in a low seductive tone, as if to say, "I'm concerned for your safety but not enough to startle you into action as I am actually interested in watching whatever is about to happen." Or, so I thought at the time.  I smashed into the bleachers and knocked my self out.  I was literally unconscious.

Awaking to her giggles and then her being embarrassed to be around me, I stood up quickly.  My sudden movement made me want to pass out again, but I held my ground.  "We should go," she said in the same low tone.  "Yeah, okay, um...wanna go out?" I said.  I know what you are thinking, excellent timing!  She sort of curled up her lips and rolled her eyes.  Wait for it.  Here it comes.  "I just want to be friends..." Pure adolescent heartbreak in action.

I learned a lot about girls and the foundation of relationships that day.  First, don't smear your face on steel bleachers in an attempt to impress a member of the opposite sex.  It is not a firm beginning of a relationship and it is hard on your face.  Second, be yourself.  Be real.  I remember getting so wound up about trying to be somebody else to impress, intimidate, sometimes dominate others in my adolescence. What nonsense.

Abby and I never dated.  Come to think of it, we never really talked again. My speech and debate career kind of took off and helped get into college.  God had a plan.  When that plan includes minor head trauma, my advice to you is to just roll with it as best you can.  Somethings are made to be...and somethings are just not made to be swung on upside down.

A man in a dress

My dress at my wedding cost twice as much as my wife's.  Let me explain.  I wore a kilt.  I chose to wear the tarten of Edinburg county.  I looked pretty good.  I had the kilt, the sporran (a leather pouch hung around my waste decorated in goat hair...I know right?), the Prince Charlie Jacket and the tights.  Not gonna lie, I rocked the thing. Tooke is not a clan.  The Tookes, also sharing their name with Hobbits, are a part of the Adamson clan found in the northeastern shores of Scotland.  After talking my wife, fiance at the time, into the idea of wearing traditional Scottish garb on our wedding day, it seems their was a tailor strike and the cost of tarten tripled.  Being a youth minister, not exactly rolling in dough, this put a damper on my plans.  My mother was so excited about the idea of the kilt, she helped with the cost and we made it happen.  But, why do it?

Yes, I wanted to paint my face blue and come running up to the altar yelling "freedom!" during the opening song of my wedding ceremony.  No, my wife did not allow it.  Yes, I thought it would look cool and make for good photos.  No, I did not out dress my wife. She wore the most beautiful medieval looking wedding dress I have ever seen.  Yes, I had the groomsmen in tarten theme ties and vests and the priest wore a stole made of the same fabric.  No, it didn't change the fact that the greatest memory of the day was our new found union in sacrament.

I wanted to wear a kilt at my wedding because I had done a bit of research into my family history.  My mother's maiden name is Condon.  A staunch Irish Catholic inheritance, I learned of its origins. The name comes from northern Cork county.  It is its own clan and the motto of the shield is "In God is my Hope."  The Adamson clan's shield and motto reads, "The Cross gives me welcome rest."  This history shook me up.

I have always considered myself a man of faith.  I had my teenage struggles and adolescent shake ups, but I have persevered.  To learn that my heritage had been rooted in the deep seeded life of belief challenged me.  At my core and in my blood is a lineage of faith filled people.  It is a history of sacrament.  Men and woman in my family paraded their faith publicly as prolific statements of their identity.  They were proud of it.  They were identified with it. Hope and the Cross are necessary parts of who I am and who I am called to be as a man.  I wanted to bring this to the altar.

I  loved everything about getting married.  It truly was the greatest day.  More so, I love the challenge of faith seeded in my wife and I on our day of sacramental union.  Families came together.  New family was established.  For me, this is what the challenge of the life of faith should be all about.  And, I got one heck of a fancy dress out of the deal!

My Rhododendron Temple

I attended All Saints Elementary School.  We had the olive green uniforms and recess on an asphalt parking lot. All of the teachers were soon to be beatified women and the principle was a stern but kind-hearted nun.  Eight o’ clock every morning was Mass, followed by a morning prayer and the usual pursuits of academic achievement.  School actually started at eight-forty-five.  It is funny when you look back on the experience of going to daily mass for the first five years of your young adolescent life.  I am sure that I misbehaved a number of times.  But I am also certain that the daily sight of lit candles, the beauty of a decorated altar, the smell of old oak pews and the statues of saints long dead wrote a script on my heart.  I never like being there.  I also never insisted that I not be there.  It was a weird mix of emotion.  The priest had a really thick polish accent; the kind that sounds like a lot of chaa’s and shir’s with a vowel thrown in every so often.  I went because my mom said I had to.  I believed because it was what I had been told to do.  I rose for the Nicene Creed and I sat for the Homily.  I knelt for the consecration and I held hands for the Our Father.  To a non-believer this may all seem like the behavior of a Pavlovian Dog.  To a fellow Catholic, however, it is a celebration of the universal faith.   Us Catholics are a bit of a psychological experiment in and of ourselves, my generation in particular.

One day, I remember walking into my fourth grade classroom and hanging up my coat.  The other four students (in my class of twenty-eight) that attended Mass daily had already left to find their seat in the “assigned” pew.  I was alone.  I was not accountable to anybody.  Sr. Claude, the principal had already left the building.  Mrs. Cutler, my teacher was somehow absent from the room.  I suddenly became overtaken by the idea to avoid the day’s liturgy at all cost.  Perhaps I could hide in the closet?  No good, other students would arrive and question my sanity.  Perhaps I could make a run for the bathroom?  It worked in Montessori like a charm, why not here?  I quickly surmised, for one, it is a half of an hour in a school bathroom and for two; it is a half of an hour in a school bathroom.  Gross.  I walked outside the school still unnoticed by any teachers or that sneaky janitor Mrs. Bostwick only to behold the makings of a plan.

On the side of the church were a number of gigantic rhododendrons.  If you have never seen one of these Pacific Northwest plants, you really are missing out.  They provide glorious budding flowers in the spring and rich green leaves year around.  Most importantly they are very sturdy and thick.  I don’t know where the idea came from, and to this day, I don’t know what possessed me to choose this particular course of action.  As the bells began to ring, signaling the beginning of the morning liturgy, I climbed inside of this woody skeletal plant.  Did I mention that they are sturdy?  This thing was huge and thick with foliage.  I found a branch strong enough to hold me and nestled in like an owl at daybreak.

You might guess that it was pretty boring in my anti-liturgical hideaway.  I vividly remember the guilt of missing Mass, but more importantly I remember as a fourth grade boy actually asking myself, “What am I doing here?”  What could possibly be happening inside that is so awful that I am willing to soak my corduroy pants from the dripping leaves of this rainy bush.  Why on earth am I so determined to not sing, “Here I am Lord” and stare at Mother Mary in her usual pose of squishing a snake and holding her Son?  What am I afraid of?  Fear was a new emotion for me when it came to Church.

Now that I look back, I think that I was afraid of the truth that was revealed on the altar.  I never wanted to take refuge in God. I just like to challenge Him. At the time I probably thought is was an innovative way to rebel and maybe get caught up on some Botany homework.  I didn’t want everything that I had been raised to believe in to actually be truth.  I wanted His words to fail.  I think that as I approached the years in life when I thought my parents became idiots and the universe revolved around me, I wanted to believe that my faith would fade like my brothers hand-me-down clothes.  I wanted God to go away because he was in charge and I didn’t like authority. I saw no need for His shield.  Clearly this is a theme in my life.  Authority or authorship is a part of faith that very few people accept without a conflict at some point.  How many Christians do you know that have always accepted God as ruler in their life and have never questioned His judgment, His plan, and/or His methods?  If someone blindly follows His word, then they never internalize His love.  If somebody constantly challenges His will, then they can never know His protection.  It is a tough place to be, especially for a fourth grader.

Keanu Reeves and the giving spirit of Christmas

When I was a teenager, all I really did was drink Mountain Dew, rollerblade and underachieve at school.  I was an A and F student.  If I liked it I got the good grade.  If I didn't like it, well, you get the picture.  I lied a lot.  Somehow I thought this was a good way to control my environment.  I had great friends, some believers and some not.  I did theater and speech and debate.  I did not really get along with my dad.  My mom and I were cool, but I'm sure I drove her crazy.  Picture Keanu Reeves a little bit better dressed. My universe pretty much existed two feet from my face, unless I found a phone booth of course (movie reference I hope you get).

Last night I was working with a local youth ministry group.  A beautiful athletic and popular teenage girl stood up at the end of the night and made a plea.  "I volunteer at an elementary school everyday after school helping little kids read," she said.  "Last week one of the little girls I work with lost her house."  "Her Christmas tree caught fire and the family lost everything."  The room was silent.  The young woman let everyone know that she was arranging a fundraiser and needed their help.  "I can't do this by myself," the girl said.

A moving moment, to be sure.  But, I was struck by much more.  As a teenage boy, I was not a complete idiot when it came to others needs.  However, I can tell you, I was pretty good at ignoring them.  I never had the confidence or desire to give of my self to others. I love that in this generation of young people there is not only desire, but the need to serve.  Help isn't coming just from a place of resume builder and college application fill in the blank.  Help is coming from the heart.

Young people are amazing.  If you don't already know this, then you need to read less of the newspaper and encounter actual people more.  If you do know this than you are tracking with a pretty awesome reality.

Ten teenagers or so stood up as they were dismissed and walked over to the young woman.  "What can we do," they asked.  To which she explained in detail a number of ways they could participate in the effort.  Awesome.

Be intentional this holiday season and recognize needs in others.  If you don't see them it is because you are not looking.  Emmanuel came that we might have life and have it to the full.  Christmas time is no time to be incomplete.  And just remember, young people rock.  Get over yourself and lend them your support.

Honey, please don't shoot anyone in the face.

So on my daughter Ainsley's 4th birthday I bought her a bow and arrow.  Mind you, this was before Hunger Games, Brave and the t.v. series Arrow even came out.  I was like a hipster dad. I am not talking a plastic shaft with some elastic string and suction cup darts here, I mean a real bow and arrow.  This thing had enough power when shot properly to pierce a pop can or her sister.  You should have seen the look on the faces of the other mothers (including my wife) at the birthday party.  You would have thought they were going to call child protective services and lead me away in cuffs.  I thought it was one of my better moves.  Here is why...

As  a father of daughters, I am always looking for ways to spend time with my kids that is unique and fruitful.  In other words, I love creative hobbies with a purpose.  Sure, we play dolls and the usual sports, but we especially have fun when we learn something together.  I had no idea how to shoot a bow and arrow.  Archery for me was about Robin Hood and Hunger Games, neither of which personify real great parenting.  But, here is what I learned...

Archery is about posture and breathing.  It is about muscle control and patience.  It is about self confidence, intentionality and individual goal setting.  It is competition really only with yourself and the instrument.  Shooting a bow and arrow well demands taking in all the elements and determining a planned approach.  It is about self control.  Bingo.

I long for all my daughters to embody all of these values.  It isn't that I just want them to be and do these things, I mean I want them to become models of patience, self confidence and intentionality as they grow into young women.  I do not want them to be mastered by other people (especially teenage boys), but to be at peace in the elements and live intentionally.  I'm not sure there is a more beautiful activity that my children could be a part of.

As a result, all of my daughters now own a bow and arrows.  Like any man that decides to engage a new hobby, I have a number of archery devices.  My girls and I love it.  My wife, well lets just say she is coming around. When the season is right, we go outside and make up fun games.  We set up a range at the house and set goals for ourselves regarding self-improvement.  We play battleship and a game we made up called Robin Hood (which is basically like the basketball game Horse, well you get the idea). Safety first, but creativity is a close second.  In the end, I can only hope the disciplines of the sport become spiritual disciplines in my children's walk of faith.

Chocolate Oranges of Eden

We hung our stockings at the foot of our beds when I was a kid.  The strategy here was that we would be preoccupied with our stocking in the wee hours of the morning long enough to allow our parents to sleep in that much more.  Of course, all we did was open our stocking earlier and then run to rattle our mom and dad as the sun was rising while yelling, "Santa was here!!!!"  Paper flies everywhere and we spend the day in pajamas playing with whatever toy will now be added to the pile in the closet.  When I reflect on it, I think what I really loved most about this great holiday was the sense of anticipation. I loved the nerve racking waiting, the decorating and the constant questioning of my parents, "how many more days?"

I love Christmas as an adult as well.  I revere the smells and the scenery.  But, what I really love are chocolate oranges.  I am fairly certain chocolate oranges were made in eden and have somehow been preserved over the centuries.  If elves make these things, I picture them in a super secret lab with the highest level of security so that the flavorful ingredients never leak into the kitchens of civilians.  Mmmmmmm, chocolate oranges.

With small children, Christmas has re-emerged in my life as a great endeavor.  There is nothing like seeing their faces on Christmas morning or getting to shop for them weeks, days or moments in advance.    As a parent, I feel like I finally get what it means to anticipate Christmas.  This idea of waiting for something great to happen, knowing that it will happen, is not to be taken for granted.  I think I finally get Advent.

When we know something is going to be great because it has always been great and we love greatness, we get excited.  Not exactly rocket science.  This is Advent for me.  There is greatness in the anticipation.  There is a unique value in the preparation process as well as the result.  The Lord planned it this way.  Our waiting for the King has its own beauty.  Keeping our lamps trimmed and burning is a celebration in and of itself.  It is a testament of our faith in the one to come and the greatness that we know he brings.  He always comes.  We are always changed.

As I longly await my chocolate orange to be in the bottom of my stocking this Christmas, I remember how great last year's was.  Sure I could just go to the store and buy one, but where is the spiritual lesson in that?

Whats in a name?

When my wife and I found out we were going to have our first child, like most new parents we whipped ourselves into excitement trying to decide on names.  Also like most parents we came up with a boy and a girl name.  We batted around different ideas.  My wife suggested the name of her great grandmother, Mederise (meh-de-reese), to which I quickly responded, "...a french name for my Irish Catholic little girl!"  Not true.  Actually, immediately I fell in love with the name for its uniqueness and beauty. The name also demands attention to tradition and the strength of my wife's homesteader family. I tacked on the middle name Michelle, after my cousin and aunt.  Both are incredible women and drum up pleasant memories for me personally.  All five of my daughters have had the same boy name, Timothy, after my best friend from High School.  Not sure I'll ever get to use that one.

This holiday season we get to focus on one important name for God, Emmanuel.  I use to think this was just a pretty title or a foreign slang term for the baby Jesus.  This couldn't be further from the truth.  God gave this name to Mary and Joseph through the voice of an Angel (Matt 1:23).  It certainly has intention.  The name means "God is with us" and stems from Hebrew origin.  Most of us know that but somehow forget it.  Emmanuel sums up the deepest longing of our creator.  It expresses the most prolific miracle in the history of the world and insists on an eternity of victory for all humanity.  Its no Mederise, but it will do.  Emmanuel is truly the name above all names in the sense that it declares a reality all believers must come to reckon with.  Not bad for your first kid.

In Romans 8:31 Paul lays down one of his more popular lines, "If God is for us then who could be against us."  Yes, the line fits well on a coffee mug and/or a convention t-shirt, but it also should rip us apart.  God is with us and for us.  This puts all the pressure on us.  The "us" in this scenario need to get off our butts.  He doesn't need us.  He wants us.  He wants us to know he is with us and for us.  At this point we must respond.

This holiday season remember that he knows your name.  He took special care crafting the creation that led to your arrival.  The master of the universe likes you enough to dig deep into his reservoir of creative authority to make sure the world is a place for you to celebrate his victory.  Better yet, he loves you enough to be with you through the heart of his first and only born son.  Remember to say thanks between the ripping of paper and sips of Tom and Jerry during the time of year when we are asked to simply remember his name.

A little spiritual chin music...

When I was in fourth grade (Catholic School mind you) I threw my math book at my teacher because she made me stay in at recess and redo my homework for the fifth time.  She was a great lady.  I was a moron.  Upon realizing what I had done, I promptly ran and hid in the bathroom where I figured nobody would dare find me.  After she called my name from the doorway for about fifteen minutes, I panicked and ran to the Church where I sat in a pew staring at the cross.  Perspective was the order of the day.  This is where it hit me...literally.  I had done a pretty stupid thing.  I knew I was in for it.  I knew that my actions had created a bit of a desperate situation and that I would be the one encountering the repercussions on somebody else's terms.  Was this what it meant to find refuge?

Baseball is the perfect combination of team and individual effort in a game.  Nobody can help you when you are in the batter's box facing a Felix Hernandez fast ball or and R.A Dicky knuckler but you.  You got to time it right.  You have to adjust your hands and your hips.  You have milliseconds to make dramatic decisions and the majority of the time you will fail.  Sound like fun?  At the same time, you are not the pitcher and the catcher and the shortstop and the left fielder.  You have one position and you play it to the best of your abilities.  A win is a team effort.  Your presence and participation are imperative.  See where I'm going with this?

Sometimes we need to get hit in the face with a breaking ball that doesn't break.  Sometimes were are going to strike out or foul tip or get dropped looking in the clutch.  It is going to happen.  In our individual failures and miscues, isn't it assuring to know that we have a team?

My mom walked into the Church and picked me up.  She was pissed.  My dad was a yeller and he let me have it when I got home.  I was upset.  I apologized to my teacher the next day and got on with the awkwardness of fourth grade knowing that I had a seat in a Church that would always welcome me.  A worshipping community is necessary in the life of a Christian because we can only do so much on our own.  As a sinner, I know I need a redeemer and a community.  I know that my actions are going to derail my walk of faith a lot.  Spiritually, I hope to bat at least .280.

I love a good drug-free homerun hitter.  I love the guy who grinds out the base hit when the team needs it for the extra inning win.  But I especially love the consistant presence of player that understands the value of great at bats and the worth of a team.  I am a practicing Catholic Christian man because the pursuit of holiness is not only for me but also for my family, my community and my brothers and sisters of faith.  What about you?

A beginning...sort of?

This is blog about being a dad of five daughters, a husband of over 11 years, a youth minister of over 15 years and a baseball fan.  I was raised Catholic and continue in the pursuit of holiness.  I fell in love with a farm girl by the grace of forgiveness and a bit of divine intervention.  I had a dream when I was 24 that I would have three daughters...the Lord found that funny and decided to put a little sugar on top.  I fumbled into a career of youth ministry by way of circumstance, luck and passion.  I fell in love with baseball in the Kingdome of Seattle, WA in the 80's when Mark Langston threw the ball 98 mph and Alvin Davis was the best there was.  So far, all has served me well.  Better said, I have desperately tried to serve.  This blog adventure will be a humble walk of reflections, questions, advice, expository, oratory, commentary and hopefully a lot of laughs.