The Wheel

Writing has long been a passion of mine. Whether or not I’m any good at it or if anyone actually wants to read anything I write are completely beside the point. I used to write with (at least a little) more regularity, however the last two or three years have brought much change to my former way of life, which primarily included bachelorhood and therefore, by necessity, lots of spare time and a lack of a scheduled bedtime, and so staying up until 4 A.M. to finish a blog post didn’t throw my entire world off of its axis. Don’t get me wrong; I wouldn’t change a thing about my current life. I love my wife and son more than I could’ve ever imagined loving another human being, it’s just that it takes much more intentionality to sit down and write something worthwhile. Which brings me to my next paragraph.

For those of you who (just so) happened to have read my blog in the past, you know that it used to be called “The Chaddington Post”. I never really liked that name, I just called it that, one, because of the obvious parody of the Huffington Post, and two, because of the nickname that really only one person in the world has ever called me (yes you, Chelsea). It didn’t mean that much to me and I’m just really terrible at coming up with clever names for things. I really wanted my blog name to have some significance. This is the part where I explain that significance.

I chose the name “The Wheel” for a few reasons. Or perhaps it’s just one multi-faceted reason, but whatever. My favorite musician of all-time is John Mayer. One of my favorite John Mayer songs of all-time is Wheel, off of his sophomore album Heavier Things. The song basically talks about the circle of life and the different seasons we all go through. The second verse of the song goes like this:

“Airports see it all the time
Where someone’s last goodbye
Blends in with someone’s sigh
Cause someone’s coming home
In hand a single rose”

What has always struck me about the picture that this verse paints is the stark contrast of emotions that two people can be facing in the same exact setting. And perhaps I can relate even more because I’ve experienced both of these extremes in this same setting. For one person, it is an almost overwhelming sense of sorrow or grief, not knowing when you might see that loved one again, and for the other, a feeling of expectancy and intense joy at the sight of someone you’ve missed for so long.

But the one line that really hits home for me is this tagline at the end of the song that he repeats over and over again:

“You can’t love too much one part of it
You can’t love too much one part of it…”

The triumphs or the tragedies, the victories or the defeats, the births or the deaths, the holidays or the weekdays, the parties or the miseries. Things change. Jobs change. Where we live changes. People come and go. Money comes and goes. The truth is that we can’t live in one part of our life our whole lives. There is a constant ebb and flow. As Mayer says in the chorus of the song, “That’s the way this wheel keeps working now”. And that is where I have derived the title for my blog. The Wheel. There are many spokes in a wheel, each one representing a different part, a different area of our lives. Some good, some bad, some change, some remain, but a constant turning nonetheless. And it’s a beautiful process. Not always pretty, and not always what we expect, but regardless, our prayer is that we embrace the change, we learn and mature in light of it, and that God receives the glory for all of it in the end.

Fatherhood

There have been a number of events throughout the course of my (relatively short) life that I have looked forward to with great anticipation. Some were things that I knew were going to happen, yet still eagerly awaited, such as birthdays and Christmas and the like. Everyone loves birthdays and Christmas morning, because you know that, barring some unfortunate circumstance, they are always joyous occasions, ones where you are surrounded (mostly) by people you love and you get a bunch of (mostly) cool presents. It’s a win-win situation. Then there have been other situations that, while I knew they were going to take place, wasn’t quite sure what the outcome would be, for instance, how well I would hit in my next little league game or how well I would perform in the upcoming play for which I’d been memorizing lines for the last month (if you’re interested in the results of either, you may try contacting my mother, who I’m pretty certain has a few of the aforementioned events recorded on a VHS tape somewhere). And finally, the last category includes those select few events that, while I’d always dreamed of them coming to pass, I wasn’t quite sure that they ever would. One of these, as you may well have guessed, was marriage. I’m not sure that anyone ever thinks or simply takes for granted that they will, in fact, one day be married. Some folks get married very early in life, others late, and some may never desire to be married. Still others dream of marriage, and yet it takes much longer than they had ever hoped it would, and may still be waiting. Personally, I am blessed to be going on two wonderful years of marriage, and there are times when it still seems surreal.

But there is still one more event that fits in to the latter category, one that I have given a great deal of thought to over the years, even from a fairly young age, and one that I can now say is going to happen, and that is this:

Fatherhood.

My wife and I were incredibly blessed to find out on Valentine’s Day of this year that we had conceived a child essentially just after we had started trying. While I am not a very expressive individual, and perhaps to her my expression was still a bit more subdued then she would have preferred, the moment my wife announced the news to me that she was pregnant, I immediately felt an intense sense of joy and exuberance, and yet also a sort of fear over the reality that this was actually happening. There was no turning back. We were being given the responsibility of raising another human being.

Quite frankly, I am terrified of the idea of being a father. I don’t play the comparison game by looking at other fathers who have failed their children, who aren’t there to support their children or who abuse their children or what have you, but I look at me, at my role, my responsibility, and I wonder if I have what it takes to be the loving, caring, compassionate, yet strong leader and disciplinarian father my child needs me to be. This is something that I take very, very seriously. Sure I have ideas of what kind of a father I want to be, the things I want to teach my children, the way I want them to behave, the example I want to set, but when that child is actually here, in the flesh, will I have the courage to carry them out? Will I love them even when they annoy me or disobey me, or will I get frustrated and angry with them? Will I be consistent in lovingly disciplining them, or will I give up because I’m “too tired”? Will I love them enough to spend time with them, play with them, teach them the truths of God’s Word, or will I keep to myself, contending that I “never have enough time for myself” or to do the things that I enjoy doing?  These are the questions that I wrestle with, and probably will to continue to wrestle with, until my baby arrives, and likely even beyond that.

I know that every person, both men and women, have those things in their minds and hearts that they have vowed to do differently from their fathers and mothers. I’ve never questioned that my dad loved and continues to love me. He always tells me how proud he is of me, and if there’s one thing that can always make him smile, its talking about “his boys”, whom he loves dearly. However, there were ways in which my dad wasn’t there for me growing up. His idea of being a good father was to provide for his family, and that he did. He would work two or three jobs at times if it meant that we had food on the table, clothes on our backs and a roof over our heads. That also meant that we didn’t always see him, and when he was home, often times he was too tired to play with us. He didn’t like sports, so playing catch with us happened about once a year. He didn’t like any kind of games, so if we were playing video games it was in our rooms so he could watch TV, and if it was a family board game, he passed in favor of, well, watching TV. Sleeping in any bed other then his own for any period of time longer than one night was not something he preferred to do, so family vacations, while fun when they did happen (see Orlando, Florida), were few and far between. He did take us to things like car shows and drag racing events, and while these things were a blast and are great memories for me, it just never seemed to make up for all of the other things that he couldn’t do or chose not to do with my brothers and I.

These are the things that I always vowed to change when I became a father. I wanted to spend as much time with my children as possible, even if it meant doing something that I had absolutely no interest in (Lord, please help my future son to not be a dancer. Amen). I wanted my children to know that I would always be there for them , to give them advice, or to simply listen to their problems, even if I didn’t have a great answer to give them, just so they knew that I cared about them.

Yet while these are noble goals and things that I believe every parent should do, there is something that I have learned, even prior to my first child being born, and that is this: the entirety of my fatherhood cannot be based on a reaction to the mistakes that my own father made. I should want to spend time with my children not because my father didn’t, but because I love my children and it should bring me joy to be with them, and while there is most definitely great value in learning from others’ mistakes, that should be secondary to the primary goal of being a loving and godly example to my children because that is the role in which God has placed me.

I do hope that I have not conveyed a sense of fear and uncertainty that exceeds my sense of excitement, joy and anticipation at the arrival of my child, for that is certainly not the case. October can’t come quickly enough! Ultimately these are fears that I must entrust to the Lord Jesus Christ, to trust and believe that He will provide me with everything that I need to be a loving, Christlike father to my children. And that’s just it. The things I now fear that I won’t be able to do are things that only He can do through me. I cannot be selfless to my wife and children apart from having the mind of Christ (Philippians 2:5), who loved us and gave of Himself even to the point of setting aside His heavenly throne, putting on flesh, and dying for our sin. I cannot love like that on my own power. And there is actually great comfort in that truth. Try as I may, I will only fail apart from His strength.

I pray that I will be humble enough to admit my mistakes to my children and to ask them for their forgiveness. I pray that I will be selfless enough to lay aside my (incredibly) selfish desires in order love and serve them for their benefit and my joy. And I pray that through my growth, through my trials and errors, and through my love and sacrifice for them, that they will in turn encounter the living God, to know the truth of His Word, and so be saved by the Lord Jesus Christ by repenting and placing their trust on Him as their saving Lord.

That is the legacy I want to leave as a father.

Emett Grant Newton

Just a few short days ago, the world welcomed its newest and greatest member, Emett Grant Newton, my first nephew (from my families side. I do already have some amazing nieces and nephews on my wife’s side whom I love dearly), my parents’ first grandchild, and my brother Tommy and his wife Denah’s firstborn child. Here’s a good shot of the little guy:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tommy and Denah have been married for six years this month, and have been praying for a child for nearly half of that time. After trying for some time, they began to see various doctors over the next few years trying to find out what was wrong and what could be done to allow them to have children. Many different things were suggested, but none of them ever worked.

Then one night last September, things took a drastic turn for the best. Tommy and I were sitting on his back porch enjoying cigars together (a tradition that I cherish greatly and wish could be done more often) having just arrived home that night from a week-long vacation in North Carolina. As we were talking, he told me “not to tell anyone yet, but we think Denah may be pregnant” . I was so excited! They were on the verge of visiting yet another fertility specialist at that time, and yet now Denah was starting to experience the symptoms of pregnancy! They decided to put off the fertility doctor, and it’s a good thing, because as it turns out, she was in fact pregnant.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Emett is such a beautiful little boy and a testament of God’s faithfulness to His children. He is named first, of course, after the great Dr. Emmett Brown

 

 

 

 

 

and second after our grandfather, Grant Johnson.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grandpa Johnson was an amazing man, one who Tommy resembles very much in his personality, his interests, and his character. I know Tommy wishes he could be a part of little Emett’s life, but his legacy and his memory certainly remains with us. Tommy is already an amazing husband and I have no doubt that he is going to be an incredible father to Emett.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m so excited to meet this little guy in just a few short weeks! Not only is a nice, relaxing vacation in order for my wife and I, but I just can’t wait to meet Emett and spend time with him and his parents. I’m so excited for their family and so blessed to see God’s hand at work in their lives. God is so good and so faithful, and I can only imagine what an incredible man Emett will one day be.

 

Dear Singles: Married People Are Not Holier Than Thou

A thought struck me recently as I was having a conversation with a friend who was telling me about his impending engagement. It wasn’t necessarily due to any one thing he said to me, but rather an observation based on numerous conversations I’ve had over the past two years or so with various people, and also from my own pre-marriage mindset.

Essentially, it seems to me that there is a misconception amongst the unmarried, those commonly referred to as “singles”, that those of us who are married are somehow or another wiser or holier than our single friends, that people who are married have reached a higher level of spirituality or maturity that can never be reached so along as one remains single.

I’ve had conversations with my single guy friends where, and I don’t mean this arrogantly, but it seems like they are just eating up every word I have to say, as if marriage has given me the ultimate insight on the subject altogether. Not that I mind at all giving advice whenever it may be sought, and sure, there are certainly things that I probably know and can adequately give advice about as a married man, it’s just that I’m a bit surprised at the attention I’m given when having these types of conversations.

I suppose I can remember being at the stage of my life, not knowing, of course, what in the world it was even like to be married, and so to glean from someone who’s been there already seemed like the right thing to do, however, I am now more aware than ever, having been on both sides of the equation, of the impact our words as married people can have on our single friends and family. I’m sure that there were things I took as bible truth, figuratively speaking, after having sought the advice of a married friend. “They’ve been married for X-amount of years”, I would think, “of course they know what they’re talking about”, and while there is some truth to that, it still doesn’t negate the need for careful thought, prayer on the matter (whatever it may be), and reflection on what the Scriptures say about the topic of marriage.

So I say this to you, single friend: Married people are most definitely not by necessity holier or wiser than you. We have not reached a more advanced place of spirituality that has given us the right of marriage. We are simply people who the Lord has, by His mercy, allowed to enter into covenant relationship with another believer, to learn to love one another as He loves us, His children, to serve one another, and to, Lord willing, raise children who also love and serve Him. We haven’t done anything to earn this privilege. We are not to be placed on a pedestal. We are not smarter than you, in fact the opposite is probably sometimes true. We mess up every single day. We constantly need to ask forgiveness of our spouses and our children*. We are sinful people in need of a savior just like everyone else.

(* I do not yet have my own children, but in speaking with those friends and family that do, repenting to ones own children seems to be a pretty regular occurrence, one that is both incredibly difficult and at the same time incredibly rewarding.)

I will say this, however: marriage is most definitely a means of expedited sanctification. It will show you just how sinful you really are, in a way that being single simply cannot. I know, I can hear all of my single friends rushing out to find a marriage partner after that last statement. But it really is true. Marriage is a revealer of our true character. In light of that, I encourage marriage. It’s wonderful. If you and another guy or gal love the Lord and love each other, what’s stopping you? But you must want it. You must be prepared to give all of yourself to another person and to make your own wants and desires secondary. But no matter where you are in your life, whether single or married, remember that it is our position in Christ that defines us, not our marital status. We are all contributors to the body of Christ at every stage of life, and for that we should be thankful.

Riley Cooper & The “N” Word

I realize that I may ruffle a few feathers with the contents herein, but I find myself very confused and frustrated this evening, and I need someone to explain a few things to me.

There has been a so-called “news story” floating around that everybody has been talking about today, and for the life of me I cannot figure out why it is such a big deal!

The story is that of Philadelphia Eagles wide receiver (and University of Florida alum nonetheless) Riley Cooper and the video that has surfaced of him at a Kenny Chesney concert uttering a derogatory term (the “N” word) in a threatening way. He seems slightly if not fully drunk, and he certainly made a fool out of himself.

However, he has publicly come forth, before the media, fans, and the general public, and has issued a verbal apology for his poor choice of words, and expressed his deepest regrets, and his own team has punished him with a substantial fine monetary fine. To me, all of this seems sufficient enough for the “crime” committed.

The punishment is not, however, seemingly sufficient to the vast majority of the sports media and perhaps the general public (although I’ve not heard much reaction from fans throughout the day). The way this is being treated is as if Riley Cooper has committed some heinous crime, something unheard of, something unspeakable. One sports radio host said that maybe Cooper should just offer to “go away for awhile”. No one likes him right now, including his teammates, and when you’ve offended someone so badly, sometimes it’s just best to go away from them for a while. Fascinating! Another pair of TV show hosts stated how (after the news of the Eagles already issuing a fine was public knowledge) Cooper should be fined by the NFL, and if that weren’t enough, he should be suspended for at least a few games.

Now, I realize the uniqueness of the situation because Cooper is a public figure whose actions are closely followed and the resulting consequences are also dealt with publicly. I guess I just have a problem with this being treated as an out and out hate crime. Come on, people, it was one word. Are we really going to blow this up into something so outrageous when there are so many other far more important issues to be dealt with in our society!? I mean, actual racist crimes are being committed on a daily basis, and we’re ready to crucify a guy because he said a word one time in a state of drunkenness that just so happened to be caught on camera.

Call me insensitive if you will, but I’m calling P.C. B.S. on this whole thing, if you know what I mean. People are being offended everywhere who weren’t even being addressed in this original offense. If a person of another race calls a white person a honky or a cracker on some video somewhere irrelevant to me, I’m sorry, but I’m just not offended by that.

Here’s something else that really bothers me, and I’ve heard the justification over and over again, but I’m just not buying it: How is it that the one word that offends black folks so very much, when changing the “er” to an “a”, perfectly acceptable? The same word that has meant so much offense and hatred for so many years, now through a slight variation of spelling is adopted as a term of brotherhood and closeness, and yet don’t anyone of another skin color call me that because then you hate me and all other people of my skin color. I just don’t buy it.

I honestly think that we need to get off Mr. Riley’s case and get our collective panties out of a wad. The man made a stupid mistake and a costly slip of the tongue. He has owned up to it. He apologized to the public and to his teammates. He has to deal with the cost of that mistake. What more do we want of him? For goodness’ sake, he’s not a criminal. We don’t need to put out an APB on the man. If I’m wrong, feel free to let me know, I simply don’t understand why we must overreact and blow such things out of proportion.

The Gift Of Gifts

In light of this quickly approaching Resurrection Sunday, I wanted to share this beautiful prayer from The Valley of Vision. It speaks so magnificently of God’s ultimate gift to us, His Son, and how utterly incapable we are of coming to Him on our own.

O Source Of All Good,

What shall I render to thee for the gift of gifts,
thine own dear Son, begotten, not created,
my Redeemer, proxy, surety, substitute,
his self-emptying incomprehensible,
his infinity of love beyond the heart’s grasp.

Herein is wonder of wonders;
he came below to raise me above,
was born like me that I might become like him.

Herein is love;
when I cannot rise to him he draws near on wings of grace,
to raise me to himself.

Herein is power;
when Deity and humanity were infinitely apart
he united them in indissoluble unity,
the uncreated and the created.

Herein is wisdom;
when I was undone, with no will to return to him,
and no intellect to devise recovery,
he came, God-incarnate, to save me to the uttermost,
as man to die my death,
to shed satisfying blood on my behalf,
to work out a perfect righteousness for me.

O God, take me in spirit to the watchful shepherds,
and enlarge my mind;
let me hear good tidings of great joy,
and hearing, believe, rejoice, praise, adore,
my conscience bathed in an ocean of repose,
my eyes uplifted to a reconciled Father;
place me with ox, ass, camel, goat,
to look with them upon my Redeemer’s face,
and in him account myself delivered from sin;
let me with Simeon clasp the new-born child to my heart,
embrace him with undying faith,
exulting that he is mine and I am his.

In him thou hast given me so much
that heaven can give no more.

32 Years

Thirty-two years is a long time. Not many things last for thirty-two years. Careers rarely do. If your car does, people write newspaper articles about it. Some folks don’t even live for thirty-two years. 

But my parents were married for thirty-two years, and I still don’t believe that it has quite become a reality to me that thirty-two will never become thirty-three.

Tonight as I was driving home, this song was playing and it made me think of all of this. I never thought it would happen to me. I never thought I would be part of a statistic. I was always hearing the statistics about the rise in the national divorce rate, but, “No”, I thought, “That’ll never happen to my parents. Sure they have their issues, but who doesn’t? They’ve been together for too long, been through and fought through too much. There’s no way they’d give up like that.”

The news of the constant fighting and overall unhappiness hit me like a ton of bricks. I had no idea it was as bad as it was. I was under the impression that my parents were enjoying the ability to spend more time together now that me and my brothers were all out of the house. I was obviously very wrong. Without going into unnecessary detail, within six months of finding out this news, my parents were divorced. 

And that was it. Thirty-two years, gone. All of the security that I had in being part of a unified family was no more. 

I don’t mean to be overly dramatic, and obviously there are plenty of good things that came out of my parents’ marriage, namely their three [amazing] children, it’s just that divorce comes as such a shock, even to those who may be anticipating it, even to those who are older when it happens, like my brothers and I. It’s so final. 

I tried to act like it wouldn’t affect me. “I’m a grown man”, I thought. “I don’t like it, but at least this isn’t happening while I’m a still a kid living at home”. And while this was true, it still had and continues to affect me more than I ever thought it would. 

Much of the mental, spiritual, and emotional difficulties I experienced as a result of my parents’ divorce was in large part due to the timing of it all. Literally no more than a few weeks after finding out just how tumultuous my parents’ relationship was, I was to begin courting a young woman for marriage. This dichotomy was one that ate at me for quite some time, and still does at times. Here I was, on the brink of preparing myself for a lifelong commitment to another human being, and my very own parents were themselves about to break the very same vows that I would soon be making. 

I’m not saying all of these things to paint my parents in a negative light. I love them both dearly, and I don’t believe that their divorce has affected my relationship with either of them in a negative way, and for this I thank God. However, their divorce has caused me to self-reflect about my imminent future and the commitment I am about to enter into. These are some of the questions I ask myself:

Do I fully know what I am getting myself into?

Am I prepared to love my spouse more than I love myself?

Am I able to learn from my parents’ mistakes and the mistakes of those around me and not in turn repeat those same mistakes in my own marriage?

Will my own selfishness be the demise of my marriage?

I want to be able to love my wife with a reckless abandon. I want to make her the queen of my universe. I want to treat her like there is no one else living on this planet besides her, even if it means giving up every dream or desire of my own just to make her happy for even a moment. I want to see her as the treasure that she is each and every day. I want to be able to love her, serve her, and provide for her like she deserves. But I know that I cannot do any of these things without Christ. It is absolutely impossible. He must be the center of our relationship, and the model for everything we do. He is the reason for our marriage. It is for His glory and His glory alone. 

I don’t want to make the same mistakes my parents made, but I may. Maybe not all the time, but I’d be a fool not to acknowledge the fact that I am a sinful human being in desperate need of a Savior. I know there will be trials. I’ve been told that by more than enough married people. I just pray that in the midst of those trials, when I am faced with the choice to either love myself or to love her, that I would make the right choice. That I would keep our love for each other in perspective and not get overwhelmed by the circumstances. That Christ would be glorified in my marriage. Our marriage. 

I pray the Lord would give us strength. Strength to love and care for one another always. I pray that He would give us grace. Grace to forgive when it’s the most difficult to. And I pray that he would grant us long life, that we can learn from the examples of my dear parents’ thirty-two years of marriage, and be gracious enough to give us thirty-three and more.

The Current State of Popular Music (a.k.a. My Bleeding Ears)

The current state of popular music is in bad shape to say the least.

Many of you who know me may think of me as somewhat of a music snob. That’s not to say that I have the widest musical palette of anyone you may know, but I certainly do listen to and appreciate a wide variety of music. Country, both modern and classic (George Strait is hands-down my favorite, perhaps in any genre of music), pop (think Michael Jackson), classic rock (I grew up on classic rock. My parents used to throw these big parties in our backyard, or really whoever had an available backyard, and the music at these parties was anything from Boston, Bad Comapny, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Peter Frampton, to Nirvana, Metallica, and Stone Temple Pilots. I still love this genre of music, however, it doesn’t relate very well with most of my close friends, which makes me sad), R&B (this one surprises many of those who know me fairly well. I realize that I don’t strike very many people as “soulful” or what have you, but I can’t resist a good Usher, John Legend, or Alicia Keys tune), jazz (ranging from Miles Davis to Kenny G), classical, and of course, the ever-ambiguous genre of indie music (which I must confess, I am in love with, if for no other reason than that it allows the artist to record and express their musicality however they’d like to without the restrictions or pressure of a monster record label breathing down their neck).

Music connects with me on a level that very few other things do. In fact no other form of entertainment even holds a candle to music as far as I’m concerned. TV, other than for sports, I absolutely hate. Art I can appreciate sometimes, but mostly I don’t get it. I’m just not the guy who’s going to be standing in an art museum staring at an obscure painting of who knows what, stroking my chin and saying things like, “Hmm. I love the subtle greens mixed with the bold yellows. It really speaks to me. It makes me feel alive.” Movies I do really enjoy but ultimately I could take them or leave them if it came down to it.

But music?

Music I can sit and listen to for hours on end. Two hours can pass by and it’ll seem like just minutes. In fact, there have been a number of occasions when I’ll get home from work and just sit in my car and listen to music, most of the times so I can finish the song I’m listening to ,but often times it turns into a good half hour or so of leaning my seat back and just relaxing to some good music (not finishing a song to me is like having a sneeze or a yawn cut off short; it’s just not right). Also, sometimes I just hop in my car with no particular destination in mind just to listen to music on my car stereo rather than on my laptop. Music stirs up emotions in me that few other things in this life do, some not so good if the music is awful, and others much more positive and excited if the music just so happens to be blowing my mind. Music somehow seems to express feelings and emotions that I often wish I could but never seem to be able to. Music is, to say the least, a very big part of my life.

With that being said, I hate the majority of music today.

Ok, perhaps that’s a bit on the dramatic side. I just said that to get your attention, really. However, itis a partial truth. Let me explain.

A much more accurate statement would be, I hate Top 40 radio.

I think 95% of the music played on Top 40 radio is just plain garbage, for many reasons, such as:

1) The overall lack of musical variety. It all sounds the same. And I don’t say that just because I don’t like it. Just compare today’s Top 40 with Top 40 from as recently as 10-12 years ago. You could at least turn on KISS 1-0-whatever and hear two, three, maybe four different genres of music. Now what do you have? Rap and dance pop or whatever you want to call it. Male or female, band or solo artist, it doesn’t matter. They all produce the same kind of music. Occasionally you might get a Nickelback or a Daughtry song, but that’s a whole ‘nother story for a whole ‘nother blog. What ever happened to originality? I guess this culture’s need to fit in has translated to the musical realm as well. No one wants to step out and do their own thing, and if they do, it certainly doesn’t get played on the radio (which, as a partial Hipster I must confess, is ok with me, and possibly defeats the purpose of this entire blog).

2) The sheer repulsiveness of the lyrics. I know I shouldn’t be, due to the ever-decreasing state of American morality, but I am shocked every time I make the mistake of listening to a current popular song or, Lord forbid, a music video. Perhaps I’m just entirely too naive. I realize that levels of morality cannot be compared between decades or generations, as easy as this is to do when one is fed up with our current generation and their filth. I mean, we all know how pure and innocent the 1950’s were, right? But in light of who Christ is and what He has done, this is a vain effort to justify our own sinfulness and shortcomings by comparing our seemingly harmless sins with ones that we deem to be greater in others.

Maybe what I’m referring to more specifically is a general decency. For instance, when I hear most of today’s rap and hip/hop, I can’t help but to think of Boyz II Men’s first single Motownphilly, where, in the opening seconds, you hear one of the guys say something like, “It don’t matter, just don’t curse”. We are a far cry from at least that level of decency. Sex, adultery, promiscuity, lust, greed, violence, pride, and even hatred are the overall themes of not just a few but seemingly most songs today. It is absolutely glorified and made out to be something that is normal and accepted. It’s to a point where, even if I did like a lot of the music played on the radio today, I couldn’t consciously listen to it.

3) The astounding deficiency of musical talent. Now, I’m not going to be that guy who makes a blanket statement and say that no one in the popular music industry today has any talent. That would be false and arrogant. There are plenty of people who are innovative artists and producers who are beneficial to music as a whole. However, what I will say is that the sheer volume of “musical artists” today who are overwhelmingly under-talented is shocking. This, I think, is due to the fact that music today is just as much, if not more, about entertaining than it is about actual musical talent. It’s about putting out the next big hit, not skillfully crafting an entire album of work that can be treasured for generations. Just about anyone these days can put some nonsense up on YouTube and become a superstar virtually overnight. Auto-tune anyone’s voice and the fact that they can’t actually sing a single note on key becomes irrelevant.

A few years back, a friend of mine who was a songwriter and had spent some time in the recording studios of Nashville, told me that he had the chance to see Kenny Chesney in the studio and said that nearly every single note he sang had to be digitally enhanced because he was so far off key. Simply stunning.

In light of all of this, I have almost completely given up on popular music. “There’s no hope”, I’ve thought to myself. “If Lady GaGa, Katy Perry, and Ke$ha are the best we’ve got, then I’m done” (speaking of Lady GaGa, this is one of my favorite interviews of all-time by one of my favorite artists, Ray Lamontagne, giving his thoughts on Lady GaGa). However, I would be completely remiss if I did not acknowledge the fact that an incredibly talented artist by the name of Adele just recently won six Grammy awards, or that her album “21” has been at or near the top of the charts since it released in January of 2011. Some other mentionable independent artists who’ve shared considerable mainstream success over the last year are Mumford & Sons and Foster The People, both of whom I am a huge fan. However, other than these few artists that I’ve mentioned, who actually have legitimate talent, I’m still not so sure how confident I am that modern popular music will either produce or highlight talented artists such as these. It seems that for the time being, it matters not so much about recognizing talent, but rather about putting out the next number one hit. The musical artists’ reputation is no longer about their musicianship or vocal talent as much as it is their ability to sell product and entertain the masses.

Perhaps I’m too much of a purist. So shoot me. I like quality music. Maybe I’ve just been wanting to soapbox about how much I hate music on the radio these days and how it’s all garbage. In fact, that’s pretty much verbatim of what you’d hear me say six days out the week. And if you just so happen to catch me on that seventh day, I may be willing to hear any opinions you might have about why I’m completely wrong on the subject. Otherwise, I’ll simply smile and nod as I put my earbuds back in and crank up some Amos Lee, Bon Iver, or Passion Pit.

Have a nice day.

Appendicitis: A Saga

Just recently, I had my appendix removed.

I also have no health insurance.

I feel like I could end this blog with just those two sentences and give you, the reader, a perfectly good idea of the entirety of this so-called saga of mine. However, for the sake of (hopefully) a good read, I’ll fill in the blanks for you.

It all started last Monday, December 26th (at least that’s when I started feeling it. When exactly an appendix decides to get blocked/clogged/stop working/burst I actually haven’t a clue). It had been a nice if not lazy Christmas weekend, and I was not looking forward to going back to work after three days off. It was about 5 P.M. when I started having a bout with indigestion. This happens fairly often thanks to one of the weaker genes in my family (this aside from the apparent bottom-of-the-barrel portion of height genes I also inherited. I’m not bitter, I promise). We all have some sort of digestive problem. It’s ok though, don’t feel bad for us. We’re used to it.

I thought nothing of the sudden onset of indigestion, aside from the fact that I thought it was probably caused by my drinking of two cups of delicious Mocha Mint coffee on an empty stomach. We all make mistakes, what can I say?

The indigestion persisted over the next few hours, and then began to mix with feelings of intense hunger. My previously established nighttime plans with my pal Aaron led me to the timelessly classy dining establishment we all know by the name of Buffalo Wild Wings. Little did I know that that one small dining decision would henceforth add to my ever-increasing misery and lead me to later write the following list of complaints/regrets:

1) For the love of all things good and decent, if you have indigestion, please, feel free, nay, obligated to change your dinner plans to anywhere other than Buffalo Wild Wings!!!

2) Buffalo Wild Wings has easily usurped all other restaurants as the most consistently disappointing and frustrating place to eat. It is the single most expensive default sports-watching hang out spot in the history of sports-watching hang out spots. Excuse me? Fifteen dollars?? Are you joking me right now?! ALL I ORDERED WAS A BASKET OF WINGS AND A BASKET OF FRIES!!! I didn’t even order a drink, I got water!! And I still have to leave a tip!! I could’ve gotten a lovely steak dinner at another restaurant for the same price, a place where the clientele actually know and practice at least one or two of the universal rules of proper social etiquette and where you actually get consistent service from the wait staff for the entirety of your visit. And yet I keep going back. If only I had ESPN…

In hindsight, this was not one of my best decisions ever. Perhaps worse even than the aforementioned coffee-on-an-empty-stomach decision, but that’s neither here nor there. After this dreadful dinner, Aaron and I went back to his place to enjoy a couple of Christmas cigars, compliments of my brother Tommy. This is normally quite an enjoyable experience, one that I always look forward to and cherish. However, the persistence of the pain in my stomach permitted me from enjoying it this time. I had to go home as soon as I possibly could.

I went to bed at about 11:30 P.M. hoping the pain would then subside. It did not. I was wide awake by 1:30am in even worse pain. I began experiencing a sharp pain in my lower abdomen and pretty soon thereafter I could not even find a comfortable spot to rest in. After over 8 hours of discomfort and pain, I knew something wasn’t normal.

After about an hour and a half of waiting to see if the pain would pass (it didn’t), I began to suspect appendicitis, not because of any depth of knowledge concerning human anatomy, but because my brother had once had appendicitis and the symptoms I was having sounded similar. I then called my brother to try to confirm the symptoms I was having and sure enough they matched.

“Now what do I do?”, I thought to myself. “I hate hospitals. That’s the last place I want to go. They smell funny and they give me the creeps. But if I don’t go, I literally might die.” So I called my [hopeful] future sister-in-law Jennifer to ask her where I should go. “Not Methodist” was the sage bit of advice she gave to me. She then sent her husband, also named Chad, to pick me up and bring me to Baylor Medical Center.

As it turns out, 3 A.M. in the Emergency Room is only slightly creepy, however, there wasn’t really an ounce of emergency in the whole place. Perhaps “Slightly More Concern Than Normal Room” is more accurate. If my appendix had been looking for an opportunity to burst, that would’ve been an ideal time. I waited about an hour before I was actually seen by someone. Following that initial check-in, every subsequent event, including being led to a room, checking vitals, taking blood, getting a CAT scan, and the final diagnosis, all took from 3 A.M. to about 9 A.M..

One particularly unnerving event took place after I had been in my room for about an hour or so. After having seen 2-3 nurses, male nurses and whatever other kind of nurses there are, a sweet, middle-aged lady came in to gather my personal information, such as my name, address phone number, you know, the usual. What I did not expect was for her to basically tell me that she would not leave my room until she had collected a check or credit card payment from me for use of the emergency room. “Excuse me!? I don’t even know what’s wrong with me yet! I haven’t even seen a doctor yet! You people just told me to take all of my clothes off like ten minutes ago and you already want a payment!?” There aren’t too many places in the world where you have to pay someone else to take your own clothes off. Needless to say, I felt that all of that nonsense was pretty intrusive.

There are many more boring details that I could write about to describe my hospital/surgery experience, but in order to keep you from leaving this page out of sheer boredom, I will sum it all up with a few random thoughts compiled in the following list:

1) Tryptophan has got nothin’ on Anesthesia. I could’ve slept for days had they let me.
2) One of the best things about surgery are all the fresh-out-of-the-drier blankets that you get. Also, being wheeled around while laying in bed brings lazy to a whole new level, but it’s awesome!
3) I really like the idea of having an intercom system built-in to my bed. I’m going to see if I can use this idea somewhere in my future.
4) In case you’ve ever wondered what it feels like to pee liquid fire through a needle, look no further than a friendly encounter with a catheter. Easily one of the most painful events of my life.

Thankfully I only had to spend one creepy night in the hospital. Even though I was on a completely liquid diet post-surgery, and even though the doctors had recommended no greasy or fried foods for the next few weeks, my morning-after hospital breakfast was none other than bacon, scrambled eggs, and hash browns. Yeah, it didn’t really add up to me either. I barely ate any of it.

Upon my release from Baylor Medical Center, I went home and laid on my couch. I didn’t leave it for a week. I just laid there. I couldn’t bathe for at least four days. I barely ate. And I watched a ton of movies (in no particular order: The Money Pit, which I recently purchased in order to come closer to my goal of owning every major Tom Hanks film, with the exception of a few morally reprehensible ones; Rio Bravo, which is an old-time Western starring John Wayne and a drunken Dean Martin; Tombstone, which, next to Heath Ledger as The Joker, features my favorite character role of all-time with Val Kilmer playing Doc Holliday; Memphis Belle,  which is an early ’90’s WWII film which my roommate described as being “like Sandlot except in the context of World War II”; and The Shawshank Redemption. Twice. I had never seen it before. It blew my mind. It is now one of my favorite movies of all time). Sounds like the ideal life of a bachelor, except in less than ideal circumstances and minus the not eating part. After the first few days of mostly lying around and sleeping, I began to get a bit stir crazy. All I wanted to do was to be able to walk normally (although having a legitimate reason to use a cane doesn’t come along very often, so I made sure to take full advantage of that), not have to pee sitting down anymore, be able to eat a cheeseburger again, and to go back to work. Within a week, I was indeed back at work, although not full-time and a bit limited. Nevertheless, I was excited to have some sense of normalcy back in my life.

It took some time to get my apartment back into sanitary living condition. Glasses and cookie tins remained on my coffee table for at least a week. Laundry was strewn all over my room. I didn’t sleep in my own bed for about two weeks. Not to worry though. Those things are minor considering the fact that I am still alive. My appendix did not get the best of me. And as I’ve been told numerous times since this all happened, I apparently can be thankful that I will never have to go through this again, because I only had one appendix. Such wisdom. Such insight.

However, I have a feeling that those “words of wisdom” would have never been spoken had I had some sort of heart issue…

I would like to dedicate this memoir to my roommate Ryan, my amazing church family here in Dallas, and my family out-of-state. I have been overwhelmingly blessed by all of you. Ryan has absolutely been the most incredible friend I could have ever asked for through all of this. Aside from being married or having my own mother here with me, I wouldn’t have chosen any other person to be here with me to look after me. He spent the night with me in the hospital, sleeping on one of those stupid chairs that folds out into a bed. He took multiple days off of work my first few days back from the hospital to be with me and make sure I was taken care of. He helped me sit up and walk around, brought me food and drink when I needed it, and just anything I needed, and he did it all with a joyful heart and a completely selfless attitude. What a blessed man I am for knowing him.

My church family as well as my immediate family has blessed me tremendously in the area of financial support. I was completely humbled by their incredible generosity. After all was said and done, it was literally like I hadn’t missed a single day of work. I cannot say thank you enough, nor explain how much worry that your generosity has relieved me of. Thank you all so very much, and may the abundant blessings with which you have so richly blessed me with be returned unto you.

-Chad 

Wal-Mart

Is that even legal? Can I just name a blog entry after a brand name? I hope I don’t go to jail for this. That wouldn’t be a very cool story.

Truth be told I was going to name this blog “Observations” because that’s really all this is, but I didn’t figure a title like that would capture the attention and/or interest of too many people, so I didn’t.

Anyway, last night I waited an illogical amount of time waiting for my roommate to get done with his “band practice” to go eat dinner. I was starving. Also I’ve recently started this no carbs, no sugar diet (which I’m pretty positive is going kill me sooner than it will help me lose weight. I never realized how much I like carbs), so that didn’t help in the least bit either. As I soon discovered, this diet doesn’t cater too well to eating out. You see, the difference between eating healthy and eating like crap is this: eat like crap, spend five bucks, you’re stuffed like a turkey; eat healthy, spend five bucks, you get a cup of water and a bowl of soup the size of a coffee cup, and you’re hungry again before you even finish.

Wendy’s seemed to suffice. They have decent salads as well as eight thousand other menu options, you’d think I’d be able to find something that would be “no carbs, no sugar guy” friendly (the only other fast food place that has more menu options than Wendy’s is Jack-in-the-Box. Good gracious, they should give you four quarters and a halftime when you’re deciding what to order from that place!). I settled on a grilled chicken Go Wrap, which I’m assuming they named thinking that it would be a convenient item for those who are ordering to go. They shouldn’t allow people who are dining in to order those. “Is that for here or to go?” “For here” “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to order that. These are only for our to-go customers. It’s not called a Stay Wrap now is it?”

After I didn’t stuff my gullet at Wendy’s, my roommate and I headed out for Ross Dress For Less to return an item that I didn’t actually buy there but still had a Ross label on it, and on the way there, went out of our way to run over as many of the disgusting, swarming crickets in the parking lot as we possibly could. I don’t understand it. Texas in late September is like the Cricketpocalypse. One cricket actually attempted to jump through my windshield. I swiftly thwarted his valiant effort with one fell swoop of my wiper blade.

After failing to find what I needed at Target (which is a rare occasion, mind you), I was left with the dilemma of the night, and for some, their life. Like an encyclical pattern or a recurring nightmare, it always makes its way back into your life no matter how much you wish it didn’t. When all other options have exhausted themselves, when you’ve gone to an absurd amount of other stores just to avoid it, it somehow seems to come back around to stare us right in the face, leaving us with spine shivers, sweaty palms, and bloodshot eyes. There are no other options. You must go…

The way I described Wal-Mart to my roommate is this: you know that feeling you get when you’re out in public and you have to use the bathroom real bad? There’s no getting around it, there’s no holding it in. You’re gonna have to use it. You also know that feeling you get when you actually step in to that public bathroom, where you try your very best not to touch anything? Where you just feel like there are STD’s floating around in the atmosphere? Where you want to do what you’ve got to do as fast as you possibly can, taking as few breaths as possible in the process, make eye contact with as few people as possible, and leave?

Yep. That pretty much sums up how I feel about Wal-Mart.

It seems that the residual value, as well as the overall cleanliness, level of customer service, and management of any given Wal-Mart store begins to drop the second its doors open for the first time. The ones that you think are so great are going to be the ones you avoid six months later. They won’t have the items you’re looking for; they’ll stop carrying the ones you like; there will be palettes of boxes conveniently located right where you’re trying to get to, making it feel like it’s inventory every day; the aisles will be packed with far too many people, even at 1 o’ clock in the morning; the floors will look like all those calls for “cleanup on aisle 6” have gone unanswered since the Grand Opening; approximately 2% of its 76 checkout lines will be open, which is actually why they have the magazines right there for you to read, because you’ll be waiting for so long, you’ll feel like you’re at the doctor’s office; more than likely, at least 2 out of every 3 of your friendly Wal-Mart employees will be wearing a shirt that is entirely too tight-fitting or too low-cut or pants that hang too low, causing you to wonder if Wal-Mart even has an employee dress code, and their overall lack of customer service skills, nay, awareness as to what it is they are actually there for and what it is they’re even doing, combined with their likelihood of uttering incoherent sentences and/or giving you blank stares upon asking them any sort of product-related question will leave you wondering why you keep coming back.

Enter Homer.

No, not Homer Simpson. Just Homer, the elderly gentlemen manning the electronics department check out counter who’s customer service skills gave me the impression that he didn’t realize this wasn’t the 1940’s anymore. Not that I’m complaining by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, as I told my roommate, Homer was like “the light shining in the darkness” at this particular Wal-Mart.

First of all, Homer actually carded my roommate upon purchase of an rated-R movie. Nobody does that anymore. Then Homer proceeded to strike up a conversation with him about one of his former jobs. At the completion of the transaction, Homer wished us both a good night, and told us to enjoy the movie and that he’d heard it was a great one! I was astounded! Pleasantries exchanged with a Wal-Mart employee!? Personality? Perceived genuine care and concern for the customer? For the first time in as long as I can remember, I left Wal-Mart with a smile, and it wasn’t because the McDonald’s I passed on the way out loves to see me do it (am I the only one who ever called bull on that McDonald’s advertising campaign? They couldn’t care less if I smiled, they just want my money!).

The object lesson here:
1) If you go on a diet, be sure to plan out your meals in advance, otherwise those juicy hamburger ads will suck you in.
2) Avoid public restrooms at all costs.
3) Avoid Wal-Mart at all costs.

Unless it’s after 10, then you have no choice…