JoeRamaker's Xanga

Finding the Feeling

Wed, 25 Jun 2008 22:40:21 GMT

What a difference a week makes. Last weekend’s results made the 500 mile drive home from Gillette especially long. A DNF and a fifth didn’t fit too well with our expectations, but somewhere in the main last week I got the feeling. I went into the corner, rolled off the throttle and the car just turned and accelerated like the corner didn’t exist. That is the feeling a driver dreams about all winter. It is the feeling that keeps you entertained while you push yourself back and to the right in the stadium seat during that boring play your friend was in. It is the feeling that means you are half flying, half driving, and getting 100% of your car. It is the feeling of knowing that you are fully alive and at your best and no matter how long you live you will remember that moment like a full moon on a starry night. It is that feeling which had me excited and nervous for the races this weekend in Belgrade and Billings.

As we rolled into Belgrade, my nerves jumped up in my throat and stayed there till I crossed the checks. I haven’t been that nervous since my first few races in a mini-sprint. For some reason I rarely get that anxious anymore. Even when our J&J chassis was glued to the track for hotlaps it didn’t calm me down. It actually made things worse because often when you are fast in hotlaps you can miss the setup for the heat race. I was like a junkie looking for a fix. I had to find “the feeling.” But after the first lap of the heat race, when I went around the outside of Tyler Gable, I knew we were right. The ten laps flew by and we won without a challenge. This gave us the outside pole for the dash. The outside is generally a bad place to start at Gallatin Speedway and the 7 car on the inside of us got a good jump, but I pulled under him down the backstretch and thought I had the lead, until I saw the 22 of Jerry Brey go sliding past in three. Coming around turn one-two I got another great run on the bottom and took the lead onto the backstetch. Entering three I stayed very low and pulled away for the win. Now my nerves were really tight. We won the heat and the dash, how far should we change for the main. After watching the modified main I saw that the bottom was the place to be, so we put in some lower gears and more stagger to be able to hug the inside and get a good run off the corners. This is usually the opposite way to go for a main, but it seemed that getting off the corners was going to be everything. After getting the lead on the initial start for the main I knew things were going good when my crew gave me “big lead” signals after only a couple laps. At lap ten I saw the lapped traffic ahead and I slowed down some hoping not to catch them until the very end of the race. I knew on an open track I would be fine, but I couldn’t delay the inevitable and caught the lappers too quick. Working the bottom I got by four or five of them, but soon found myself trapped between two cars that were battling. I ran under them, into them and all around them but couldn’t pass. So I made the decision just to stick low and if anyone went around the outside I was through. At the checkereds the Oj car made a run around the outside but we squeaked out the win: a clean sweep. YES!!! It was even better that one of our main sponsors Ted Kronebusch of Kronebusch Electric was there and we were all wearing our Simpson gear with his name on it. That makes three mains in a row at Belgrade, the last two have been clean sweeps. I’m starting to love that place.

Moving on to Billings I was much more relaxed. The monkey was off our back. Plus we found a problem that was costing us big horsepower. All year long we couldn’t get the car to turn well and couldn’t figure out why. After we finished our maintenance in Bozeman Saturday morning we started the car and it just didn’t idle right. Now, idle settings don’t just change unless something is wrong so we started looking. We found a linkage had slipped on the injection and the engine was running too rich on the barrel valve. This would explain why the oil has been milkey all year and the car wouldn’t turn. I figure it cost us about 40-50 hp, but we had still won with it by just adjusting the car to make it work. But on the track in Billings it was a completely different animal now that it was leaned down. What a rocket-ship!! We started on the pole of the heat and just ran away and hid. That Ostrich engine is amazing. With the dash cancelled due to poor track management, we were to start on the inside front row of the main. On the outside was Michelle Dodge who had just won her first ever sprint car heat race. As soon as we started the parade lap she starts crowding me down the track into the mud. It was so bad that on the three wide salute to the fans I’m going around the corner sideways to stop from hitting her while I slip and slide through the mud. Sure enough, she keeps pushing me and we bang wheels going into turn one and all the way down the back stretch before the start. Then, in turn three she just turns all the way down the track and pulls right in front of me as the flag man lazily throws the green in a way that you know will be called back. After two tries to get a start off they send us back a row. I still don’t know what she was doing. I understand pushing someone into the mud to get a jump on them, but pushing them into the infield tires is another matter. So we start the race in third with the 7 of Paxton Lambrect on the pole and the 22 of Jerry Brey outside. Brey gets the lead on the start, with Lambrect and me following closely. The track was wicked fast since they had watered just before the main. Fast and smooth was the name of the game and I was able to get by Paxton for second when he got a little too aggressive getting into the corner and lost his momentum. The track was drying fast since it was hard as concrete and the water was only on the surface. As I closed in on Brey the yellow flew for a spun car; you guessed it: Michelle Dodge. On the restart I gave Brey a big slider in turn one and he practically drove off the top of the track to go back around me on the backstretch. For the next three laps we repeated the dance of big slide job until I had him convinced that the bottom was faster. Entering turn one he went low and I railed around him on the outside and promptly pulled away four or five car lengths a lap. Our car was a rocketship, but the track dried so quick that it was getting really loose with ten laps to go. Thankfully everyone was in the same boat with lap times falling off nearly two seconds over the course of the 25 lap main. The last few laps I could still see the “big lead” signal coming from the pits and I was just trying to keep as much momentum as possible. The checkereds were a welcome sight. Another clean sweep.

It’s not very often that you win every race you are in over a two race weekend at two very different tracks. One race won right against the inside of the track, the other won running high and wide on the cushion. It was a great weekend. We had decided to camp at the track and Dad went straight to bed since he had been sick all weekend. I roamed from trailer to trailer looking to celebrate. Nights like these you find yourself with a beverage in hand and one in every pocket as people keep buying you celebratory drinks. At about 2:30 Paxton decides that Phil Deitz and I need to go with him and his friends Jaime and Mike to race four wheelers at Jay Burns house. Paxton is always looking for ways to have fun and to beat Phil and I. So we go out to Huntley to find the party in high gear at Burn’s. Jay is running around with a hat that makes him look like a pirate or drunk farmer, I’m not sure which. I can tell he’s had a few when he kisses me on the check shortly after arriving. Jay has raced since the 90’s and it was him that I beat for my first feature win in 1998 at Belgrade. Somehow I won his respect that night and we’ve been close ever since. He’s a great guy and it was fun to look at all his pictures in his shop and to sign his wall of fame. Meanwhile Paxton can only get one four wheeler to run and Mike decides to tie a kiddie’s plastic wagon on the back. Soon enough the game is to see who can come up the gravel driveway fast enough to turn on the concrete sharp enough to send the wagon and its rider sliding into barrels of methanol or even into the cherry-picker motor stand. That motor stand did a good job cutting Mike’s pants off before they got the other four wheeler started. Then the races began. One lap is from the concrete down the gravel to the pavement and back with cars and corners in between to make it more interesting in the dark. It was great fun, but I got bumped into the irrigation ditch and while I was trying to make up my ½ lap deficit on the driveway’s blind corner Mike and I got into a head on collision at about 30 mph. No serious damage though.

Meanwhile I hear this yelling from across the field. “Jay, your neighbor is yelling at you.” “So?” It wasn’t long until the cops showed up and offered to take Jay in if we didn’t stop, and the party was over. As we got back to the truck at the track the sun was coming up. It was a great weekend. But as a racer, I know you have to celebrate while you can, because next weekend someone else could be the victor and you could go back to being one of the “also-rans.”

Normal Saturday

Sun, 25 May 2008 01:54:12 GMT

The races rained out this weekend in Billings, so I’m left being a “normal” guyfor the weekend. No Smokin’ Joe appearance; just Joe. The guy who needs to pack up his belongings tomove to Missoula, Montana on Monday. The guy who needs to do hislaundry and clean out the fridge. The guy who over fertilized his lawn and,even though he mowed it last week, now needs to rent a hay mower to knock itdown. Weekends at home in the summer are a hard thing for me to get used to.What do normal people do?

So with all these things poking priorities into my mind likeneedles in a voodoo doll I decide to get out my motorcycle. Ah, “Big Black,” my1979 Yamaha 750 Special. She’s a year younger than me, but she doesn’t let meboss her around. Big Black has been sitting in the garage for about two years becauseracing has come first. Like a neglected child she decides to be unruly. Shejust wants some attention. Fuel pours out of her and she sits idling like atractor on its death march. Poor girl. I don’t mind. I’m a sucker for prettygirls and a pouty look.

A couple hours later, well actually more like seven hourslater but I did get the lawn mowed in there somewhere, I find that I have toorder parts. Ebay comes to the rescue with a petcock rebuild kit. A coupletrips to the local parts store net me the silicone, fuel line, and various bitsI need to jimmy something together until my order arrives. Just for fun I buysome carb cleaner. Nothing is too good for Big Black.

Now the day is just about done. Dinner is sounding good butI finally have Big Black ready to ride. “Should I start the chicken on theBBQ?” says Missy as I strap on my best torn jeans, boots and leather jacket.“Yeah, sure. I won’t be long,” I reply in a way that tells her my mind isalready absent. Now, out on the street I reach over and hit the start button.RRRRRRRR. Oh, yeah. Big Black is back in town. She’s a triple. There’s a lot offour cylinder and two cylinder bikes out there, but when you hear a triple youknow it. Eternally caught between a roar and a purr, Big Black makes the soundof a lover’s raspy cry in the heat of passion. Five blocks later we hitseventy-five on the incline heading into the foothills. Sunshine, wind, whitepuffy clouds, black twisting asphalt, the roar of her engine, the roar of myheart, I can’t get enough. Feeling the groove I pass a few other bikers givingthe underhand wave which shows proper respect to the two-wheeled brotherhood.Heck, I even shoot the kid on the scooter some props. Twenty miles later Icrest a hill and stop to look at the view. Green foothills surround me as Ilook down on all the people in their sub-divisions. I bet that chicken is donenow. I don’t want to go back. A date with a two-wheeled hottie is one thing,but dinner is another. I turn home. So this is what normal people do onSaturday afternoon.

Recovery

Wed, 21 May 2008 15:04:54 GMT

Things are moving fast. I flat wore myself out this weekend. Driving late into Montana from Idaho (2am), racing late Friday night (2am), sponsor autograph session + car preparation and late racing Saturday (3AM) before driving home Sunday. I was so busy I must not have ate enough because I lost 3 pounds over the weekend. I think I might have taken a little hit because I have felt like a cold is coming on for the last few days. But that didn't stop me from running in the foothills Monday night and lifting weights yesterday. My preparation for the season paid off as I never got tired or winded during racing. Plus I can't let go of that elusive 165lbs goal. . Only three more pounds.

This weekend was full of drama. Even though I went into it trying to focus on my own stuff, I got caught up in the friendly rivaly with the 39c car right away. We both started in the back of a stacked heat race and after working my way to second I was trapped behind a lapped car. There was a restart when Jason Solwold wheeled Brock Lemely, destroying Lemely's brand new J&J chassis. On the restart I went under the lapper and as I slid high off turn two I see Solwold coming under both cars wheeling me at the same place he had just sent Brock over the backstretch wall. I jammed the brakes and he only got my left front wheel, bending the new Keizer rim. I guess that is what being a professional is all about, you don't give a crap about anything but results, even if it is just for a position in a heat race and it cost a couple amateurs some hard earned equipment. The pass made me so mad I could barely control myself, but I gathered it up after a little cool off in the pits. We ended up having an uneventful main event with a sixth place car which ended up third after three cars dropped out in front of us.

Saturday started as mediocre as Friday. In our heat race the car picked up a big vibration and I could swear the motor wasn't running right. It was painful to watch car after car drive by us on the straightaways when early in the race we were closing on the leader. We looked the car over and found one of the brakes to be very hot, so we took it off thinking it was hanging up. Then we found some large mud clumps in the wheels which we figured caused the vibration I was feeling. But when it came time for the main event I was the first guy onto the track just in case we hadn't found the problem. We hadn't. I pulled back into the pits. As I rolled to a stop one of the crew guys spotted a spark plug making sparks on the outside of the engine. Something in the heat race must have cracked it and it was arcing in a strange way. We never would have found it had it not been dark. So the guys changed it and I pushed off again, being forced to start dead last because of my stop. But at least the engine was running right, but we only had two brakes on the car which cost us some speed on the slickening track.

On the initial start I took a flying run on the outside and by the back stretch had went from 18th to 7th, but a yellow flag caused me to go back. I figured, well there that goes, surely someone saw me go by on the outside and they will go up there now which will block my way. But when I got to the first turn no one was there and this time I got to sixth before the yellow sent me back. The third and fourth time I got similar results. Finally there was a red. The crew came out and told me they heard at least four crews telling their driver to get up top because, "Ramaker is coming up high and really making it work!" At this point we had burned 6 gallons of methanol and never got in a lap. But the track was drying rapidly and my high line was getting more and more hairly loose. We turned some weight and changed a shock to try to compensate but I could see we were set up too loose to last the whole main. Finally the race got started on the 6th or seventh try and I found myself in 5th after the first lap. Eventually I worked my way to third having great battles with the 37 of Kirkland and the 12 of Casey Adams to get the position. Going under the white flag it was Solwold, Lemely (in a XXX chassis the crew had spent all night building), me and Daniel Huson's #73 charging hard as she had just passed Adams. On the last corner I altered my line on entry because I could see Brock Lemely's #4 was slowing. As I went high the 73 charged under me. I didn't give her any extra room and we banged nerf bars as we both closed on the 4 car. With the lapped car of Stuart Selby on the outside of the #4, Daniel turned her car low to pass at the line and I stood on the gas going high to split Lemely and Selby. At the line we were four wide and it took two hours for the official finishing order to be determined via video and photos. I was sure I got second because Daniel had to turn down the track which cost her some momentum. But her dad disagreed. Her mom even told officials that I had said she beat me. I was standing in the pits signing autographs when I heard an official's radio blare out: "The video shows the finishing order to be Ramaker, Lemely, Huson." Then another voice comes on, "Ramaker has said that Huson beat him so that can't be right." "WHAT? I never said that!" I think the confusion might have come from me saying that Daniel had me coming off turn four, but definately not at the line. So I chase down the Big Sky Sprint Director to tell him the truth. When they finally announced the official order at the payout window I guess Husons felt shorted and they let off some steam at the officials, and on me. Daniel's dad, Marc, pointed at me as they stomped off and said, "You guys know who won." I guess it is just one of those instances where people see what they want to see because it is too close to tell otherwise. Even most of the people in the crowd had no idea who got second.

This picture was taken from the video with Huson on the inside, Lemely is the yellow car next to her. I am the yellow car in the middle and right under the flag stand is the white car of Stuart Selby's #33 on the outside.

Basically, the whole weekend we were way too loose without good forward bite. The car just always wanted to kick the rear end out. It fooled us because we were using a standard setup which has given us a lot of success at Great Falls. Somehow we all forgot about some of the subtle differences we have built in to this chassis and halfway home as I crossed into Idaho it finally dawned on me. The way we have the chassis built there is no way our standard setup would work. We had about two inches too much stagger. But we are going to change things for this weekend in Billings and we should be way faster. At the payout window Richard (the owner of Jason Solwold's #39) walked by and I congratulated him on his win. I said something like, "maybe next time we will have something for you guys." He replied that I could be winning if I just had stayed in his car and that I will never beat him with the equipment I have. We each favor different engine builders and chassis builders so I wasn't surprized. I was insulted at first, but when I thought about it I realized that the #39 is in trouble. Their stuff is running right and they are a little faster than us. But our stuff is not even close to its potential and we have so many experiemental pieces on our car that once we get things right we will be way faster. This might be just wishful thinking, but it makes me excited for the next time we run into those guys. You can't be a racer without optimism and the ability to see your future as bright, and I am a racer. But maybe I am just seeing things the way I want to see them. :)

110%

Thu, 15 May 2008 14:10:27 GMT

So this afternoon we leave for the first race of the year in Great Falls, Montana. What was supposed to start in January, which got postponed till March, which got postponed till April, is now going to start halfway through May. I've been working hard on car, driver, sponsors and it has felt like an itch in my brain, as if I have something important to do but can't quite remember if it is done or not - like a dripping faucet for 8 months. I wonder if this psychological buildup is good or bad. Maybe I am just thinking too much. I've been wondering what my competitors will bring, how they will perform. I have to admit I have been thinking about who I will have to beat, their driving styles, and how I can counter their moves. Should I race like them? Should I be calm, amped up, psyched, stoked, smooth? Should I just save the car and try to make it through the weekend so that my new shiny baby will live to race another night? Or should I run it like a rental car since we built it to race and win races?

All this is wrong. There is only one driver who can beat me - Smokin Joe. Racing is a sport where men (and women too I guess) challenge themselves by pushing a car to the absolute limit. It has developed into a favored form of entertainment. But when it gets down to brass tacks, it is about the man, the team, the car all going around the track as fast as possible. If victory is your highest definition of success, you will be a loser more often than not. But, if finding that sweet spot of performance where you have given 100% is your definition of success, then success is truly in your hands instead of the hands of fate. I find myself at smokinjoeramaker.com looking at all the pictures of our crazed smiles in victory lane. 31 times we have hoisted the trophy and given the checkered flag a ride in our sprint car. I can only think of one time where I was sure I was going to wreck, but I made the pass for the win. Only once, out of 31 times, has giving 110% payed off. But I can think of countless times where it hasn't paid off; where I have tired too hard and ended up with a busted race car.

With all this in mind, I know how I must be when I get to the track. I will be in the same mind-set as when I go to the gym, or to the foothills or the river for a run: Determined to leave all the games and stress and press and pomp of life behind and find that mind clearing place where it is just hard work, sweat, a pounding heart, and freedom to stare in the face failure with unflinching resolve and fearless peace because I know that I am there to find my limit and thus find a new definition of myself. That is the place where I am most me, and where I am the best me. That is victory.

Not my words, but I claim them

Wed, 12 Mar 2008 03:46:31 GMT

Have you ever thought of something and before you could market it you found out that someone else already has created it. That's what my blog is this week. I've been sweating life, sweating bills, sweating things that do not deserve an ounce of my sweat. Missy and I were talking last night. We found ourselves wondering what real life is. The answer we came up with: real life is not spent at work. Real life is the rest of your non-sleeping hours. The evenings and weekends are not designed for you to rest up so you can be better at work. Work is designed so that you can enjoy your evenings and weekends without worrying about money. But it seems that most people have that backwards. Most people get so focused on their job that everything else takes second place. At work they stress themselves out, burn themselves out, and mold themselves to a performance mentality so that someone way down the line will have a nice computer program, or so that someone will buy a product that they are killing themselves at some other job to get. Why do we let ourselves get so worked up over a boss who demands that we dance to the silly tune of "my job is my life, the rest is just here for a distraction." So, with this in my mind, today I read a blog at an exercise site I use to motivate myself. The blog is unabashedly a double barrell middle finger to middle American suburban life, but it hit paydirt within me. So just go here if you want to read it:

http://www.gymjones.com/knowledge.php?id=15

We will all have our day in court

Wed, 20 Feb 2008 15:33:29 GMT

I feel like I’ve been in a wrestling match that has gone too many rounds. I’m sick to my stomach. My face is blotchy red, salty with sweat and tears, and my stomach keeps threatening to review breakfast. Oh God…help me. Be merciful.

The source of my struggles is turmoil in my personal life. I’ve been wronged by a man I barely know. He has taken from me, lied to me, convinced others to lie to me, and even though I have confronted him and he agreed to stop, he has tried again to steal away something that he has no right to. I fear that this man may be successful in his selfish and evil attempts. I find myself pleading to God to make this stop. I even find myself thinking of ways to physically stop this man, or to intimidate him from going further by taking matters into my own hands. As a man, and a man from Montana, vigilante justice is a dark and tempting option.

This morning during my devotional time I prayed, read scripture, and while I was reading a devotional book I found my mind wandering. In my head I was in a court of law. I was prosecuting this man. I pled my case before the court. I presented evidence. I made accusation after accusation. I called in witnesses. I made a passionate tear filled statement which summed up how badly I have been hurt. All the while I was thinking that if I presented enough of a case, it would be alright to have this man punished, or that I would be justified in punishing him myself if it came down to that. But somewhere in there God reminded me that He alone is judge. Like Jesus, I am not here to be the judge of others, but to bring mercy and peace. I am to leave judgment and punishment to God. So in my mind I suddenly pictured God as standing before myself and this man as we made our accounts on judgment day. God listened patiently to my story, and after a long pause and a heavy sigh He agreed with me concerning this man’s crimes. The verdict: guilty. The punishment: 40 lashes. I felt so much better knowing that these evil acts against me would be avenged. But then God stood up and said, “This man is a Christian, and therefore my son will take his place for the punishment.”

My mouth fell opened as I watched them bring in Jesus. Stunned, I did not know what to do. I wanted to protest, but the words wouldn’t come out. The blows began to fall. The blood began to flow from Jesus’ back. The flesh was tearing more and more from his body as I finally found my voice, “NO! NO! Jesus, NO!!!!! Stop!!! Stop this!!!” I screamed through tears and sobs. The punisher would not quit. I frantically searched the room for someone to make this stop. Finally, I barked out “I forgive him. I FORGIVE HIM!!!! STOP! STOP, please…” and the lashes ceased. The men took Jesus from the courtroom and I stood staring down at the pool of blood and water that puddle before the judge’s bench. My anger, my desire for vengeance and justice, and my un-forgiveness did this. Jesus, please forgive me. I never wanted to hurt you…

Do Whatever

Fri, 25 Jan 2008 14:59:56 GMT

My prayer this morning:

“How should I live? What direction should I go?”

All my life people have told me, “You can do whatever you want; whatever you put your mind to.” But as I grew up I realized this wasn’t exactly true. Everything has consequences. So, desiring to minimize the bad and maximize the good I decided that what I should do, since I can do anything, is to do what God wants. This seemed simple when I was younger, but has gotten tougher to discern each year. In high school I somehow decided that He wanted me to make some big impact for Him. So I went to a Bible college to become a minister. My high school guidance counselor commented on my decision by saying, “Don’t you want to do something bigger? You have so much potential.” At the time I couldn’t think of anything bigger than saving souls and leading nations to God.

As I moved out of college and into ministry I pushed hard, wanting to see the impact of my work. I had very grand visions of thousands being changed by my “potential.” I always felt lazy if I wasn’t seeing some progress toward my legacy, my destiny. With these giant expectations I became disillusioned within two years and burned out. I moved 180 degrees, no longer wanting legacy or impact or leadership but simply wanting to find peace. But the idea of making my life count, of being remembered, of changing the world still smoldered on in the back reaches of my mind. When I told my pastor that I wanted to race cars professionally he commented, “Don’t you want to do something bigger? Where you are more than just a race car guy? Don’t you want to live up to your God given potential?”

Words like that stroke a man’s ego, while simultaneously back-handing a devastating blow to a healthy definition of success. Potential, I have found, is only fully defined by pushing till failure occurs. So thus I have lived: from failure to failure trying to live a life that will be spectacular in some way; always shooting towards a moving target, disillusionment and manic hard work being my frequent companions. Thus I find myself repeating this morning’s prayer.

The answer God has impressed on me surprises and baffles me a little:

Matthew 6:28 “And why do you worry about your clothes? Look at the field lilies. They don’t worry. Yet King Solomon in all his glory was not clothed as beautifully as they. And if God cares so wonderfully for flowers that are here today and gone tomorrow, won’t he most surely care for you, O men of little faith?”

It is a rare lily indeed that is remembered. Even a field full of lilies gets attention from very few, and even then their image is often soon lost. But God still lavishes creativity and care upon them. He gives them sunshine and rain, bugs and bumble bees, soft velvety petals and long green oxygen producing leaves. They grow, interact with their little world and are gone. Often only God and a few insects know they ever were. Is it really alright for a man to live this way?

Ecclesiastes 9:7 “Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might…”

By man’s standards, there are many insignificant forms of life: the ants who toil endlessly on a few square feet of dirt; the prey animal, like the deer and bunny rabbit, who seek to find enough to eat and try not to be eaten; the fish who swim away each day at the bottom of the sea – all are forgotten by man. But all are precious to God. All are remembered by Him, being known before time began. All are necessary for the cycle of creation to keep spinning. All bring glory to their creator by simply living.

So, in the end I should try to measure legacy by what God thinks and what God will remember. Success is not measured in God’s kingdom by what impresses men. The value of my life comes not from what I do, but from who made it and who it brings honor to.

Proverbs 16:3 “Commit to the Lord whatever you do, and your plans will succeed.”

It seems then, that it is ok to simply be me. It is alright to simply live the gift of life. It is alright to simply know God. It is all right.

Exodus 14:14 “The LORD will fight for you; you need only to be still."

Nehemiah 8:11 “The Levites calmed all the people, saying, "Be still, for this is a sacred day. Do not grieve."

Psalm 37:7” Be still before the LORD and wait patiently for him;

do not fret when men succeed in their ways,

when they carry out their wicked schemes.”

Psalm 46:10 "Be still, and know that I am God;

I will be exalted among the nations,

I will be exalted in the earth."

Zechariah 2:13 “Be still before the LORD, all mankind, because he has roused himself from his holy dwelling."

Sower of Seeds

Fri, 18 Jan 2008 16:05:07 GMT

Shivers: Cold creeps in from outside breaking something brittle, bitter, delicate inside. That door still leaks! I can see light around the edges, but I fear if I open it the light will be a train coming down the tunnel to …well, you know. I couldn’t handle that. Mortal wounds make this man limp. It doesn’t seem right for me to say man and limp in the same sentence; like it is less manly to be injured. In this prison/playground rules world, where signs of weakness might be costly, no one wants to limp. I don’t want to limp anymore. I want to stand at the top of the hill shouting into the wind, being the biggest thing I know. But I am not the biggest thing I know. Try as I might, I still remember those loosing battles where larger forces drug me from the field in a procession of pierced and tattooed captives like a mother pulls her tantrum torn son from the floor of the grocery store. Thin dreamy memories remind me that even a little girl filled with faith is bigger than me. She is connected to the BIG ONE. She gets her strength from the GOD, because she has a little mustard seed in her pocket. Don’t know where she picked it up, or why, but I know it exists. It lives there, putting down roots in the lint and dirt and little scraps of paper in her pocket until it reached down with those long yellow green crooked fingers and changed her very heart. “Hey little girl, where do I get one of those mustard seeds?” comes my gravely, thirsty, unraveled bark. Damn it! Why does self-pity and loss make such a salty snack which keeps me nibbling along? I’m so soul sick that even encouragement causes me to cower in a protective stance. Rage! Rattling these chains I growl deep inside, “Change my mind, change my heart, change my walk even if I limp. Just bring me freedom.” Slamming my hands into my pockets in frustration I feel a little mustard seed.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Mon, 12 Nov 2007 15:00:33 GMT

Seeking sweetness of soul standing silly faced, quizzical at best, I saw a decomposing tree. Art they say in Seattle. Someday I’ll see it again, older both, both closer to dust, both farther in life, both different, and so too will be our impressions. All stand on the border between earth and sky, night and day, light and dark, heaven and hell, past and future, where the wind and sunshine and rainwater of time works to smooth any agitating edges. But in the vacuum of my mind stands an image of you; there in that grey pocket where no elements may strip me of its art. Perfect, always loving, always smiling, dancing down the sidewalk with that carefree laugh that comes out like an uncontrollable cough. Looking back over your shoulder, beaming love out of those blues, filling me with heat from my heart to head. Yeah. Over the years I have looked on that image, felt it, smelt it, let it breath me into new life again and somehow, like a lucky penny, I have rubbed all edges and tarnish off you so you will always be perfect to me; like pancakes and coffee on Sunday morning.

Those who are the hardest to love often need it the most.

Wed, 17 Oct 2007 17:20:27 GMT

Yesterday I was given chauffer duty here in LA. My sister needed to go to Costco, and a few other places in town. So while I drove she sat in the back with her new baby, Alister James. I can tell you, the only thing worse than being caught in traffic on the LA freeways is being caught a traffic-jam of shoppping carts at the Encino Costco with a 50lbs box of water in your arms. But that is another story. After Costco, we went to this little strip mall that had a few stores she needed to stop at. My job was to go to Bestbuy to pick up a couple movies she wanted. On the way into the store a man with a rolling suitcase and a plastic bag full of stuff politely asked if I could help him. I replied, “I can try but I’m not from around here.” I thought he needed direction. He did, but not the way I thought. He explained that he was out of money and hadn’t ate in a while. He wanted to know if I would give him a few dollars. I said sure. Looking in my wallet I found that I had two dollar bills, or two twenties. So I grabbed the two dollars and gave it to him. Going into the store, I was kicking myself.

You see, it was just the day before that I was running and thinking about a story called “A day in the life of Ivan Denisovich.” It is the story of a man in a Russian prison camp. Everyone in the camp battles daily to survive by taking as much as they can and giving as little as they can, except for a small group of Christians. The Christians always give whatever is asked of them. If you ask for their blanket, you get it. If you ask for their soup or bread, they give it. Ivan tells in the story how he wishes he where like them, and he even decides that in his next life he will be like that. However, he cannot overcome the desire to put himself first and do whatever it takes to survive.

In thinking of this story, I was reminded of what kind of person I desire to be. One that doesn’t love money. One that doesn’t love his life to the end. One that doesn’t love the praise of men. One that chooses the narrow path that depends on God, instead of walking the broad path of self-serving survival mentality. Luckily for me, it takes forever to find something in Bestbuy, unless you are buying a $3000 tv, in which case the salespeople will treat you like the king of cyberspace. I had more than enough time to contemplate while wandering amid the sea of digital entertainment. So I was able to decide that if I saw that man outside I would go give him the twenty, and talk to him.

When I left the store, there he was. He was sitting in the shade, looking off in another direction when I approached him. “I realized inside that two dollars is not going to help you, so I decided that this might help,” giving him the twenty. “Please, tell me your story. How did you come to be homeless?”

He looked at the twenty and with big eyes replied, “Oh my God, this is more money than I have had in a long long time. What is my story? Well, if you want the honest truth, it started when I was back in high school. I lived with my Mom, and she was very wealthy. We lived very well."

As he paused to take a breath I was thinking, 'Oh boy, here goes a story about blaming things on a parent.' He continued, "But one day I fell in love with a girl, and she got pregnant. My Mom decided that we could not keep the baby. She told us that she would pay for the girl to have an abortion, give her some money, and pay for her to go away on vacation for six months. I didn’t want that. But my Mom was going to pay for my college and held my whole future in her hands. Still, I told her that we wanted to keep the baby and that I loved this girl. She said, ‘Either you want my help in life or you don’t. You choose to get away from that girl, or get the hell out of my house.’ So, with one dollar in my pocket, and the woman I love in my hand, I left. I worked very hard doing anything anyone would give me. I worked in demolition, as a sue-chef, as a desk-clerk, a traveling salesman. Eventually I was making $120,000 a year for a hotel company and I was very successful. But then one day my wife cheated on me and left me for another man. Here I had given up so much for her, she was my everything, and now she didn’t want me anymore. The divorce was costly and what I had left I gave to my daughter who is now 24 and a student at USC. I then decided to become homeless.”

Eyes full of tears, voice wavering, he continued, “I know I could work again. I know it is in me somewhere to be successful and make money again. But what would I do with it? What is the point of success when everything is pointless. Family, money, love, it all goes away. It is hard being homeless. It is hot, or sometimes it rains and I have to find somewhere to hide. Sometimes I get chased away. I eat a lot of Mcdonalds dollar meals and I have found myself in dumpsters looking for food. I want to work again somedays, but I just can’t find a reason to.”

As he told the story, I knew why God had let my path cross with his. This man didn’t need money. He needed hope. He needed a purpose beyond the American dream, beyond working frantically to serve self. So I prayed with him and I told him, “I don’t know what it is like to go through what you have, but I know what it is like to be heartbroken. I know what it is like to loose what you have worked for, to give up a career, and to loose someone you loved. I know what it is like to have no motivation to chase those things again. I’ve been to that point where nothing makes sense anymore. But someone once told me, ‘Every minute is the end of your past and the beginning of your future.’ Sometimes I have to tell myself that many time a day. I believe that God has a future and a purpose for all of us. He doesn’t let one sparrow, one flower fall to the ground without knowing about it and having a reason for it. He is good, and knows each hair on our heads. Even though I can’t trust myself, I know I can trust Him to show me a future that is worth working for.”

He replied, “God is the only thing that keeps me going. I pray to him all the time.” I’ve worked with people who tell you things like that because they think it is what you want to hear, but I didn’t feel that way. I felt he was sincere in everything he had said. At this point I had to go pickup my sister, so I asked his name, “Mo,” and told him goodbye. He yelled to me as I walked away, “Pray for me!!” I guaranteed him I would.

I feel so blessed to have met Mo. He showed me both my potential to be where he is, and my potential to encourage others with the grace I have undeservedly been shown. Hopelessness rang in my heart the echos of years ago making them feel so recent. I cannot help but fall to my knees recognizing my need to praise God’s mercy which lifted me up when I did not deserve it. I pray that this story lifts you up. I pray that God show you his amazing love and gives you hope for finding new mercy and purpose in Him. God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in Him. Only He satisfies our needs for love and purpose. He is so good.