Valentine's Day is Overrated

I haven’t always done the best of job at guarding my heart. Actually I’m not even sure what that means, and if I did I doubt that I would know how to do it. There’s a proverb that says to guard your heart above all else, so obviously its an important thing to do. I’m not talking about the muscle that pumps blood through our bodies and keeps us alive, though it is important to guard that too--Thank God for ribs. I’m talking about that part of us that lies at the core; that piece of you and me that gets all warm and fuzzy inside when your mom gives you a hug or your grandpa tells you a favorite story…or when that special someone looks at you and smiles. The heart. If I were to be reduced to my lowest form, like a fraction, what you would have left is my heart.
I think that the problem of guarding your heart lies in the fact that it is complicated, and though it can’t be solved with pen and paper it is sometimes just as complex and confusing as a mathematical equation. So, needless to say, dealing with my heart sometimes gives me the same feeling as doing calculus. I don’t know how and so I get frustrated.
Over the years I’ve had a few run-ins with the opposite sex. I’m not going to lie. I like girls. They’re pretty, they smell nice (girls smell like roses when they sweat), and they flip their hair. Not all girls are pretty by the same standards, some girls smell more like honeysuckle than roses, and some girls have short hair and can’t flip it. However there is one commonality between all females. They’re crazy. You might say that after that last statement that I haven’t learned much because that statement will most likely get me in trouble with the opposite sex. Allow me to explain.
My friend Courtney Vallentine, who is actually a guy, is one of my favorite people in the world. I believe that if you gave him a pirate ship with a crew of ninja turtles and nothing but chocolate milk to drink, he’d be happy. He’s a child at heart and loves the Lord. We share the same view on many things in life and he is one of my closest friends. Courtney Vallentine has a theory. I’m not sure if he made this up or if he got it from someone else, but either way I like it, and after telling him another sad sob story one day he told me this, “Bryne, guys are like waffles and girls are like spaghetti.” Yes. That makes perfect sense. He went on to explain to me what he meant. “Its like this: guys put things in categories. We put things in sections. When we see a girl we put them into a box of some sort. Like the little boxes in waffles. Your mom goes in the mom box along with grandma and your auntie. Your sister and that girl next door that you’ve known ever since you were able to remember go in the friend box. Then there are those girls that go into the girlfriend box. Every girl you ever meet will go into one of those boxes, and once they’re put there they can’t be moved easily. Kind of like syrup. Once you pour the syrup in and let it soak, it doesn’t really leave whatever box you put it in…until you eat it.” He looked at me with a smirk. “I’m hungry now buddy.”
“As odd as it sounds it makes sense my friend. Now tell me the spaghetti part. I want to know what that’s about.” My mouth perked up at the corners while thinking of the possibilities.
“Oh that one is easy. They’re absolutely bonkers.” He looked up at me with a smile and I nodded in agreement. “Their thoughts are tangled up and connected everywhere and to everything. Just like spaghetti noodles you know?” He twirled his arms together in front of him to illustrate this. “You can’t just pick out one noodle, you have to twirl the whole bunch together. We should order pizza. I’m feeling ninja turtle.”
I tell this story only to prove a point. Guys and girls are hopelessly different. Neither Courtney or I have the best of track records when it comes to girls (although he is now married...so he figured something out), and we are far from being any sort of experts on the matter, but I do think that he was onto something there. Not all guys are exactly like this, and girls, like the illustration showed, are definitely anything but understandable. I believe that this is ultimately where a lot of problems in relationships occur. This gap. This total disconnection of understanding from the opposite sex. We are attracted to each other, but completely unable to understand each other at times when it would be most beneficial. We’re not even in the same meal category.

***

My friend Courtney played a trick on me once. It was very creative, completely random, and quite thoughtful. I remember getting done helping out with a youth group, where I had most likely thrown a child or three into the sand of the volleyball courts, and then consequently got tackled in retaliation, when I walked out to my truck to head home. As I walked up, pulling my pockets out to empty the sand in them, I noticed that the hood was covered in brightly colored candies. I got a little closer and realized they were the Sweetheart Conversation Hearts. I searched everywhere for a note or a letter to explain who had sabotaged my truck like this, and I found nothing. I drove home without removing any of the candies thinking that they would fall off by themselves.
After a little bit of investigation on the matter I learned the next day that Courtney had done the dirty deed in hopes of framing a certain girl that I was dating at the time. It had worked long enough for me to return fire on her by putting Almond Joys on her car the next day. Anyway, I am very lazy and I forgot to clear off all the candy, and a few days later it rained. Then, within 10 minutes after the rain, (dang that New Mexico weather) the sun came out and baked the candy onto the hood of my truck.
I tried to pull off each candy heart and found them more than a little stuck. I gripped a little heart with my fingertips like a vice and strained with all the might my hands could, all the while growling at the stupid saying on the heart, “True love doesn’t let go!”. Finally, with a surprisingly loud crack, the heart flew off and I fell onto my butt in my driveway. I got up and rubbed my rear end and looked at my truck hood. A perfect green heart shape remained on my truck.



A pastor once said that the way dating works is horrible. He talked about how the average American has at least 5 major relationships before marriage. That can’t be healthy, because in each relationship a piece of your heart gets left behind and that by the time you get married you can’t even give your whole heart to your spouse because 5 chunks of it have been left with 5 different people. As I listened to his sermon on the topic I didn’t believe him. I didn’t want to believe him. I’ve been in 3 major relationships already and the possibility that I’ve left 3 pieces of my heart behind scares me. However, as I stood looking at the crusted up green heart shape left on the hood of my truck I realized that maybe he was right.
But I started thinking about hearts and them being broken. And I thought about the fact that no matter how hard we try they keep getting broken…it’s either that or we harden them until they don’t feel anything. I thought about all of the things in this world that break our hearts--failed relationships, tragedy, dreams that don’t come true…the list is essentially endless. I thought of all the ways girls are crazy, and guys are dumb and how that mixture fails. And that when they do get together it usually ends up with broken hearts. And then I thought about how people like to say that Jesus fills the hole in our hearts….and that doesn’t sit well with me…because even so my heart gets broken. I don’t think that is the right metaphor to be used.
In fact, I’d venture to say that that metaphor is wrong…even if it is well intended. I think our God is bigger and better than that. In Ezekiel 36:26, God issues a promise: “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” I like that better. Because God has fulfilled that promise-- 1 Peter 2:24 “He Himself bore our sins in His body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; by His wounds you have been healed.” Its because of this miracle--That God loved us and chose us--that we can move forward and press on. God not only saved us, but He renewed our hearts…and continues to do so.
So if you find yourself like me…unable to guard your heart…unsure of how to. Worried that it may be broken beyond recognition or repair, join Paul in this cry: “Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.” Turn to Him. You won’t regret it. God is good--He will be your eternal Valentine.

Remember

Sometimes I think that I should've been born in the 80's—okay, so I WAS born in the 80's, but I wish that I'd lived to remember most of them. As it is I was only alive for 3 of those glorious years. But looking back at the pictures of my parents in the 80's; the hair, the colors, the cars—the shorts—it just makes me wish that I grew up then. And oh the music! There's something about hair-metal that grips me. I love the falsetto screams and guitar solos that ripped through the airwaves back then. If only I were alive for the 80's.

That being said, I thoroughly enjoyed the music that was played on the radio at work today. Someone in the back switched the radio from the pop-station with its incessant looping of Kesha, Lady Gaga, Lil' Wayne, and Justin Beiber, to the classic rock station. I was so happy. All day I sang along to bands like Def Leppard, Chicago, and Foreigner—but what really got me thinking was Journey. The song “Lights” came on, and for that 3 minutes and 11 seconds I stopped. I walked back to the break room and simply stopped to listen. It was beautiful. “Whoa ooohhh oh oh oh. When the lights, go down in the city, and the sun shines on the bay—ooh I wanna be there, in my city!” Those words played over the soft buzz of talking and the loud clinking of dishes in the kitchen at Cracker Barrel, and my heart sang the words along as my mind travelled back to when I was a kid in the truck with my dad on the way to Bonita Lake in Ruidoso. It made me think about all the good times I had with my dad and brother in the past—all the wood-hauling trips. The trips to Allsups. The smell of sawdust. My dad. His mustache. And I found myself smiling in the breakroom—simply reminiscing of those days when a trip to the lake with my dad was the one desire of my heart. PB&J's and Coca-Cola and orange powerbait. The smell of fish. Getting a nibble on my pole and reeling in moss-covered sticks. Getting nibbles on my pole and actually reeling in fish. My Mickey-Mouse pole. Dakota falling into the lake. Catching crawdads. Memory after memory flooded me as I sat in the breakroom and it was all I could do to keep from crying out of joy. I love my dad so much.

And it dawned on me that remembering things is a good thing. I'm not talking about having a good memory, but I'm talking about not forgetting the things that have passed before. The things that have occurred to make us who we are today. I think that we sometimes shy away from remembering things of the past because as fallen creatures we go too far and begin to live in the past rather than just remembering. But its important to remember things—in fact God mentions rememberance over and over again in His word: (Deuteronomy 5:15) “Remember that you were slaves in Egypt and that the Lord your God brought you out of there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm.” And again, (Deuteronomy 7:18) “But do not be afraid of them; remember well what the Lord your God did to Pharaoh and to all Egypt.” (Isaiah 46:9) “Remember the former things, those of long ago; I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me.”

We tend to forget where we come from. We tend to forget what it is that made us who we are. When my dad calls me just to tell me that I have a bill to pay, or he calls to tell me to check the oil in my car. Or he calls me and tells me that the news says the roads are icy—instead of getting annoyed at these things I should remember that he loves me. Remember the time that he saved me from the port-a-potty because the door locked and I was too short to unlock it. I should remember the time that he carried me inside when I busted my knee. I should remember the countless times he baited my hook for me. Remember the hours he spent playing catch with me. The countless times he read stories to me at night.

I think that's why God always tells us to remember what He's done. To look back at the wonders of His power. To look back and remember it was Him that carried us through our troubles. And to remember that it is He who delivered salvation. This is why I will daily surrender to this one memory—I will daily remember this: (1 Corinthians 1:22-24) “Jews demand miraculous signs and Greeks look for wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified: a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those whom God has called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God.” I will remember that it was His body on that tree—broken for my transgressions—and I will remember that it was He that rose from the grave—it is Jesus that loves me.

Neverland

A blast from the past...something I wrote a few years back and have been reminded of since I got back from taking my own youth group to Lone Tree. Enjoy.

I’ve found Neverland. Its just as magical as you may imagine. The food is wonderful, your imagination is one of the most practical things you can own there, kids are often seen chasing bunnies, and fun is practically a requirement. However, its not found by following the second star to the left and on ‘till morning. It’s closer to second mountain to the left, down the dirt road ’till morning.

***

The rain is coming down, softly pattering all around the Capitan Mountains and making a pleasant noise to all who can hear it. I take a deep breath, my nostrils seeking the fresh smell of rain, but they are only greeted by the smell of horse manure and mashed potatoes. As I sit in the rodeo arena at Lone Tree Ranch, I am struck by what an odd sight I must be; Much like a Lost Boy.

***

I am sitting cross-legged in a puddle of poop-water-mud in the middle of a rodeo arena, wrapping ropes used for a game called “Human Foosball.” I finish one set of ropes and move on to the next, taking care to move around an extra-poopy puddle, and I plop down in the mud next to another set of rope. I sigh, and wipe mashed potatoes off of my blue water-polo cap, grateful that it was so good at repelling food from my hair and ears, and then begin to deftly wrap rope again. I take note of the stains that the bottoms of my cowboy boots are making on my camo shorts as I think with a smirk, “I wish my mom could see me right now.”

***

For the past two years, I’ve spent my summers at Lone Tree Bible Ranch. When I first decided that I wanted to work there I had absolutely no idea what I was in for. I just remembered going to the camp on winter retreats as a kid and climbing on the rock-wall and drinking hot cocoa. I learned how to ride a horse there.

***

^{I’ve always been that kid that follows the crowd. I remember in 5th grade it was the coolest} thing if you owned a yo-yo. We’d spend all recess learning tricks like walk-the-dog, the pendulum, and the high wire, all of which were extremely cool, and required skill of the most extreme sort to perform. I couldn’t do any of those, but I could make my (cheap) yo-yo go to sleep. My best friends Ryan and David were naturals and they led the recess yard in yo-yo skills; I followed along and became cool by association. I saved my allowance for a month so that I could get the best yo-yo on the market; it cost $20. I remember finally getting my awesomely neon-yellow yo-yo, and bringing it to school, only to realize that Ryan and David had moved on to hackey-sacks. I was devastated. Twenty bucks was no small amount to an 11 year old. For a month afterwards, hackey-sacking was the pastime of choice. One day Ryan called to tell me that he had just beaten the high-hackey score by ten. The new record stood at 327. About an hour later David called to inform me that the newest record was 340 hacks. My personal high score was 10.

***

I get up and throw the ropes over my shoulder, grab my battle savvy, potato and mud stained flag, and begin to walk down the road to the program office. On my way I pass a gaggle of girls talking incessantly and giggling like mad. I wave as I walk by, “Coo-coo cachoo!” And I am greeted by more giggles.

Oh middle school.

Middle school was a rough time for me as well. Following the crowd didn’t phase out for me in middle school. In fact, it probably flared up even brighter; Bleaching your hair was very cool. I did that. It was also cool to buy pizza at lunch and embarrassing to bring your own lunch, so of course I begged my mom to give me money everyday. Watching 'Friends' on T.V. was definitely in. Oh yeah, and Bod Spray was awesome, and much to my family’s nostrils’ displeasure, I practically bathed in that stuff.

I was lost among the throngs of kids; Lost in the endless system of who’s in and who’s not. I was growing up too fast and the faster I grew up the less aware I was that I was lost.

Like Neverland, Lone Tree tends to draw a certain kind of kid. Most of them come to camp looking for adventure. We provide that by the truckload. Some of them come because their friends invited them. Many come because they have a crush on someone else that’s already going. There are a lot of kids that come through camp that are caught in the same system I was; Lost Boys arrive at camp every week.

I think it was the summer before I became a senior in high school when I realized just how lost I was. I realized it at a camp called M-Fuge. M-Fuge is a place for youth groups to come together in a big city and do volunteer work for the community, and it’s amazing. That year I worked in the Children’s Ministry group for 6-8 year olds. Up until this point I had been sailing along, steadily becoming a pirate lost in the system.

There was a little boy that I was in charge of who had a bit of an attention-span problem; He didn’t have one. We were supposed to make a macaroni-Noah and the Ark which meant glue, macaroni, and focus to a certain degree. I had been working with this six year old for a few days and I knew that this would be a difficult task. We brought in our kids, sat them down, set out the paper with the dotted lines, set out the supplies, and began. Well, before we began we cleaned up the macaroni that was spilled nearly instantaneously, and then we began. I learned that day, that you never ever let a 6 year old with A.D.H.D. hold the glue. I washed that glue out of my hair later that night and the night after that, and again when I got home. The point is, that 6 year old boy got the macaroni Noah finished, and it was beautiful, and he gave me a monstrous hug before I left that day and said that he had fun.

I sat on my bunk that night thinking about the day’s events, and realized that the old me wouldn’t have been able to handle that. The old me wouldn’t have even tried to tackle the situation of the hyperactive boy with glue and macaroni. I realized in that moment that I was stronger than I had been. I realized that I mattered and that I could get things done

One of the Lost Boys found his way to Lone Tree a few summers ago. His name was Trevor. He was quiet and composed but mainly the guy was just shy. He was in 7^th grade, and he had come to camp with a friend, he told me, because it sounded cool. We hung out all week. He was in my group that I lead, and he seemed to think I was cool. I found out that he was scared of heights, and then talked him into conquering that fear by challenging the Alpine Tower, a 5-story tall climbing contraption, often referred to as a ‘big jungle gym’. I thought for sure he was going to conquer his fear of heights on that thing, but on his first attempt I didn’t even get to hook him onto the ropes. He fidgeted around for 30 minutes before telling me that he’d try tomorrow because he had to go to the bathroom. That poor kid couldn’t think of anything else to get out of climbing. When he came back the next day, I got him to climb for real this time. Trevor climbed to the first platform, about ten feet up, and told me that his back hurt, and that he wanted to come down; a likely story. He went up again afterwards about 15 minutes later, and when he got to that very same platform again, he froze. He looked down at me with eyes wide from fear and said he couldn’t move. He and that pole became well acquainted that day, as he stood there bear-hugging it with all his might.

“Trevor. Buddy. What’s wrong dude? Is it your back again?” I said, trying to make him feel better about his fear of heights. “Dude, you can totally make it up. You just have to take it one step at a time.”

“I don’t think I can do it. I’m really scared.” Came the reply, muffled by his face being buried in the tower. “I just can’t do it. I’m scared.”

“Listen bro. If you get up to the next platform…or if you even try, I’ll buy you a coke from the hub.”

“Really?” He said as he looked down at me.

“Definitely. Now lets do this. I’ve got you man. You’re not going anywhere but up, and that’s your choice.”

“Okay.” He moved up one foothold. He reached out with a shaky hand and grabbed the next one, and step two was accomplished, but then he froze again. He now stood 11 feet off the ground, and as he looked down at me I knew that he wasn’t going to make it. I also saw in his eyes the only reason he hadn’t come down was because he was lost again. He was scared of heights, yes, but he was more scared of what the other campers were going to say when he came down. He was lost and stuck, both figuratively and literally.

Its moments like these that I live for. My time at Lone Tree has made me stronger and well equipped for these situations. Its times like these that I feel like Peter Pan leading the Lost Boys into a victory against the pirates. Pirates who grew up to be lost in the system.

“Coo-coo cachoo dude! Guess what? I’ll buy you a coke if you make it or if you don’t. Whether you make it up or not. Just like that promise God made in the story we read this morning. Cool?” I call up to him with a smile.

“Really!?” Disbelief was clearly evident in his tone.

“No doubt. Just let Mr. Pole breath again and then sit back in your harness, and I’ll lower you down.” It took him a few seconds, but he released his Kung-Fu Death grip on the pole and came down. “Good job Trev. I’ll find you after dinner tonight and we’ll get a soda together alright?” I then dropped my voice to a conspiratorial tone as he got near, “Thanks for that.”

“What? I didn’t go up all the way.” He answered in dismay.

“Well, you gave me the chance to prove a point about our lesson from this morning. All the others heard that. You just helped teach my lesson buddy.” I said matter-of-factly. “Now take off that harness and put it in the bucket. Its time for dinner. I’ll find you after.”

I’m not the same kid I used to be. I’ve changed and grown. I’m no longer lost. I’ve found, due in no small measure to Lone Tree Ranch, that I’m stronger, smarter, and better equipped for most situations than the younger version of myself could ever have imagined. I don’t need to fit in to be the person God made me to be. In fact, it has turned out to be quite the opposite of that. The person I was created to be is slightly different and more than a little weird and flies higher than most of the lost.

Whether its leading an assorted crew of mid-highers and high-schoolers with mashed-potatoes in hand to wildly attack another team in Potato Wars, falling in the mud in the rodeo arena, kicking a massive kickball at a four-sided goal while locking arms with two 7^th graders, or talking a scared-to-death kid off of a tower, I’ve found that I know who I am now.

I’ve found my place. I am no longer lost.

Its funny that I had to grow up a little to realize that I don’t want to grow up. I am Peter Pan at Neverland, leading Lost Boys to victory.