Are we really in a healthcare crisis?

These are people I have met - who are uninsured, and thankfully, the Dispensary of Hope played a small part in helping them. You won't believe the stories...

A 70 year old man qualifies for Medicare but has to work as the grounds keeper at the town cemetery to make ends meet and still cannot afford Part D Rx coverage. With no hope for retirement, he works full time yet has no employer coverage… and cares for his bed-ridden aging wife, who suffers from several diseases and daily debilitating migraine headaches. Without any other hope or other options, he goes to the Shelbyville Community Clinic who gives him a weekly supply of medicine for his wife– sourced from the Dispensary of Hope. I saw a hard-working man with dirty rough hands; hallow eyes, but a heart made of gold. Most likely he will never travel the world or enjoy afternoon golf as so many seniors do… meanwhile, his wife’s headaches probably stem from a larger issue but they can’t afford the cost of finding out. Harsh realities have robbed them both of their “golden years” - but he did not complain and was so grateful that somebody cared, and someone could help ease the pain.


A 40 year old single mom with 3 kids works full time but has no health insurance – and tries to make ends meet with income below poverty level. Already strained, stressed, and without hope for a happy ending to her financial or healthcare situation, she broke her leg in multiple places last week. In terrible pain, she drove herself to the local ER – but the hospital was in the process of moving locations and the wait time would be up to 8 hours. Despite the agony, she was the only guardian of her children and needed to go home. On the way, she stopped at the local community clinic – which provided pain medicine provided by the Dispensary of Hope. The clinic also called in a favor to a nearby surgery center who reluctantly agreed to schedule the patient for the next morning. After enduring the pain and discomfort of a broken leg all night long, she drove herself to the surgery center only to meet an office manager who acknowledged her appointment time but insisted of a $15 co-pay… on the spot. Embarrassed and undone… the patient did not have $15 – but promised to pay it over a few weeks… but the policy won out over compassion – and this woman was turned away for three five dollar bills. If only the clinic had known how poor the family was, they would have given her the money from their own pockets. Think about it… she was turned away for 3 five dollar bills.


One more…
A 50+ year old homeless man people call “Harley” lives downtown and rides his tattered 10-speed bike to work most mornings. He stands in line in hopes that there is construction work and earns $6 hour with no health care benefits. He gets colds and the flu like everybody does, but six months ago, he broke his right collar bone on a job site. With no workers compensation coverage or healthcare benefits, he hoped the local ER would have mercy on him. He waited for hours with the rest of the paying and non-paying patients in this Metro hospital – all waiting their turn based on triage nurse assessment. 5 hours later, they gave him shots for the pain, but turned him away after he did not have $60 payment to arrange surgery. I have since called the hospital directly and confirmed that they enact this policy. Harley seems like a tough guy, but I can’t imagine the pain of getting back on his 10-speed and riding back to the bridge he slept under at that time. In the following days, Harley approached the local clinics and got more medicine to ease the pain… but he needed surgery. I met Harley 6 months after this incident on a mobile loaves and fish sack lunch delivery and was shocked and appalled when he pulled down his t-shirt to reveal his clavicle (collar bone) was never operated on, still broken, and sticking up about 4 inches from his shoulder. Harley had gone back to different hospitals but was turned away each time and eventually gave up – accepting the idea that he would live the rest of his life with a broken collar bone. He said the pain is only unbearable in the winter – when the temperature gets really cold…

There Is No Medicine Like Hope

Nearly 47 million Americans are uninsured – with 16 million struggling to manage serious chronic diseases like diabetes or high blood pressure – just like the rest of us who are fortunate enough to currently have insurance. Most work at least part time, but as fewer companies offer health insurance, and healthcare costs continue to rise, over 105 million Americans have incomes less than 200% of the poverty level and cannot afford essential medicines. While many communities are trying to provide a primary care “safety net”, nearly 25% of the uninsured admit they have not visited a health professional in the past year, and many just wait till they are sick enough to go to the Emergency Department. One study found that over 30% of Emergency Department visits were non-emergent or avoidable with earlier care – while the system tries to absorb the $40 billion in uncompensated care each year. For those who accessed care, nearly 60% could not afford to obtain the medicine prescribed to treat their condition– and go without. But there is HOPE. To see waht I am working on these days.... go to http://www.dispensaryofhope.org/

The Unspoken Dare of New Orleans

So, this is what a 4-star hotel looks like, feels like. The ATM is encased in wood trim and the elevator interior is plush with raised ornate cloth. In my room, there is a 47inch flat screen TV and rich burgundy, green, and gold colors. The bathroom offers thick towels and a terrycloth robe – which I didn’t wear but was tempted to steal – like I’ve heard about on TV or the movies. The toilet paper was folded to a point and sealed with a gold foil. The king size bed was welcoming with its array of down pillows covered by a royal emblem prominently displayed. The tall window sheers opened into a garden and pool… but the energy lived not inward but outward where the hotel sits, on the corner of Conti and the famous Bourbon Street.

Leaving the clean and pristine environment of the hotel, I walked by the stone fountain and bell men dressed like English royalty and into… the damp, swampy environment of the French Quarter. At first, it smells damp and dark. Then, in come aromas of pastries and kitchen creations including everything from one dollar pizza by the slice to the high end Brennan high dining experiences – and finally the blended mysterious musty aroma that mixes it all together to present an atmosphere unique to New Orleans. Block after block, your ears are filled with competing rhythms of blaring live music – shifting from jazz trumpets to washed up 80’s rock bands and back to blues and dueling pianos. This is where Louis Armstrong’s cheeks puffed on his trumpet and Harry Connick Jr. played as a kid at the Red Door bar. On the corner, 20 young black men pull out their tubas, trombones, trumpets and drums and give the crowd a show – with streaming brass section melodies and harmonies and then pass buckets for donations – like its church.

This is a deeply spiritual place on the surface – but it also feels dark in the deep places. It is a city of above ground cemeteries and voodoo magic. The streets are lined with tarot card readers, posing pirates, and us curious people who come for the color, the rivers of beer, and a wild world without rules or memory. “What are you waiting for?,” the slender doorway girl asks. “No Cover”, the bouncer persuades, lulling us into his affordable trap. Above me, people lean over the second floor iron railed balconies to offer tourists beads if they comply with their unspoken dare. Later, a parade emerges from the crowd complete with floats and bead throwing riders. A group of old women follow behind to declare their freedom from cancer – and clothes - walking topless to display the remnant of their body that cancer failed to take from them. People dance here; they break rules. They declare independence and celebrate everything – fueled by the 4th or 5th or 6th round of drinks – the crowd grows rowdy – and the police grow in numbers to ensure this party does not end up in the morning news. People seem lonely; and I join them in this kindred hollowness. Walking these streets alerts the senses to your essence, your character, and your weaknesses. There is this odd sense of fullness but also emptiness. Everyone seems to be having fun, but each empty plastic cup begs for more, and every neon sign offers false promises. Everybody comes curious, and leaves aroused but even emptier. To me, it says less about this place, and more about us – this wanting congregation. Knowing the outcome, we entertain another drink though we’ve had too much. A 6am wake up call looms, but we walk the strip just one more time. Wedding bands imply fidelity, but one-time invitations in the shadows offer the lie that it’s a calculated risk. If you come here, just understand that you can have great clean fun… but it will also tease your character and sense of self. Know that you will be part of the unspoken dare to take off your mask (or put one on), to indulge, and to join the crowd. At random intervals, you judge the crowd, but then you get honest and you want to slide, you want to sin.

I decided on dinner at Red Fish Grille for some alligator gumbo, a glass of ruby red wine, and the sorbet of the day. The waiter suggested I watch my wallet and camera less they be stolen in a distracted moment. The gumbo is always good here – and the loaf of bread is amazing! One more walk down Bourbon Street and its back to my hotel for an attempt at an early night’s sleep – but not tonight. Despite two sleeping pills and a comfortable bed, I toss and turn for hours, sinking with each alarm clock hour that passes before my eyes. I know that 4:30am is coming soon, so when it’s 2:30 – you start to despair. You start to get angry and shout at the dark so sleeping is impossible. How will I navigate a taxi, the airport, and a day at the office on no sleep? But I got what I came for – and my brain needs time to process all these sights, and smells, and unnerving attractions. Exhausted, I’m falling awake on the inside – trying to make some sense of this… and maybe take home a lasting souvenir. They say that a man’s character is defined by what he does when all alone… but let me suggest that a better test of character may be a late night 2 hour stroll down Bourbon Street, when all your senses are made alive and all your inhibitions are lulled to sleep – you and a 1000 others just like you. The morning after prompts a prayer of gratitude that I survived the test this time – unless, of course the test was to stay away from the inevitable. So, maybe next time I should not tempt fate or trust myself so much – and next time just stay at the Holiday Inn by the airport. They may not qualify for 4-star ratings but it comes with free breakfast and they guarantee a good night’s sleep.

Pre-Election Considerations on A Christian response to Terrorism

In the past six months, I have had the distinct opportunity to meet both Senator Obama and Senator McCain – one of whom will likely be our next President. I was invited to a small gathering of 30-40 people with Senator Obama – and had the opportunity to talk with him one on one about his book and health care policy. I was impressed by his intellect, his authenticity, and the fact that he did not pander to the mostly democratic audience as he spoke freely even when his stance countered the expected answer. He was not overly charismatic, and I did not agree with everything he said; however, he projected a vision and ability to help Americans realize the common ground that unites us and can propel us to solve our biggest problems. Then, a few weeks ago, I saw John McCain speak to thousands, and then pushed my way to the front to shake his hand. Again, I did not agree with everything he said, but I was impressed by how motivational he is in person, his candor, his heroic past, and his promise to bring civility and discipline to Washington. And now, as we all watch the primaries and rediscover (from our high school civics classes) what a “super-delegate” is and how primaries differ from caucuses, I am enjoying the democratic process… but I am also reminded that we have serious problems that need to be addressed promptly… and that electing a new President, is not electing a savior. Our opportunity to cast our vote for a leader we can trust cannot be confused with our ultimate trust in God. Our allegiance to the kingdom of God cannot be diminished by our allegiance to our country.

Since September 11th, 2001, these conflicting themes have come into full view both in Washington and in our hearts. We have been living with a new level of fear – and God-fearing people across America and around the world are in disagreement about the right course of action. The rest of the world has known this fear, and on 9-11 American joined them. We realized that we can be attacked. We experience a level of vulnerability and unity like never before. Certainly this called for prudent strategic action, but also deep reflection – and a fresh review of what God has told us about our fears and how to handle them.

As I look at our nation’s response, I recall feeling and witnessing the following progression:
Shock & Mourning
Paranoia
Turn to God for peace in out-of-control situation
Reassurance from President Bush and government leaders
Realization of how vulnerable our borders and security are
Support for swift changes to create new Dept of Homeland Security
Support for responsive War/Military Action against Taliban in Afghanistan
Support, and building confidence for declaration of war against terrorism
Support for sanctions and US and UN pressure against Iraq
Turn to God for insight regarding “Just War”
Tentative support for preventative War/Military Action against Iraq
Relief that secondary target Saddam Hussein captured
Disappointment and concern that primary target Bin Laden still not captured
Dismay with failing military approach in Iraq, Optimism with “surge” approach
Frustration with media for not reporting progress in Iraq
Skepticism with Bush Administration regarding full motives for Iraq war and foreign policy approach
Comfort in President’s bravado of “You’re either with us or against us” mixed with concern about impact of international perspectives on our nation
Intrigue with presidential debates over foreign policy – What is the right approach?
Turn to God for insight for Christian response to fear and terrorism

As I look back over the events since 2001, I wonder if fear is winning or we are on the right course? If we all agree that we are not called to live in fear, what is the opposite of fear? Is it strength? Is it control? Is it love? Is it peace? And what are the weapons God has given us to use to defeat fear? Have we been good stewards of the events of 9-11, leveraging our fears alert us up to realities we have been ignoring… or, have we allowed our fears to push us into rationalizing decisions that violate our own Christian values?

While government leaders need to be help accountable for their decisions, I try to resist playing Monday morning quarterback as I am not privy to all the intelligence they are, nor can I fully appreciate the weight of the decisions they have been burdened with. Short of clear evidence of intentional wrongdoing, I turn my attention towards God, asking what a Christian response to terrorism should be. This is a harder question, because it is more complicated than our quick republican or democrat party-line answers, and also bigger than conservative or liberal labels. It is bigger than church denominations, and requires that we leave behind the extreme camps of anti-Bush conspiracy theories… as well as mindless flag-waving nationalism. We are called to look through the lens of God’s kingdom and his intentions for how we should live for his glory in a sinful, and un-safe world. If you read the words of Jesus, they will deeply challenge your domestic and foreign policy.

So, I admit I do not know the answers yet… but I invite you to struggle with the questions I have been asking. What does Scripture say about fear? What is the application of “perfect love casts out fear”? What is the interplay between trusting God and defending ourselves? Luke 21 says “You will hear of wars, insurrections, but do not be terrified… and vs. 13 “this will give you opportunity to testify” – so how does that fit into our foreign policy? How do we apply “Blessed are the Peacemakers” from Matthew 5? What does loving our enemies look like in this scenario? What does it mean to “turn the other cheek” in this scenario?

I recently revisited an excerpt from a volume entitle “God’s Politics” that outlined the following post 9-11 recommended lessons:
1. Treat the threat of terrorism as very real – and move to prevent further attacks.
2. This is not a time for “peace-loving”, but rather for “peace-making” – Jesus clearly instructed us to take this active path in the world. It is much harder than just passively being anti-way and peace-loving. It requires
2. Avoid bad theology – it is overly simplistic and unbiblical to present this as a struggle between “good and evil”, we are “good” and they are “evil” While the actions of the 9-11 attackers were certainly evil, we are not good – and also need to take the beam out of our own eye.
3. Attack not only the symptoms, but also the root causes of terrorism – Poverty is not the cause of terrorism, but impoverished and hopeless people groups are the best recruiting grounds for terrorism. Justice is the best path to peace , and in the modern world, there is no security but common security.
4. Move beyond debate over “just war” vs. “pacifism” – focus on preventative measures and conflict resolution.
5. Unilateral Approach won’t defeat terrorism – this is a global problem that will require international judicial, political, and financial collaboration.

Visiting Dad - Oct 2006

Dad Visit – Maine Oct 2006
Lest my mind grow confused at a later date, or I ever want to remember what very well may be my last visit with my Father – and his home, here is my account of today.

With 10 minutes to get through security and catch my flight, I just barely boarded my plane from Manchester to BWI to Nashville, after a 4 hour ride in a small borrowed pickup truck, which followed a memorable visit with my dad in our childhood house in Troy, Maine. The faded house was overgrown with unkempt dying autumn trees and unruly weeds. At first inspection, the only familiar sign was a blue wheelbarrow we used 1000 times to move split logs from our shed to our basement fireplace. Dad, now an older looking man with thinning white hair and an unkempt beard dressed in jeans, black sneakers and an equally aged flannel shirt, met us at the door. The air was cold and clear except for the lingering sound of the vacuum Dad just unplugged. He positioned himself for a hug but James only allowed a handshake. I too tried to initiate by offering an out-stretched hand, but he leaned in to take a hug. I resisted – and so, maybe we both won and we both lost right from the beginning. With James by my side, we sat on a sofa flanked by our dad who sat extended in his easy chair. The interior walls were smothered with pictures, prints (the crucifixion from Grand pop Yarnell’s house in Philly) woodcarvings (the Noah Ark I once created and since long forgot), plates, and random tapestries that I could not make out. Grand mom Simpson’s corner cabinet stood directly in front of our view next to the black stove I don’t remember. The big screen tv purchased for her season of dying sat in front of the large window – with the stacked stereo component unit nearby. The upright piano we gathered around as kids was placed as a divider between the living and dining rooms – with towering pyramid bookshelves, covered with clutter positioned like bookends on either side. The once beautiful natural pine kitchen seemed suffocated by more clutter and hanging wine holder and adjacent hanging pot holder. I could barely see through to the window we used to wash dishes in front on. I have bad memories of that spot. I feared that the house was haunted – and would spook us and rename us as little boys as we approached the scary villain who lived in it’s dark walls. This trip was not planned or traveled with anxiety. Until last night. Last night, after the warm hospitality and dinner conversation with James and his new bride Jane, James stayed up to talk. We ended up praying. I ended up crying, broken, deeply afraid, and painfully aware of how little I know the love of my Heavenly Father. My center, as James put it, needed to be still and settle into the truth that all this was not my (our) fault. It was not our responsibility to fix. There were no better words, or ways to make my point or persuasion. I never had delusions or misplaced guilt about preventing the divorce, but not getting through to dad – or rekindling a relationship has always felt like mine to bear. Today’s conversation was much anticipated, and yet I finally faced the reality that I could not predict or prepare for this. The outcome would be out of my control. The only control I could have was in side me. I was afraid that maintaining a sense of self would be too much for me – but this is part of why I had come all this way. There did not need to be a big confrontation – in fact I only planned to say kind, compassionate comforting words to my father who was just discharged from the hospital after 2 heart attacks.

We were greeted by a small energetic dog who jumped up wanting attention. Dad talked, and we carefully listened. James seemed perched, ready to jump on the first untruth. I was trying to listen carefully, alert, but strangely calm on the inside. I wanted to be discerning – as Dad has a history of blurring things into the grey. An unsuspecting audience could miss it and get sucked in, but we should know better. Dad is charming and looks you in the eye. He does not strike me as one who crafts lies, rather one who tries to move his listener with whatever it takes. He seems to believe what he says. Initially, the conversation centered on Dad’s medical issues. I asked how many heart attacks he has had. Five. He clarified that several episodes were not detected by the doctors and tests. He said that this episode of 2 smaller heart attacks would have not been a big deal except that he had an allergic reaction to the dye injected in him for one of the tests. His narrative went on to include a dramatic near-death experience where he could not breathe, gasped for help to distracted nurses on the other side of a wall, and curled up in a fetal position. My emotions were engaged and heartfelt, but my mind became a bit cynical wondering if he was really as scared as he sounded or just trying to create some emotional connections with his estranged sons. Dad said he was ok about dying. Not scared. And then he told us about the day his mother died and the day his father died in great detail. The conversation was sobering even a bit morbid, but safe. Then, with a more agitated voice, Dad challenged our visit, stating, “You know you don’t have to wait till I’m dying to come visit”. Bang! The first shot was fired. James responded, and Dad pushed harder, making a case for how “His door is always open”, and he always answers our letters and questions. Phrases flew through the air like daggers back and forth between James and Dad. I felt like a dazed spectator even though these words were about me and I should respond. James, spoke with clarity and strength, dedicated to standing up to anything he found to be false. He even stood up for my wound – heartfelt letters sent to Dad with superficial or no response. Dad, though confined in his easy chair, rose up with his tone, bullying language, and pounding words to make his case for how (my words, not his) he is the victim of a large conspiracy that has left him hurt and all alone. Dad attacked Bill Johnson, a redemptive character in our story, until James fired back, “Bill Johnson has been more of a Father to me than you ever were!” Dad seemed unfazed and kept talking. He acknowledged that he stopped listening, and ended up in a rage. James realized that the dialog was becoming more explosive and unproductive, and exited the room. I stayed behind, as I had more to say. Dad stood up and could not stop his verbal attack even thought James was gone. Once I got Dad to stop attacking Bill Johnson, he shifted to his defense of how the divorce was not his fault and he did everything… I cut him off , as I was not hear to debate this. Looking back on it, I realized James fought his battle with strength and by defending the truth. I wanted to applaud, and cheer and he fought well and displayed the strength that neither came from Dad, nor could be taken by Dad. James is a man. I saw it in the heat of battle. He deserves a metal or a statue. He stood by me. I am a different man, and needed to engage Dad in my own way. Diplomatic by nature, I kept my voice calm and tried to make my case with questions and logic. Remember, I had not planned for this dialogue, so I was not prepared for this moment… what should be said in a moment like this? I wanted to tell him that I had grown tired of his non-responsive, dismissive, surface replies to my heartfelt letters. I wanted to challenge his favorite statement of “my door is always open” as it cleverly shifts the blame off of him and on to our shoulders. I wanted to say that I have been scared of him my whole life – but I’m not scared now. I wanted to say that the reason we don’t have a relationship is not due to the divorce – but due to his absence in my life, and his inability to be honest about our shared family story. I wanted to tell him that I needed to stay away because he was not safe to me or my family. I said these things and Dad seemed to listen – but I’m sure he did not really hear me because he kept defending himself - stating “I did reply to every letter… I’ve always been here, and I’m the one who has loved you unconditionally”. This lie needed to be challenged. Love is active not passive with one’s door “open”. Love But he kept dismissing me (and us) and telling us there are still things we don’t understand. There are things he will not listen to or respond to. Dad continued lashing out at the other kids and why we talk between each other stirring up things – why that’s our business. He said “Just when I start to get to a good place with one of you, you start talking and things you have no idea about, and then I don’t hear from anyone! Families don’t act like that, he shouted. Yes they do, I said back – we care about each other and our brothers and sisters are the best thing we have going for us in this mess. Dad tried to lump us in with the “student who listened to his professors advice that all your problems can be blamed on your parents”. I told him that I do not subscribe to that thinking, and that we men with independent minds and we have come to our own conclusions.

Typical defensiveness and rage, shifted to the bizarre, as Dad, in a rapid pace, told us that he has filing cabinets with every item (letter, gift, card, e-mail) he has sent to us and the kids and record of every reply or returned item or no reply. “If I need to make a case,” he declared, “I can put this all on the table and everyone will see what really happened!” I’m sure my body snapped back a bit as I was amazed to hear of this clearly paranoid plot. He thinks that HE is the victim! That’s amazing! He demands that we forgive and forget (without honest or restoration) and yet he is keeping a record of EVERY perceived wrong done to him. I started to understand that he thinks he did nothing wrong, and that there has been a conspiracy against him all this time.

I started again trying to address the exchange of our letters back and forth over the past years – where I asked him specific questions about his relationship with his father and grandfather and he replied with a historic account of so and so begat so and so but only answered on the surface. Even now, face to face, he would not answer me directly about why he does not respond to the heart of my letters. He redirected the topic to the letter I sent some 7 or 8 years ago, calling it the “crucify dad for everything wrong in your life before you get married” letter. Quite a title, don’t you think? A bit dramatic, and he is certainly going to need a good editor if he’s ever going to make it in the publishing world. But mostly, it is false, and chicken. He referred to a letter I sent to him, and one to mom, just before getting married where I tried to shoot straight. I was reading a book at the time called “Adult Children of Divorce” while seeing a counselor, and both suggested that clearing the air with my parents would be a key step towards honesty and becoming a man. I wrote them both about 5-10 specific things they did right and thanked them. I also voiced 5-10 things they did that were wrong that I had never confronted them about. I know that neither Mom or Dad are perfect; however I never forgot the fact that Mom called immediately, crying and apologizing for how I was hurt. Even at a time when she as hurt and confused, she acted like a parent and made her child’s hurts more important and reached out to voice empathy and desire to restore any bruised parts. Dad replied with rage, pride, defensiveness, and proceeded to blast me for blaming him for anything. Maybe that was a deciding moment in our narrative. His pain and reputation were more important than anything. So sad. There have been so many missed opportunities, where we reached out to our father, and he chose to hold his ground, and not humble himself. I recall my college-era trip to Maine, when I flew home to see what the HELL was going on with news that Jamey was growing depressed and Mom was in danger of Dad’s increasing abuse. That trip was preceded by a phone call from my college room closet. My body shook with fear as I asked, then confronted my father about the rumor that he was abusing, even sexually pushing himself on Mom. He denied it forcefully. Knowing he was not being honest, I flew to Maine and met him in the driveway as he returned from delivering the mail for the USPS. Through a half rolled down window and half cracked car door, we exchanged words, and he told me that he held me responsible for spreading the rumors and told me to get off his property. I was not welcome. Way to speak manhood into your sons, you son of a bitch!

With all of these thoughts in the background, my conversation with Dad continued, as he tried to make our letter writing issue into a technical point, suggesting (from a Marriage Encounter conference, ironically enough) that we attach the letter received with our reply lest we not reply to the original letter. He insults ones intelligence with such instructions to shift guilt-worthy actions to mere misunderstandings that can be fixed with his wisdom. I told him that he is welcome to take this new approach and that I’m willing to try it – but stated again that that we both knew that was not the core problem.

Feeling rushed by the nearing end of our visit, I squeezed in a few declarations. “I’ve been afraid of you my whole life, but I’m not afraid now, “ I said. “I’m not a boy anymore. I am a man. I am not primarily your son, as I’m a dad myself and my priority is now my family – and being a good dad and husband. I only have space for a relationship with you if you are supporting who and where I am now, and so far, this has been not safe, and a negative distraction.”

The phone rang several times, and then James rushed in to signal an end to the conversation. He stood there as I finished my thoughts – and then we moved to leave. Dad, after everything that was just said, moved in AGAIN to take a hug from me, and James, stating, “I’m still your Father. You’re still my sons”. We walked away to the soundtrack of 2 debating voices as Dad and James exchanged “Dad, you’re deceived”… “James, respect your Father! I’ll pray that God humbles you” “Dad, you’re deceived”…

Maine is a beautiful state marked by rugged coastlines, and dark green, almost black pine trees rising above the ocean mist. Deep accents and age-old stories define the locals; salt of the earth kind of people. Still Maine invites restless souls who run away or need to hide. Our home turned out to be a dark secluded place, with fertile soil for growing insecurities into control and failures into pride. When a young dad named William moved here, maybe he was running away from pressure to be just his father, or the unattainable expectations of his mother. Maybe he needed to hide his addition to lust and life-goal for power. It appears that he spent his life wanting to be adored as much as his mother adored him – and so he spent his life asking and needing, then demanding and controlling, then forcing and abusing. This escalating path drove away his wife and 5 children as they realized he would always suck life out of them. And so, sobered and saddened, James and I drove away.

The Sound of Silence

Listen to the cymbal crashing, the driving ride pushing the beat through the chorus. Leaving the room, I enter the frequency of loud“Late-breaking news” interrupted by -even louder commercials selling the engine that moves quicker, the transaction that processes quicker, the food made and consumed faster. I have to escape! Silp on my rain coat, slip out the door, and into the Jetta. Zip up the express-way, Indy radio blasting intellectual, higher music, part art, part pious indictment of the other pop stations. Jonatha Brooke ends, and commercials begins… again. I can’t really get away! Feeling out of control, I hit the power button – turning OFF the noise and turning ON the silence. Then, in this absence of voices, in crept the quieter sounds, the hum in the background, that’s always there, but we rarely notice it. But, today, even this - sounds loud! Listen to the buzz of the tires gripping the cement. Listen to the wipers in rhythm with the music I just turned off. Wap-wap, wap-wap. Dud, dud, dud. The racing red car next to me, swerving in and out, around me, interrupts with his bass, bounding through glass, space, and speed to thud into my windows. The sound of silence is not so silent.

Cut to… a modest cottage on a still lake, a walk through the woods, a hike up a mountain. Nature may be the only modern respite for us exhausted souls. Now, I know why cities, carve out parks in the midst of their concrete and metal. While it does not promise silence, it offers solitude - and at least a change in scenary. I must accept the gift and open it. I must find a quite space. So, today I will make the time.

I enter into it, like a small cottage, opening the door cautiously, but with curiosity and... expectation. I find the room unlit, and dusty. These four walls must have not been visited in some time. There are volumes on the shelf to the left, wisdom waiting to be read, truths wishing to be heard. What knowledge have I forgone by not coming here sooner? I let the wooden rickety door close behind me, shutting the noise out, and me in. On the right there sits a soft bed – enticing me to lay down and rest. I notice how tired I really am – my eyes feel heavy and my body sore. When did I get this exhausted? What have I missed while stumbling around half-awake? Still dark, I search for a light, but there is no electricity, only two windows – like the eyes to a soul – letting in some light, but revealing little because the windows are just too dirty. The dark room feels scary. The damp unkempt environment unnerves me – as I long for the clean, the familiar, and any distraction. Two steps forward, and I encounter a mirror. I don’t know if I’m ready to face myself yet, to really see myself for what I am without my job, and my wife, and car, and audience. When’s the last time I really looked into a mirror and perceived my insides? I stare at my outsides, and see my father’s image, my mother’s expressions, and evidence of age and strain and stress. I am looking like I’ve lived a bit. I see love, and hate, lust, and compassion. I feel the tightness in my shoulders the warmth of my body in the heat of this moment. A bit faint, I sit on the bed – and lift my shoes up – fully extended – and on my back. Drifting. Blinking. Asleep. Dreaming. Finally, I have found rest. Father, in heaven, giver of sleep – speak to me in my dreams – that I may awake more alive - and with lasting reminder of the sound of silence.

New Years 2006

Dear Friends,
Would you look at the time! Clearly we missed the Christmas card window, so in a sober moment (Guests arriving, child in time out, and presents to wrap) we realized that a New Years greeting was the necessary alternative. We hope your Christmas was fun and meaningful and that you take some time to reflect as we prepare to step into a new year ahead. Here’s our year in review

January-February: With blueprints in hand, we embarked on a renovation of our beloved 1931 bungalow and added a master suite upstairs and a sunroom out the back. We also experienced the humorously tragic pitfalls of “man falling through ceiling” and “we’re under budget… we’re way over budget”, but all in all, we love our new space.

March: While the construction continued… we trekked up to Maine for younger (but wiser) brother James’ wedding to the newest member of the Simpson family… Jane!

April: We celebrated our 6th wedding anniversary and where Kim upstaged Dan’s gift by announcing she was pregnant with bebe #2! Meanwhile, the construction continued.

May: Hello Florida! After joining Kim’s mom and family for Mothers Day, Dan’s job at AIM brought a new boss and opportunity to lead a sales team.

June-July-August: Jamieson stole the show in June by completing a key rite of passage for every man… potty trained and proud of it! The house is finally finished, but the trim painting just begins…

September: With 4 months of pregnancy left, we headed off to Italy for a 2 week “Italian Holiday” to Rome, Sienna, Cinque Terre, Florence, Venice, and Milan. At the Roman Trevi Fountain, we opened our sealed envelope to discover we are having a BOY! Thought our luggage never arrived,


we loved the food, culture, and necessary shopping in Italy. Meanwhile, Jamieson went for a 2-week adventure with his “Mom-Mom” and Aunt Joy and family who now reside 3 hrs away in Eastern TN. Special thanks to them – again! We got home just in time for Jamieson’s 3rd birthday party!

October: Back to our routine, Kim relocated her counseling practice to a new office closer to home that God provided… and she started studying for her big licensure exam. Then back to Florida for Kim’s brother Matt’s (and Sarah) wedding – where Dan played the part of last minute wedding singer!

November: We celebrated Kim’s birthday on the 19th Then, Dan was blessed with another career opportunity and was asked to develop Blue Cross Blue Shield plans for the company in a sales/business development role. In the Christmas spirit, Jamieson and Dan selected a tree – and before December came, we were ready.

December: Kim took – and passed her big exam – and one celebration led to another with Dan’s birthday on the 8th. Christmas brought Kim’s parents, brother Jeremy and surprise guest Brittney (Jeremy’s fiannce) to our home. We were stirred by the performance of Handel’s Messiah at the new symphony center, played golf, and played with Jamieson. Now that the gifts are all opened, and the decorating and planning evolved into memories and photographs, Advent was the glue that held everything together and infused meaning. We hold dearly the quiet time together to sing and light the advent candles with Jamieson each Sunday night – as we read the scriptures and highlighted Hope, Peace, Love, and Joy. We hope your year is filled with these things as you reflect on your Christmas, now past, and build anticipation for the New Year,

Dan, Kim, Jamieson… and bebe boy #2.