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The Beast Has Metamorphosed Into The Prince

(written February 25, 2017)

 

As I sit here in Starbucks for 30 minutes before my meeting, I had an epiphany. One of love. One of peace. One of satisfaction. One of gratefulness. One of joy.

 

My focus and energy has been so misdirected lately. I will admit, there’s a bit of shame and guilt that sneaks up underneath all the pleasant feelings that I’m having now. Feelings that I’m overwhelmed with.

 

But it’s a healthy shame and guilt.

 

It’s the shame and guilt of awareness about my past faulty thinking. It’s to remind me that I need to remember this blog so I can continue to remind myself what is most important in my life.

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Stamp of Approval

(written February 21, 2017)

 

This morning I was listening to a sermon by Craig Scroggins, a pastor for North Point Community Church, called White Noise: The Stamp of Approval.

 

White noise is the noise we turn on to mask or drown other sounds. For instance, listening to the sound of a river blocks the sounds of cars, someone snoring, or other distracting noises that may interrupt our sleep.

 

Using white noise as an analogy, this series centers on how we use white noise to mask emotions. Last week the discussion focused on the ways we mask the pain of loneliness, something I was all too familiar with.

 

This week’s dialogue focused on receiving approval from others.

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Pumpkin Entertainment

My daughter stands posed, feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, with her softball bat pointing upwards at an angle over her shoulder. She faces me, eyes staring at my hand, patiently waiting. Underhand, I toss the orange object towards her.

 

Her arms swing the bat and the momentum spins her around in a circle. Strike!

 

She laughs, raises the bat once again, anticipating the next pitch.

 

I bend over and pick up another coral colored piece of fruit. She swings. WHACK!

 

A pumpkin chunk explodes into tiny pieces, guts filling the air, seeds flying in different directions, and I get sprayed with a slimy mass of strings and pumpkin juice.

 

A couple of minutes earlier she was standing over a pumpkin, pounding it with the bat she’s “had since I was six years old. Remember, it was bigger than me. Look at how small it is now.”

 

She was hitting it over and over again. Breathing hard she had stopped, leaned on the bat, and commented, “Dad, I can’t even make a dent in this pumpkin. This is good therapy!”

 

She’s right. This is good therapy. I pitch the next chunk.

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