Sawdust

Walnuts hung from the ceiling, supported by a large wire mesh.

Those walnuts are one of the more vivid memories of the garage that I walked through to get to my Grandpa Kraker's workshop. They stood guard, overlooking the entrance to a childhood wonderland.   I loved hearing the scream of the belt saw, the burnt smell of freshly cut cherry and maple wood hanging in the air.  The anticipation for what we could make in that workshop was unrivaled in my childhood. Grandpa's slow, particular mentoring helped me cut and build all sorts of great playthings:  swords, guns, cut outs of Disney characters, wooden satellite boxes for our war games in the woods, and most anything else our vast imaginations could dream up.  I cherish the hours I got to spend with him.  

The hours in the workshop produced much more than wooden toys.  I learned respect as he carefully showed me how to use the tools and gently corrected me when I made a mistake.  I learned how to say "no" to the good and "yes" to the best as he showed me how to choose quality pieces of wood.  I learned that patience improved the quality of the workmanship as we took the time to make each project something to be proud of.   I learned that a real man takes pride in his work.

My grandpa took pride in his work and I wanted to be just like him.  

As I've been exploring what I want to do next with my life and work, I'm brought back to those days with my Grandpa Kraker on the sawdust covered floor of his workshop.  A computer and a smart phone are my tools now, but the lessons learned remain as important as ever.  I've made a point of looking around and choosing places to apply that will, hopefully, be a step in the direction I want to go in life.  I've patiently reworked my resume, crafting it with the help of new mentors, and I'm proud of what it communicates.  With the help of a good book, the input of friends, and my online journal, I've cut through some of the fluff in my mind and gotten a better picture of who I am and how I'm built to serve.   

I will continue to work hard, take the time, and doing the work necessary to take the best next step possible.  Grandpa Kraker instilled in me character traits that have made me the man I am today.  His lessons still guide me to work hard so that I can be proud of what I've done and set myself up to have impact in the months and years to come.  

I'm grateful for the sawdust and the man who helped shape me.

Smells Like Memories

Trips to the beach with my Grandma and Grandpa Owen were a highlight of my childhood.  The sand squeaking as my brothers, sister, cousin and I scurried down to the cold water; the sun shining warm and bright on my back.  I remember grandma with her dark sunglasses and short brunet hair smiling and watching us play.  The scent of Coppertone sunscreen filled the air.  

Those days were the best.  

Recently I was cleaning at my parent's house and came across an old, Pepto Bismol-pink Coppertone sunscreen bottle with a faded picture of the iconic puppy and little girl on the front.  I popped open the cap, put it up to my nose, and inhaled deeply.  It smelled like wonderful childhood memories.  

I love how certain aroma's take me back: 

The hopped aroma of Miller Light brings to mind sunny Sunday afternoons in North Muskegon and images of my Grandpa and Uncle relaxing on the red bricks of the back patio.  

The fresh, citrus notes of Calvin Klein's Obsession for men, brings to mind my GQ, technologically savvy Uncle Jim.  I loved his style, the way he was always playing with the coolest new tech gadgets, and his sophisticated demeanor. 

The brisk, musky smell of oak leaves on the ground, and fresh cut grass in the cool air, takes me to fall at Shanty Creek resort where my family has gathered once a year for as long as I can remember.  I rest with the images of tall wooden condominiums, bright fall colors splashed around the grounds, and restful sunset views from the back deck overlooking Lake Bellaire. 

I've been searching my heart, trying to understand myself better, and dreaming about what to explore as a new adventure in my life.  I'm finding my heart drawn back, often, to memories from my mom's side of the family: my Grandpa Owen, Uncle Jim, and Shanty Creek.  I don't really understand why, but it's been a relaxing, aromatic walk down memory lane.   

Alex Trebek?

Every child dreams of what they want to be when they grow up.  My hopes were three-fold:

1. Alex Trebek:  Yep, the gameshow host with the awesome mustache.  I remember sitting on the green and blue shag carpet of grandfather's living room, stomach full of dinner, watching Jeopardy.  I loved spending time with him.  
2. PGA Pro:  It was in that same living room, Sunday afternoons, where the light streamed in through the ancient oaks of the front yard and lit the room.  The warm light, combined with  hushed announcers and beautiful images of Andrews, Pine Hurst, and St. Andrews drew me to rest.  I could nap on the carpet, enjoying one of my Grandpa Owen's favorite past times.  
3. Missionary to China:  I can't remember when that dream started.  As I remember back, I don't think it was as much a dream as a duty that I felt like I was built to fulfill.  

I never became a Golf Pro, I haven't been able to grow much of a mustache, and I didn't go to China, but I did go into ministry.  It didn't matter that I didn't become all that I had hoped for, it was the hope that I loved.  The hope fueled passion.  

From six years old until just recently, I felt like I had a vision for who I wanted to be, what I wanted to do.  I've been driven by passion in most everything that I've done.   It drove me to evenings, with the car pulled up on the football field, it's headlights illuminating the goal posts so I could continue to practice.  It drove me to sleep on the couch in my office at Rosewood so that I could work late and start early to serve.  It's driven me, along with great friends, to dive deep into my heart and feel the heavy emotions that had been pent up there and to encourage others to do the same.  

I'm no longer a football player, no longer a youth pastor.  As I search my heart, I'm having a hard time finding a burning passion for the next chapter.  I love students, I love coaching, and I love doing ministry, but those things don't drive me, anymore.  I'm hoping for clarity, for the passion to grow inside of me for something new.  This is the first time, in my life, that I can remember not having a vision for what I want to do next.  

I want the passion back, for whatever it is that I would do next.  So I'm waiting, searching, and waiting some more.  I want it back, I want the hope for more, I want the passion back.  

Filler

My attention keeps floating back into the kitchen this afternoon.  A five dollar bag of enriched, white rice sits on the counter, tending to my addiction.  My heart moves between a fresh freedom, worry, and regret.

Freedom from the constant checking of Facebook and the Weather Channel, CNN, Instagram, and ESPN.  Though, I do have in inner agitation that compels me to reach for what's not there every five minutes.  

I'm worried that the rice won't work, that it won't suck enough water out fast enough for the screen to be clear again.  Or worse.  

Regret lingers in my heart like fog hovers over a swamp.  How much has been lost?  How much of the awareness of the reality of life has been, itself, sucked out of my life by it's smooth screen.

The parallel isn't lost on me: a food that fills the belly, but contains little to no real nutritional value is the key to resurrecting a part of my life that fills my time, but contains little to no real sustenance for my heart.  

Origin Story

If I was searching titles of blog posts and found this one, I would expect an epic tale about the beginning of greatness.

I would be thoroughly disappointed.  

This origin story has nothing to do with greatness, in fact, it has more to do with the mundane.  Everyone seems to have a blog.  Most of them seem to have a good reason for having one.  

I don't.  

Well, no reason beyond the basic love that I have to put my thoughts and feelings down in writing.  

I've been "blogging" before "blogging" was a thing.  As a boy, I knew that I had a sensitive heart.  I knew it and I loved it.  Deep down, I loved to feel the things that I felt and I wanted to write about them.  I wrote poetry about the beauty of the backyard of my parent's house and wrote down my muddy thoughts about God and how I felt about the things I was supposed to love and do.  My writing was infrequent, and I worried about what people would think if they ever read it, but I loved putting my heart and mind on paper.  

I still love to write.  For eleven years many of my words were written to be spoken.  Now, simply written for the sake of writing.  I still worry about what people are going to think. I still feel fractured in many of my thoughts, though they feel a little more put together now.

I would still love to write poetry.  

I've started blogging, again, because someone told me that it would be a good exercise. I'm on an unplanned sabbatical and looking for a new job.  My heart is soaring with the possibilities ahead in life, I'm growing more and more nervous as days slip by and no full time work has been secured, and I'm excited about the joy that writing a little each day could bring.