April 2007

So, recently we bought some pear yogurt. I was very excited about this purchase. I love pears. I love yogurt. It seemed like a blessed union.

There’s a funny thing I learned about pear yogurt: there are chunks of pear in it.

Now, this should have been rather obvious. There usually are large chunks of fruit in fruity yogurt. That is what makes fruit yogurt good.

However, the large chunks of pear combined with the yogurt for an unfortunate conclusion: you can’t tell when it’s gone bad.

First off, there are green chunks in it. Mold is green. It looks like there are chunks of rot in my yogurt.

Secondly, you can never tell if yogurt is good by smell. Yogurt never smells good. It always smells a bit off.

Given these two factors I haven’t eaten any since it was opened. Sure the date says it is good, but I don’t know if I trust that.

Sorry pear yogurt people, but I think I’ll just stick to eating pears the old fashioned way: straight up.

I grew up in the sticks.

I hate having to admit that. I try and pass myself off as something far classier and sophisticated than a boy who grew up quite literally on the other side of the tracks. Because of my upbringing in such a neighbourhood I’ve seen a lot of different things in my day.

A good number of my neighbours were all pot smoking hippies. You could leave the fridge open for days and still have a smaller hydro bill then most in the neighbourhood.

Cougars, the four legged cats that will eat small people, have been seen walking down the street.

You’re as likely to see horses using the roads as you are cars.

I once almost stepped in bear poop in my back yard.

Gun shots are often heard, not because of gang violence, but because hillbillies are using their shot guns to scare animals off their property. Oh, and to shoot at my dad for working too late into the evening while building our house.

My parents lived there because they valued being able to afford a house over sheltering their children.

Today I live a bit less than a kilometer from my parent’s house. I’m in the same neighbourhood much for the same reason. I live there today because it’s hard to find a house to rent that is affordable. And I’m used to it.

Then yesterday I became a spectacle that some kid will write about twenty years from now: “I remember when…�

Yesterday, I borrowed my parent’s lawnmower. (That’s not the good part of the story.) I walked over to get it. (Keep reading that’s not it yet either.) Walking there meant walking back with it.

I’ve never seen anyone walking down the road with a lawn mower. I’m thinking, judging by the looks I got, that few people have seen such a sight.

Sheena was with me. To comfort her in her embarrassment I told her: “Imagine that we’re pushing a stroller with our child in it. There’s nothing unusual about that.� Unfortunately she was not comforted by my words.

Just then her brother pulled up. With one question he summed up the absurdity of it, “Out taking your lawn mower for a walk?�
Oh, for the day when a guy can walk a kilometer with a lawn mower without getting funny looks.

An interesting thought came to me while thinking about fasting this weekend. By the way, the 30 Hour Famine went great. We raised a lot of money for World Vision and no one fainted. A couple of our girls didn’t want to get up at 6:30 to eat breakfast before the famine began so they went 40 hours without food. Yikes, that’s a long time.

It occurred to me in the middle of the weekend that while Jesus believed, and lived, that “man does not live on bread alone but on ever word that comes from the mouth of God� (Deut. 8:3) many Christians find it much easier to go a day without reading their Bibles than without food.

So how do we get people chewing more on the word of God and less on the junk that fills their bellies?

Back in college I was with a street drama team sharing the gospel message through drama with people in Vancouver. We met all sorts of interesting characters.

There were plenty of people who were just your average people out shopping or for dinner. But those people don’t usually leave a lasting impression in your mind.

The most memorable person I met was a homeless person who called himself Jesus. We got talking. After all, how could I not chat this guy up? It’s not everyday that you get to meet someone claiming to be the Saviour of the world.

Our practice was to have food with us to give to people who might be in need, and we certainly offered something to “Jesus.� His response surprised us. He said that he didn’t need to eat because God filled his stomach with honey and he was never hungry.

That’s about when we knew for certain this guy was crazy. (For whatever reason calling himself Jesus wasn’t enough of an indication.) There was no way he was going to convince us that he never needed to eat. Everyone has to eat something at some time.

Our conversation ended soon after that.

We actually met him again a few weeks later. He didn’t remember us, but we certainly remembered him.

Today I’m doing the 30 Hour Famine and my thoughts recalled the time I spoke with “Jesus.� I’m hungry, and now I’m thinking about a guy who claimed he never needed to eat. Sure enough, never needing to eat is one crazy boast. That guy was out of his mind.

Then while remembering this guy, I recalled Jesus words, “whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.� Kinda makes me wonder if in a way I really was talking with Jesus.

“I think I’ve turned into quite the gambler.�

Sheena said that the other day as we were pulling away from a Tim Horton’s excited by the possibilities lying hiding in the rims of our cups. Roll up the Rim has us in a frenzy. I think I’ve consumed more Tim Horton’s drinks in the past few weeks than I have in the six months previous.

I don’t know what will happen if I actually win something. At this point I’m hooked by the allure of the possibility of winning, but have yet to actually win something: not even a free donut. Wow, a free donut would be so sweet.

Baptist Gambling is what we’re calling it.

Because as Baptists we’d never go play the lottery, but as soon as there’s the possibility of more value for our money we’ll spend twice as much.

It’s amazing the powerful allure that the possibility of free stuff can have over you.

At least I’m not quite at the point of digging through the trash to see if all the cups have been checked. Oh, who am I kidding? I totally am. I can’t walk by a cup without eyeing it up to see if the rim has been tampered with.

It’s bad enough that the coffee drinks are addictive, but now they’re even more so. I don’t know if I’m twitching from a lack of caffeine or because I haven’t rolled up the rim in a couple days.

It could be said though, that I’m just obeying he cup. When I read the words, “please play again,� I know that I will soon. They always request it so nicely. Part of me feels obligated to go buy another drink.

“Ooo, I think I won something!� Sheena began to exclaim. “Yep, please play again.�

No doubt the real winner is the one who found a way to make coffee even more addictive.

I was doing some reading yesterday in 2 Peter. In the NIV translation of the passage Peter refers to his body as a tent.

I don’t know what comes to your mind when you think of tents, but many of the images in my head aren’t flattering.

I remember one camping trip on Newcastle Island where the tent in the site next to us was invaded by raccoons. The raccoons had penetrated the tent’s outstanding defense systems to raid their dog’s food stash.

Tents, like our bodies, can easily be torn apart by both the physical and spiritual raccoons of this world. Kinda shows the importance of armor doesn’t it?

This metaphor of our bodies being tents is outstanding. For every image I have of a tent, I can think of how our bodies are similar.

Another example would be of the musty smell of an old tent that was put away damp once years ago. Tents, like our bodies, require a level of care or they will stink.

One of the best similarities if the temporary nature of both our bodies and tents. I’ve never met a person who set out to live in a tent. Camping tents, especially, are not designed for this. They’re temporary dwellings.

Is there a better metaphor for our bodies then tents?

I’ve met musty smelling people. I’ve met people torn apart by the raccoons of this life. I’ve met people who think their bodies aren’t tall enough. And certainly our bodies aren’t meant to last.

But what about this? When the Israelites were traveling through the wilderness their house of worship, and God’s dwelling place, was a tent. The spirit of God lived in a tent.

Then it hit me: the spirit of God still lives in tents.

God’s choice has always been tents. It’s people who think God needs something permanent, but God has always chosen tents.

I guess I have met someone who set out to live in a tent.