Photo Credit: “FEAR”, © 2012 Kevin B 3, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

Summer of 1976. The northwestern Pennsylvania air was thick with more than just humidity–there was possibility, too. The possibility that I could get my certificate to swim in the deep end, go off the high dive. I was seven. I could swim. Was in fact a good swimmer. Along with the lifeguard, my mom was there, watching.

Taking a big breath, I dove under, started swimming. Making it to the slope where the shallow gave way to the deep end, I hedged.

And turned back.

Then we moved, and although I swam in the backyard pool, I never got the chance at that pool again. It’s been a leitmotif, this holding back.

It’s about fear, certainly. About crossing a precipice that, once passed, can’t be taken back. I don’t know why. I’m great at starting things, but finishing? Well, let’s just say don’t ask my my wife. Or my kids.

There’s something inside of me that craves the safe, that doesn’t want to change.

And I hate it.

But don’t know how to change it.

I don’t want to always be holding back. I want, in the words of John Eldredge, to “let them [the world] feel the whole weight of who you and let them deal with it.”

But I don’t know how.

How about you? Do you hold back?


Photo Credit: “Android-Vs-iOS”, © 2011 George Thomas, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

I’ve been an Android use for nearly three years. While at first blush I enjoyed the flexibility, the customizability, of the platform the bloom is definitely off the rose. I had an HTC Evo 4G LTE, and while nice it had touchscreen issues. My next phone was a Samsung Galaxy Note 3, with a beast of a battery. Thing is, under KitKat, I constantly had it charging. Not to mention that either installing, or uninstalling, apps would make its vaunted quad cores freeze. Then there were the random reboots, the overheating, etc. Beyond that Google implemented restrictions in how the system could write to the SD card. Having just got the latest OS, Lollipop, installed, I’m still seeing random app crashes. And the phone just feels slower than it should.

I’ve switched back to IOS, on an iPhone 6 Plus, and it feels like coming home. It’s beautiful to look at, and hold.

And it just works–without getting in my way.

So, yes, I’m happy, but YMMV. This is my blog, and I can say what I want. iOS haters can get off my lawn.

Peace out.

House of Cards has taken the traditional TV model by the lapels of its finely pressed suit and has given it a run for its money. It is the Game of Thrones of political drama. People subscribe to Netflix just for House of Cards.

There are numerous reasons for this. Chief among them are:

Kevin Spacey. There’s no doubting the man’s acting chops. He brings gravitas, strength, and ferocity to his portrayal of Frank Underwood.

Robin Wright. A similarly gifted actress, first seen in The Princess Bride, and easily Spacey’s equal in this.

David Fincher. Director, auteur, helmer of some of the most engrossing, if dark, movies in history: Se7en, The Social Network, Gone Girl, and others.

Not to mention that the show, while based upon an earlier British miniseries, is written by Washington insider Beau Willimon.

While that pedigree–the quality of the show’s writing, acting, production, and direction gets people in the door (so to speak)–lends the show a great deal of credibility, it’s not why I continue to watch. Sure, the quality of the performances got me hooked–no doubt. But I keep watching because it’s a human story.

It’s my story.

It’s your story.

Quite honestly, how many among us would be immune to the intoxicating allure of power continuously dangled in front of our noses? As the saying goes, “Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

Within the construct of the the show, the catalyst which sets events in motion is a promise denied. Frank is promised an auspicious position, but is told things have changed. The sense of betrayal causes him (and his wife, Claire) to throw off all previous loyalties in pursuit of power. This, of course, leads to all manner of dark and dangerous places.

The thing is, and this is the show’s genius, who among us (though the particulars are different) hasn’t felt betrayed? Who hasn’t felt, like Frank, of casting off allegiances and getting what’s due us? While we deplore his actions, we gobble them up because he gives us a guilt-free means of vicariously living through him. So this is what it’s like, we ask ourselves? This is what it’s like to get what we (feel) we deserve.

Which proves–if we’re honest–that we all have an inner “Frank Underwood,” that black dog of our souls who:

Looks out for #1

Uses others to get what we want

Stops at nothing in pursuit of our ends

Which just shows our continuing need for Jesus, and the new life only he can give.

If we’ve hated in our hearts… He died for that.

If we’ve sought revenge… He died for that, too.

In short, if we’re human we’re flawed, marred by sin, in need of a Savior. The very one who, within the show, that Underwood denies is the one who can set us on the path to a true and lasting life. The presidency–power–is but a drop in the bucket in light of eternity.

Choose you this day. Who will you serve? Yourself, your inner “Frank,” or the One Who died that you might truly live?

There Goes Tacos

randomlychad  —  March 12, 2015 — 2 Comments

So inspiration comes in a variety of forms and from many places. Today, I was playing Words with Friends with my friend, , and apparently played tiles in a spot he coveted for his own nefarious ends. Apparently, in Ricky-land, there’s a rule which states “whoever plays ‘taco(s)’ wins.” I thwarted his plans by playing the word “card.” In chat, he told me “there goes tacos!” What follows is a silly little piece inspired by this exchange.

“There goes tacos,” he said with a resigned shrug. It’s as if he’d hit the very rock bottom of what this day had to offer, and then someone went and knocked a hole in the bottom. What he wouldn’t give for a taco, and there it was–Taco Ricky’s–going up in flames.

How had it come to this?

His day began with an eviction notice. Then he had a flat tire, and was late to work (again). Then the boss, calling him into his office, said, “Sorry, Tom, you’re RIFed.” Because of where they were in the pay cycle his severance wouldn’t be available for a week. All he had was the money in his wallet (which wasn’t much).

There was enough for some beer. And Taco Ricky’s. The best tacos in all of Sandoval County. Taco Ricky’s was really just a roadside food stand, but man! No one made tacos like Ricardo “Ricky” Montalbob. Not no one, not nowhere.

Without any prospects, and nowhere to lay his head, Tom headed to White’s Blue Dragon (his favorite bar). He knew the bartender there, and hoped he could run a tab.

Tom had a few too many, and then got hungry. Arriving at Taco Ricky’s, he misjudged his speed, distance, and proximity to the taco shack. Tom crashed into it, rupturing the propane tanks which served to power the stoves inside.

Fortunately, “Ricky” himself was not inside (Tom forgot the stand closed early on Thursdays). Other than a flat tire, and some scrapes, neither Tom nor his car were hurt.

But the tacos were dead.

When the police arrived, they found Tom sitting on the curb bawling his eyes out.

“There goes tacos,” he blubbered. “What a winning day.”

The arresting officer replied, “Nobody wins when tacos die.”

image

“Behold the mobile prostate van,
Let all your trousers fall,
Bring forth a shining speculum
For this won’t hurt at all.”

I saw this on the street today. As a man of a certain age, I’ve been there–in the doctor’s office, mind you. There’s no way I’d head into some van to have my nethers poked and prodded.

NO. WAY.

In fact, after I recovered from the sheer horror and shock of seeing the smiling faces on the side of the van (I mean seriously, who enjoys the finger wave? the old guy looks happy, the guy in the middle has got a face saying “can we do that again that was kinda fun,” the football player has assumed the position, and I’m not sure what the couple is doing–lady, you don’t have one), it occurred to me that this is kind of comical. I know prostate cancer is no laughing matter, but getting checked sure is a pain in the butt!

Now turn your head and cough…

Okay, that was bad, but somehow it just doesn’t make me wanna sing ‘He Touched Me,’ you know? Because I can assure that it wouldn’t be joy which flooded my soul… You wanna know something else? When I was a new believer lo these many years ago, we would sing ‘All Hail the Power of Jesus Name’ at the church. When we got to the second verse–because I didn’t know the word, “prostrate” at the time–I heartily sang to “let angels’ prostates fall.”

Hold that image in your mind’s eye for a minute. Who’s gonna clean that up? “Angels,” came a booming voice, “pick up your prostates! Put them back. Let’s try this again. Clean up in aisle five.”

“All hail the power of Jesus name… No, no, no!”

——————————-

Okay, seriously, while our body parts/bodily functions may indeed cause us some discomfiture, the need for prostrate screening is real. Men, get checked. For your sake, for your family’s, for everyone who Depends upon you.

This has been a PSA from your friendly, neighborhood RandomlyChad. Oh, and, “Thank-you, sir! May I have another!”