Why I Love Kansas City: Arrowhead Stadium

I absolutely love the feeling of driving west on I-70 when it suddenly turns into the "George Brett Super Highway". That's when you can see one of the crown jewels of Kansas City: Arrowhead Stadium.

I feel like this post is long overdue, because Arrowhead is one of the first things that comes to my mind when I think about my hometown. It's a symbol of pride and passion for the residents of this great city. Where else in the world can you join with 70,000-plus fans to sing the last line of the national anthem: "and the hoooome of theee...CHIEFS!!!" Talk to a Kansas Citian long enough about KC, and he'll be sure to point out that on game day, you can party in the world's largest BBQ pit before entering into 116+ decibels of chaos.

I had the privilege of attending games at Arrowhead the past two weekends: one, the Border Showdown between Mizzou and KU (the single funniest sporting event I have ever been to). The other: the Chiefs vs. the Broncos. I know the Chiefs are absolutely terrible right now, but its still a one-of-a-kind experience. Here are some highlights from my visits:

• A Darth Vader clad Chiefs fan (Think red sweat suit, red Darth Vader mask, a light saber, and a Chiefs bed sheet for a cape)
• Free food and drink. Chiefs fans are the best. You can walk around the parking lot, strike up a conversation, and before you know it, you're gnawing on Big Dan's homemade short-ribs. Amazing.
• A grown man showing his 10-year-old son how to kick the backs off of two stadium seats and bang them together - "D-FENSE! D-FENSE!"
• A mini school bus painted Chiefs-style with a platform on top for people to hang out during the tailgate. The bus also included a 5-foot wooden cut-out hand with a Chiefs bracelet on giving the "#1" sign.
• The "domino fall": After a Mizzou touchdown, girl #1 topples over the seat behind me and crashes into girl #2 next to me, sending girl #2 over the seat in front of her, and then girl #1 lands on top of girl #2. Very funny.

These are just a few of the more blog-appropriate things I experienced at Arrowhead. Other tidbits include fans throwing items, screaming curse words, middle fingers, Zubaz pants, Indian headdresses, irreverent t-shirts, and plenty more falls.

And there's always the game.

dave

Fullness

We give thanks. We give thanks for our friends, for our families, for our homes, health, jobs, for the food on the table. We stop, and give pause to think about all that we have.

All that I have. Is it enough? A lot? A little? Do I have enough friends? Wish I was closer to some, distanced from others? Am I grateful, truly thankful for the guitar that sits against the wall gathering dust? Or for the college education I finished a few years ago (If my parents ever read this I am thankful to be debt free!)?

Maybe I have too much to even be thankful for it all. It gets lost in the mix, pushed to the wayside when I start dreaming about what is next. And there is always a next.

My stuff, and the quantity of that stuff is constantly in tension. I drive down roads with multi-million dollar homes, and I have walked the streets of developing countries where a roof is all you get.

And these groups they are thankful. Right? If I have everything I want, I will be thankful. And if I live in a world where I have to walk 2 miles to get fresh water, I can be thankful.

It begs the question in my heart. How? How can these 2 worlds coexist. Do worlds of have and those of have not both produce thankfulness? How can I constantly want more, believe that with more I will be more thankful, more blessed, more happy.

When the thankful spirit exists in a world of have not.

I've come to believe that when you live in a world of have not, what you do have, what you get to be thankful for, is the only thing you are granted, and even this can still be taken away.

Life.

Life touches all of us. No matter where you live, or what you have, or how much, we all depend on life...to live, to experience, to grow, and taste the very things that exist around us.

I want to be thankful for this life. For the life of my beautiful wife. My courageous mother. My caring father. For my friends, and for the Life that started it all.

Life is full, and I'm thankful.

benjamin

Before the Devil Knows You're Dead

Allow us to introduce you to our first guest blogger. Collins is a good friend of ours who lives in Columbia, South Carolina. He's in law school, and, like a true South Carolinian, doesn't own one single pair of jeans. Here's what's on Collins's mind:

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My mom has a prim and proper evangelical friend who went to see some suspenseful movie in the theater. It was a popular movie, and the theater was packed. At the climax of the movie, the main character is betrayed and killed by his best friend. Without realizing what she was doing, my mom’s friend jumped out of her seat and shouted at the screen, “YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

I am just like my mom’s friend. When I watch a good movie, I become the protagonist. In my mind, I am dodging bullets or plotting revenge or coping with a broken heart. One of the best things about story is that we learn truth and wisdom about life without having to actually go through the circumstances that lead to such a revelation. But it’s also one of the hardest things for me about watching some movies. You know the ones I’m talking about: the ones where the protagonist is in trouble and keeps making things worse and worse until he is stripped of any redeemable quality. It normally starts out small. He owes his bookie some money, or he gets a drink with his cute co-worker while his wife is at home with two screaming kids. Then he decides to join a buddy in a “can’t-miss” robbery to score the cash, or he lets the girl talk him into a couple more drinks upstairs at her place. All of a sudden, things are out of control, and life as he knew it is over. And he doesn’t live in a vacuum; he’s like a tornado ripping up the lives of those people unfortunate enough to care for him. Because he couldn’t control himself in minor things, his vices take over his whole being.

Here’s why those movies are hard to watch: I am so, so capable of that. I am so capable of it. I am so capable of letting little vices start to take who I am. And I could do it without anyone knowing. I’m pretty good at hiding that stuff—most of us are. We’re slippery, furtive creatures that can quickly become more animal than man. Think of Gollum in Lord of the Rings or Joseph Conrad’s The Heart of Darkness. That is who we are. That lives inside of us.

Sufjan Stevens has a song called “John Wayne Gacy, Jr.” about a real-life serial killer who dressed as a clown and raped and murdered over thirty men and boys. That’s about as messed up as it comes. The song eerily describes Gacy’s method, but the end of the song gives me the chills:

And in my best behavior

I am really just like him

Look beneath the floorboards

For the secrets I have hid

Am I any different than John Wayne Gacy, Jr.? Sure, I haven’t actually killed anyone, but didn’t Jesus say that if I look at a person with anger, it is the same as murdering him? Don’t our hearts make us as guilty as Gacy? Aren’t we on an even playing field?

But at the same time, we are capable of great things. Beauty and grace and compassion live in our hearts alongside all that ugly stuff. We can seamlessly slip back and forth between these two states like an experienced skier effortlessly navigates moguls. These moments—these “slippery slope” points in time—are the ones that matter. And like in Woody Allen’s movie, Match Point, these moments can come down the flip of a coin, like when a tennis ball hits the top of the net and could come down on either side. These moments define us.

But here’s the thing: these moments occur every day. C.S. Lewis writes in his essay, “The Weight of Glory,” that we “live in a society of possible gods and goddesses” and that “the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare.” And all the time we are either becoming one thing or the other. We’re either moving toward goodness, truth, humility, beauty and mercy, or we’re giving way to selfishness, greed, lust and depravity. Both live in us. Both are fighting a war for our souls.

Here is where we normally insert that Jesus has come to redeem us from this brokenness. And I believe he has. But it’s a work in progress. Moreover, I think Jesus has equipped us with a tool to combat the chaos within us: friends. Real friends are willing to take a flashlight and nose around beneath the musty, cobwebbed floorboards of our attic-like hearts. They pry around; they want to know what’s under the canvas tarp even when we’re trying to divert their attention to the vintage stereo that might look good in the living room. And in spite of all our shortcomings, they continue to love us, not because their attics are tidy but because they are loved themselves. It starts by letting someone in, by giving someone the key to the attic. Friendship, obviously, requires effort on the part of more than one person, but I know that too often I wait for someone to come knocking instead of inviting someone over to have a look around. I am finding that when I let people into the dark, dark places of my heart, those places suddenly aren’t so scary. I don’t feel as threatened by them. And I know that if I act on those feelings, someone will know about it. It’s amazing how merely voicing the rumblings of the heart is like diffusing a bomb. All of the punch dissipates, and I realize that maybe I’m not such a weirdo after all.

I’ll close with a poem from one of my favorite writers that, I believe, applies to friendship as well as our spiritual life (maybe substitute the word “Lord” for “friend”):

Come to me, Lord, I will speculate not how,

Nor think at which door I would have thee appear,

Nor put off calling to my floors be swept,

But cry, “Come, Lord, come any way, come now.”

Doors, windows I throw wide, my head I bow,

And sit like one who so long has slept

That he knows nothing ‘til his life draws near

Places: Part II

Places grab onto our minds and don't let go. They stamp themselves into our memories, along with everything that happened there and everyone we were with. Yesterday morning I was enjoying a cup of coffee in the living room, and for some reason this very vivid memory popped into my head. It was from a trip that I took with my dad and brother a few years ago. We did and saw a lot of amazing things on that trip, but this memory was not one of those things. It was just a random moment - something forgettable. But there it was, for one reason or another.

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I remember waking up in the middle of the night. I had to go to the bathroom. We were in the middle of the French Alps. I unzipped the small door of the tent and stretched myself out of a cocoon of body heat and into the darkness. I was there. It was freezing cold. And windy. And I was there in the take-your-breath-away cold with these take-your-breath-away stars above me. We were all there, my brother, my dad, and I. My brother was awake, because it's hard to sleep when someone's rustling around next to you in a tent. Dad was asleep, probably snoring in the other tent not too far away. And we were there, the tall, sharp mountains lifting us into the night sky. Chris, giggling, snapped a picture of me standing there in my thermal shirt and underwear, freezing cold, teeth chattering. I quickly nestled back into my sleeping bag, zipped up the tent door, and fell asleep.

We were there.

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Our brains can remember a billion different things, but for some reason these "waking up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom" moments are often the things that we remember more clearly than any of the others. Maybe they are less ordinary than we think. Maybe there is something more to them. Maybe they are reminders that we are alive, all the time, and that our lives are happening. I'm reminded again of Frederick Beuchner's thought on moments like these in his memoir "The Sacred Journey":

At the very least, they mean this: mean listen. Listen. Your life is happening. You are happening... The music of your life is subtle and elusive and like no other--not a song with words, but a song without words, a singing, clattering music to gladden the heart or turn the heart to stone, to haunt you perhaps with echoes of a vaster, farther music of which it is part.

--dave

Fine Dining

There are certain things that have been debated since the beginning of time. Which fast food joint has the best dollar burger is not one of those things. But, it is something that my roommates and I have been debating about for months, if not years. Burger King? Wendy's? McDonald's? Lately, the conversation has boiled over into full-on arguments with accusations and yelling abound.

We decided to put the issue to rest once and for all, knowing full well that you can never "once and for all" something like this. Nonetheless, on Wednesday night we found ourselves sitting around the kitchen table with 30 patties of processed beef.

The general consensus was that this would be a two horse race between McDonald's and Burger King. Wendy's was included simply because they have a dollar menu. To be more accurate, Wendy's has a 99 cent menu.

So which of the Big Three was on its way to fast food glory? I decided to keep a running diary of the evening.

7:27pm - We just returned from "Fast Food Row" on Main St. There are a Burger King, a McDonald's, and a Wendy's literally within a quarter mile of one another, all on the same street. It's pretty amazing, really.

To expedite the process, Matt dropped each us off at a different location and then came back to pick us up. That way we could ensure that the burgers were equally fresh (when I say "fresh", I mean "comparably warm"). I went to McDonald's, Scott to BK, and Adam and Matt to Wendy's.

(Side Note -- A quick run-down of the clientele at each establishment: McDonald's - Mostly hipsters. One of them had saran wrap creeping up out of his v-neck t-shirt to protect a new tattoo covering his chest. BK - A large population of homeless folks. According to Scott, "if you've only got a dollar to spend, you're going to want to stretch it". More on that later. Wendy's - empty.)

7:31pm - There are 15 cheeseburgers on the kitchen table. Scott and Matt are determining the order of consumption by drawing squares of paper out of a bag. Here's the order - Wendy's, BK, Mickey D's. The atmosphere is electric. Seriously.

7:32pm - First up: The Wendy's Doublestack. Matt H. can't contain his excitement anymore and blurts out: "We're really doing this!" Yeah. We are.

One of the unique things about the Doublestack is that it has round onions. Wendy's almost convinced us that because the onions are sliced into rings as opposed to chopped (a la McDonald's), they are fresh. Almost.

Scott: "I would never complain about having to eat that. It's the best burger I've eaten so far."

7:34pm - Matt F. informs us that we just ate the healthiest burger on the menu. Its all down hill from here. Or up hill, depending on how you look at it.

7:35pm - On to the Burger King Double Cheeseburger: Remember Scott's theory of why there were so many homeless people inside the BK? This is by far the thickest burger. Big, thick patties and two slices of cheese. It dwarfs the others.

Adam: "Totally, totally different taste."

The BK Double is grilled, so it's not quite as greasy. It's a little slim on the condiments, and tastes a little bit dry. Much, much more meat, though. And two slices of cheese.

Matt F. throws in another nutrition stat: "We're gonna have about 60-70 grams of protein tonight."

7:38pm - I'm wondering if McDonald's slot as the final pick is going to hurt it in the long run. We're all pretty full. This isn't college anymore.

7:40pm - We all agree that Burger King's dollar burger is better than Wendy's's (can I do that? a double apostrophe "s"?).

7:41pm - Conflict! Matt H. objects to Scott "bringing in outside details" when Scott touts Burger King's dollar menu because it features onion rings. Apparently, Matt thinks this detail could sway some voters.

7:42pm - Wow. The McDonald's McDouble. It truly melts in your mouth.

7:43pm - We begin discussion by comparing the chopped onions of McD's and the sliced onions of Wendy's. McDonald's provides consistency. You don't have to worry about whether or not you're getting the same amount with each sandwich. They are EXACTLY the same. Matt H. observes: "Every bite tastes the same, from here to China".

7:45pm - It is finished. "I feel sick". "Yeah, me too." "All the fat we need for the rest of the week".

7:46 - Sitting. Digesting. Feeling disgusting.

7:46 - McDonald's pepper-seasoned-patty flavor is still lingering in my mouth. Amazing.

7:47 - We discuss how to better hold the competition next time. One bite from each? I think we all secretly hope that there won't be a "next time".

7:47 - Final thoughts. Matt F. - Over-all: Burger King. Taste alone: Wendy's, McD's, BK.

- (Gasps!) Wendy's?! Shocking. Absolutely shocking.

7:48 - Discussion on how all three tasted completely different. All good, but totally different products.

7:49 - Adam's turn to weigh in: Taste, Mickey D's. Value, BK. On Wendy's: "I was surprised how good it was, but i would choose it zero of the time.

7:50 - Dave: "I definitely had a bias towards McDonald's going into this competition, but I still think it's the best. It was just that good. BK definitely has the size factor, but the McDonald's flavor is just overwhelming."

7:52 - Scott: "We talked last night about how 'would you go to Burger King and order two burgers, given that they're so big?'. The answer is 'no'. I wouldn't. I couldn't! BK, and then whatever I'm in the mood for."

7:54 - Matt H.: "Burger King is my favorite burger. It tastes like you could have grilled it in your backyard. Wendy's is interchangeable with a lot of other places. McDonald's is just so good, though. It reminds me of being a kid. Over all: BK. But when I want childhood, I'm going to McDonald's."

7:55 - What?

7:56 - Completely satisfied (and stuffed to the gills) we decide that we're the real winners here. Three excellent burgers from three excellent dining establishments. Thank you, fast food.

A lethal dose

Cancer is a scary thing. I was talking to a friend today about the cruelty of this offender, with it's blind eye seemingly turned toward whomever and whatever it chooses to destroy.

I've wrote about my mom before. She just left the hospital. Ten days early. She's still fighting, but it looks like the future (whatever that time period may be) is bright.

I don't know how many of you have dealt with cancer, or know how we fight it, but here is the run down.

My mom just had a stem cell transplant.

1. Take stem cells out of body.

2. Kill everything in your body, also known as "A lethal dose of chemotherapy" as the doctor described it.

Everything. You kill the good with the bad, all of it. She will be lining up with the 3 and 4 year olds to get vaccinations all over again, because her immune system just pressed reset.

3. After everything is dead, they put the stem cells back into your body. If they do what they are supposed to they will help red and white blood cells regenerate and begin the process of making her body new.

That's a powerful image to me. Reset. What if I could press reset? Would I?

Would I go back and take back those words?

Would I have taken that road?

Would I have said hi to her?

Would I have hidden the secrets from my parents?

Here is the interesting thing. For my mom, and maybe for all of us, when she pressed reset, there was a new life being created in her. And I think we all experience this.

My reset was not in going back and righting my wrongs. It was being released from those actions. Those emotions. That Pain.

It was a release from shame. A release from carrying the burden alone.

My reset was pressed. And now life moves. And it's bright.

benjamin

Out With the Old...

There is a lot to learn from reading back through old journals. Reading page after page of high school writing is pretty taxing, and I find my year 2009 self having to hold back from wanting to violently shake the naivete, insecurity, and general high school-ness right out of my year 2001 self. I often have to remind myself that I was only a 15 year-old boy.

But it's great. There are all of these "Aha!" moments and all of these good, though misguided, intentions, and all of these dreams and struggles. And, really, things aren't that much different. I'm convinced that the things we struggle with and dream about now are the things we will still struggle with and still dream about 30 years from now. It will just look a little bit different or be a little bit more developed or subdued.

For the most part, I plod along through these journals, writing about experiences and conversations and moments and a whole slew of other things that probably only mean something to me. Then, the other day, I arrived at February 2005. It was the second semester of my sophomore year of college, and I was engaged in an all-out battle. I had been trying to sort something out. Here's what I wrote:

"I feel like I've given up on the old Jesus and the new Jesus has yet to come to take his place."

At the time, this was written with a good measure of cynicism and doubt and, probably, yes, fear. I was disillusioned with most things, especially church. But the other day when I read that statement that I wrote almost five years ago, it stirred something in my heart. It hit me with a little less cynicism and negativity but just as much truth. Something different had taken the place of those feelings. It was hope.

I tend to think of life as a journey with no final destination, at least not this side of life. We never get "there"; we never "arrive" (after all, the feeling that we have "arrived" at God is probably a good indication that whatever it is we are arriving at is most certainly NOT God). We are always searching. And the search is the good part. Frederick Buechner says this about the search in his book The Sacred Journey:

One way or another the journey through time starts for us all, and for all of us, too, that journey is in at least one sense the same journey because what it is primarily, I think, is a journey in search. Each must say for himself what he searches for, and there will be as many answers as there are searchers, but perhaps there are certain general answers that will do for us all. We search for a self to be. We search for other selves to love. We search for work to do. And since even when to one degree or another we find these things, we find also that there is still something crucial missing which we have not found, we search for that unfound thing too, even though we do not know its name or where it is to be found or even if it is to be found at all.

I hope that I have a curiosity about life, that the "unfound thing" draws me in. I hope that I never lose my willingness to let go of the old in order to grab onto the new, even if the new is not yet in reach, even if I can only barely see it approaching on the horizon. I hope I'm willing to wait in that uncomfortable space between. I hope that I have enough faith, even when I'm 80 years old, to let go of the "old Jesus" and let the "new Jesus" come to take his place.

dave

Garage Band

One of my favorite things in the world is to scour the internet for live footage of some of my favorite musical artists. I especially love the videos that are filmed "in studio" or some obscure location like an apartment or a tiny little nook in an Irish pub or just on the street (or the back of a cab?!). I think it's how music is meant to be experienced. There's just something special and raw about watching someone play music in an intimate place.

You can imagine my excitement when my friend Steve told me that he and Brandon were hosting a house show in Brandon's garage. A friend of theirs is on tour, and instead of playing larger venues they decided to do a series of house shows, hosted by friends all over the country. With a house show, the band have less constrictions on what they can do and how much time they have. They also wanted an opportunity to share their experiences with adoption and justice with a small group of people.

Scott and I pulled up to Brandon's house and walked around back to the garage. It was a chilly, rainy night -- perfect for coffee and hot chocolate. After some time just hanging about and talking, Autumn in Repair (Steve and Brandon) played a few songs, and then Aaron Ivey and his crew took over.

The whole show was amazing. It was a beautiful atmosphere, with a projector flashing picture and video, candles, and great sound for such an odd place. What's more, the personal stories of love and faith and justice that the band told were inspiring and without pretense. They really live it...humbly.


And it truly felt like I was in one of the YouTube videos that I love so much.

I have some very talented, very caring friends.

dave

The Great Debate

No, I'm not talking about the Jayhawks vs. The Tigers or The Roasterie vs. Broadway. I'm not talking about Gates vs. Bryant's vs. Joe's vs. Jack Stack vs. etc., etc., etc. I'm not talking about The Funk vs. his own City Council. I'm not talking about Brian Busby vs. Gary Lezak . I'm not talking about any of that.

I'm talking about The Light Rail.

To Light Rail or not to Light Rail? That is the question (well, not really, but that's what I'm writing about).

I read this article from the Kansas City Star yesterday. To be honest, it struck me as a little bit ridiculous. More on that later. Here are a few fun facts about the Kansas City Light Rail project.

The first proposal was added to the ballot in 1998. It was voted down. In fact, it has been voted down SEVEN TIMES since 1998. Once, in 2006, Kansas Citians actually voted to install a light rail, but things never got off the ground after that. In 2008, Kansas City again said "no" to the light rail plan.

Poor Clay Chastain just keeps on keepin' on, though. I admire his perseverance, and hope that one day it pays off.

Now, why is this current proposal a little bit ridiculous?

First, let me say that I like the idea of a light rail. In fact, I voted for it in '08. I think it's a step in the right direction for our city. That, and improving our law enforcement so people will actually get on the thing.

OK, now the ridiculous part:

This current proposal includes installing a Ferris Wheel in Penn Valley Park. A light rail, and a Ferris Wheel.

A Ferris Wheel?

A Ferris Wheel.

Tax-payers in Kansas City have not been willing to pay for a new public transportation system. But maybe they'll vote for it if the sky-line includes a giant carnival ride perched next to The Scout or the Liberty Memorial.

(Insert Ferris Wheel here)

Here's hoping...

dave

All Of Us

Over the past couple years, I have fallen in love with the book of Genesis. Become addicted, really. A little strange, I know, but I just can't get enough of it.

The observations about humanity are stunning. Are we not all striving for control? Are we not all deceived? Are we not all deceivers? Are we not all capable of incredible good and also incredible evil? Are we not all hiding? Are we not all waiting for something to call us on a journey? Are we not all wrestling with something? Are we not all trying to figure this thing out?

The questions that are asked stop me in my tracks: "Did God really say that?" "Where are you?" "What have you done?" "Am I my brother's keeper?" "Will not the judge of all the earth do right?" These are questions that we all answer in some form or another for all of our lives. There is no escaping them.

Now that I'm familiar with it, I see the Genesis story everywhere. I see it in the books I read and the movies I watch, and in the everyday interactions and transactions of my life. I see it when I read the news and when I take a drive through Kansas City in the fall.

We all have stories that narrate our lives, whether we choose to recognize their influence or not. We all ask these big, huge questions of our world and of our God.

All of us.

dave

Manna on Main

What would it be like to rise in the morning, wipe away the remaining fragments of dreams, stretch out your tired frame, pull on your work clothes, shuffle your feet down the hall, past the bathroom, through the kitchen, out the back door, across the basketball court, and into the street - breakfast is waiting.

It's always waiting, and it's the only thing on the menu. You can't grow food. Anything you raise slips through your fingers before it can create sustenance. This is it. Your daily bread. It's always there. You can't stop it from coming. You can't create or recreate the meal that fills you.

This food provides life, and you are dependant on its provision.

It's a scary thought. Being dependent.

A few weeks ago I was talking to a lady about Sseko, a company Liz, Tyler, and I started in Uganda. We employ some awesome young ladies so that they can go on to University. Sseko is a means to an end for these girls. And the end is changing and shaping their reality, it is being empowered to make choices, live with dignity, and have the freedom to dream.

The lady had a funny response, "Good for them. Earning their own way."

Their own way. This is important.

With the rise of prosperity, comes choice, freedom, and seemingly individuality. You can define your space, time, and friend group when you can move anywhere, eat anything, and form your living habits around the clock. There is a defined system of belief in this country, a religious belief, a political belief, a cultural belief that tells us that it is best to go at it alone.

It just makes me wonder about the manna. It makes me wonder if the Lord saw us when he said, "otherwise, when you eat and are satisfied, when you build fine houses and settle down, and when your herds and flocks grow large and your silver and gold increase and all you have is multiplied, then your heart will become proud and you will forget...who brought you out of slavery."

How did we get here? Wherever here is.

Are we supposed to go at it alone? Are the girls in Uganda making it on their own? Are any of us?

benjamin

Places

The Basilica di Sant'Ambrogio was originally built in the year 379 under the leadership St. Ambrose, Arch Bishop of Milan, Italy. In the 1100's it was rebuilt. During WWII it took on some serious damage from Allied bombings but has since been restored. So, if it feels like you're going back in time when you walk under those Roman arches and into the courtyard, it's because you are.

A few years ago I spent a semester living in Milan, and I discovered the Basilica just down the street from my school. Almost every day after class I would wander over to the old church that had been there for longer than I could imagine. I would walk through the courtyard, imagining myself in the same place many years ago, walking on the same timeless stones as so many others.

And then I would enter the church. There is something very powerful and surreal about entering into an old church. It feels old. The steps leading to the door are concave and smooth because of the countless feet that they have supported. The doors are heavy and creaky, and the handles have the same smooth characteristics as the stairs. The place is a little bit chilly and drafty because 900 years ago they didn't put insulation in giant stone buildings. Ancient frescoes, sculptures, and relics fill the walls and nooks and hallways throughout the building. And there's the silence. The cavernous atrium hears every footstep and every cough and every shuffle and every silent prayer and echoes them into eternity.

I grew to love my afternoon visits to the Basilica. There was this small chapel on the south side of the church that was reserved for silent reflection and prayer. It became my spot. Almost every day I would walk in and sit down in the pew and just breath. Sometimes I'd listen to music. Sometimes not. Sometimes I'd journal. Sometimes not. The point was that in the big, loud, polluted, bustling Italian city that was Milan, I had found a place where I didn't have to be big, loud, polluted, bustling...or Italian.

I need a place in my life. I need my Kansas City version of the Basilica di Sant'Ambrogio - A place where I can just be, where I can journal or not journal, listen to music or not listen to music. A place that exists to center me, silence me, allow me to listen to my heart and soul.

There's a little chapel that I've found right down the road from my house. It doesn't have almost 1,700 years of stories and people under its belt like my place in Milan did, but it does have some history. It was built in 1942 as a church for the hearing impaired. It looks more American than Roman, with rafters and floors made out of wood instead of stone. Its not as drafty and not as elaborate as the old Basilica, either.

But I still felt that shock of silence when I walked through the doors this morning. More than anything, it was quiet. And the walls were listening for footsteps and coughs and shuffles and prayers to echo into eternity.

dave

Shuffle vs. Control

Right before I went for my run tonight I added a new song to my little IPOD shuffle. I do the same run, or a variation of it, almost every time I go out (twice a month). It's great. I head down hill, hit the park, circle a beautiful fountain, and climb back to my house. I love the run. And I was so excited about this new song.

A perfect night. A perfect run. And a new song. This is going to be incredible.

And then it happened. As I was walking down the stairs, I was cycling through the songs on my IPOD to hear the song, and I did it.

Shuffle.

For those of you who don't know, shuffle is the option that creates a random play list, the machine takes control, you get what you get.

As soon as I hit play I was anxious. I mean, what if I don't get my song?

This got me thinking. I was driving in a car last week with a friend. I was spilling my guts about how my mom has Lymphoma. She's battled it once before. And she beat the hell out of it.

But then it came back.

And this time it's getting a little scary. I was telling my friend how I want my mom to be better. I want her to smile. to laugh. to be beautiful. Because she is.

And I asked the Lord to do that.

To heal her.

And then I told my friend about how I sat at my kitchen table the other night and wept. I wept because I didn't think the Lord was at the table with me. I mean, I was there. All of me. My tears, my frustration, my desires, my frustration. But I didn't know if he was there, and if he was, I didn't know if he really wanted to know what I wanted.

I told my friend I didn't know how I was supposed to relate to this man anymore. Can I ask for things? Can I tell him my heart? Does he want us to ask for healing, for change, hope, love? I told my friend I was confused. Why did Jesus speak with such provocative language?

Ask. Seek. Knock.

If he doesn't show up when we are the most raw?

My friend looked at me. He was at a loss for words. But then he said this before we sat in silence.

What you really want...is control.

I did/do want control. I want this life, and the people's lives around me to play out as I see appropriate, fair, and life giving. I want the things that cause me pain, that cause my family pain, my friends pain...to go away. Is this so much to ask?

Which takes me back to the IPOD. I begin the run. I hit play and my favorite song on the list comes on, it wasn't the new song.

And this shuffle, it just kept playing the music that spoke to my heart. I ran through the park tonight. And i wept. It was beautiful. My heart was singing.

And then I turned home, up the big hill, past Broadway Coffee, and around the Catholic church. And I began to notice my song hadn't come on yet. I had worked pretty hard to get this song on the list, why hadn't it turned up?

I thought: Be patient. This shuffle has been incredible.

But I wanted to hear the song. So I did it.

I hit next. And then again. And again. And i took control.

As I was cycling through the songs, I passed over a number of tunes that seemed to fit the evening perfectly, but I was on a mission to get what i wanted. Finally after every song had cycled through, it began.

And it wasn't what I was hoping for. It just wasn't the song that I needed this night.

It just made me wonder - What if I let the shuffle play out? What if I gave up control? What if my picture of what I need, what my mom needs is too small?

What if the Lord was helping me understand how much I love my mom, and what if he was really helping me understand how much his heart is in this thing?

I haven't figured this one out...but I'm willing to let go. I think. As long as You take me.

benjamin

Why I Love Kansas City: Expensive Art & Cheap Beer

Last year, Ben and I went to The Plaza Art Fair late on Sunday afternoon, hoping just to catch the tail end of the event and enjoy the day. Instead, we discovered a gold mine.

Besides the amazing artwork and gobs of people filling the area, almost all of the restaurants on the Plaza set up booths and serve food right there on the street, so it's also a great opportunity to try some really good food.

It wasn't at all surprising that we found ourselves eyeing the food just as much as the beautiful photography. An already great experience became the stuff of legends when we realized that these restaurants didn't want to haul all of the left over food and beer back to their buildings at the end of the day. So what did they do? They started selling it at HALF-PRICE. We're both pretty big suckers for anything that's on discount, especially when it's food and drink.

The real fun started when we began doing price comparisons and trying to haggle. "Oh, what's that, UNO Pizza? Two bucks for a 20oz Boulevard? The same Boulevard that we just had at the PF Chang's booth for a buck seventy-five? How about I give you a dollar fifty?"

My suggestion for Sunday? Catch the Chiefs game, as bad as they may be, take a quick Sunday afternoon nap, and then head to the Plaza for a beautiful day and some cheap food and beer.

Dave

Why I Love Kansas City: Oversized Toys

“I can’t believe they are building a parking garage next to the Nelson” I remember thinking this, and thinking how the project was taking a loooooonnnnngggg time. I love the huge shuttlecocks that dotted the yard, as if this were the back yard of a family of GIANTS, and the Nelson was just an obstacle to get over. But what terrible judgment on the curators part.

Sadly, I admit that my parking garage is another example of my inability to recognize beauty at first glance. And I soon uncovered that my parking garage was the Bloch addition to the Nelson, you know the building that was declared the #1 archtiectural marvel in 2007.

If you haven’t seen it you need to, if you have, go back. This building, and the artwork that surround it are enchanting. The building elegantly weaves through the sloping grounds next to the original museum. Walking through the sculptures, and shade trees on a Sunday afternoon is incredible. I’m fairly certain the lawn in front of the Nelson is perfect. You can lay on it, play football, do odd karate moves, or just sit and take in the day, and it’s wonderful.

And once you have experienced all that. Night falls.

I love this place.

ben

I'll Tumble For You

Yesterday, I fell down the stairs.

We were at a friends house painting the hallway and the stairwell, and I was wearing my socks. I took off down the stairs to get a paper towel, hit the landing, and started the slide. There's always that moment when you're falling when you think that you can catch yourself and keep your balance. But no. I didn't catch myself, and my tailbone hit the hardwood floor.

It was so funny.

Watching someone fall always makes me laugh. In fact, I often say that one of my favorite things in the whole world is watching people fall. I love the guy at the baseball game that eats it going up the stairs while carrying two full cardboard drink holders with nachos stacked on top of the cups and a bag of peanuts under his chin. And I love the "walking down a slippery hill when it's raining" fall that I fell victim to last year. The skateboard fall is always a classic, especially when the spectator is partially to blame. The more stuff that spills, the harder the fall, and the more serious the person tries to be in recovery, the better.

Now, you may be thinking to yourself: "Who is this guy? What a jerk, laughing at someone else's misfortune!" But I'm convinced that watching people fall is one of your favorite past times, too. Why else has America's Funniest Home Videos been on television for 20 years now? It sure wasn't Bob Saget's cunning jokes that kept it running. It's funny things happening to ordinary people. There's something so simple about falling, especially for an adult. I've spent the better part of my 25 years walking around on two legs, but every once in a while, I find myself on the ground.

So, keep your eyes peeled. You never know when you might catch the funniest three seconds of your week.

Here's something to get you started:

dave

Why I Love Kansas City: My Morning Drive

Every weekday, I get in my car, back out of the driveway, head north on Walnut, take a left on 38th, and then turn right on Main. I'm trying to enjoy my last five minutes of freedom before work. On the radio, 90.9 is playing some relaxed americana/folk song I've never heard before, and unless it's terribly hot, terribly cold, or raining, my windows are open. That's especially nice this time of year. As I head north on Main Street, I watch the street signs tick off: 37th, 36th, 35th. I see the same people every day at the bus stop next to Burger King. They have names, but I don't know them. So there's "The Guy With the Skateboard, "The Guy With the Cane", and "The Lady With the Baby".

And then I get to the intersection of Main and Linwood, and I can smell it. It's the smell of Kansas City. It's Barbeque - Kansas City BBQ. Gates BBQ, to be exact. The sweet smoky smells pouring out of the building are unmistakable and mouth-watering, even at 9 in the morning.

Gates is just one of many fantastic BBQ joints in KC. There's Jack Stack, Smokehouse, Bryant's, Okie Joe's, and so many others that I haven't even tried yet. I like to think about how all over the city there are people who are driving past these BBQ restaurants, breathing deep, and thinking the same thing that I am: "mmmm...".

Gates isn't open for business at 9 in the morning, but if it were, you can bet that I'd leave for work a few minutes early. And you'd find me there, standing in line, listening for my "Hi May I Help You?!".

"One Beef Breakfast on Bun and a coffee, please!"

Dave

Whenever I See..

For a guy who doesn't have the greatest taste in music, and/or lacks the desire to put the time and effort into discoverying the next great thing, I hold on to one man, one shining star.


James Taylor.


I don't know how it happened, but he found his way into my cd player in high school. And he never left. His rythm is soothing, melodies grooving, and his words move the soul.


There was one song that grabbed me from first listen. Now I don't know how most people experience music, but for me, it transends my mind. By that I mean, I usually don't cognitively grasp most of the words of a song, but somewhere inside my soul I connect with what is being said, played, and experienced through the music. The song that entered me was Smiling Face.

Whenever I see your smiling face

I have to smile myself,

because I love you

It became the song I sang along to, the song I listened to when I was happy, and the song I wanted to listen to when I was down.


And then I started dating this girl. And she had the most amazing smile, and an even more joyful laugh. And the words of the song started to become clearer.


What James was singing about I was beginning to experience. And I entered into the song. I entered into the story we had been singing about for the past 7 years.


Whenever I saw her, I couldn't stop smiling.


Whenever I heard her laugh, I saw a joy eternal, and I tasted it.


To see my love smile, could only create joy in my soul.


The words become clearer as we enter into the story. The song is always inside. We move to the beat. We make up the words. We push repeat.


And then we sing. The song of Love is beautiful.


benjamin

There's No "I" in A-L-A-S-K-A

I read an article today. It was about the church's different views on the Trinity and how those views determine much of the leadership structure and relational dynamic of a church (think static/hierarchical/patriarchal vs. dynamic/egalitarian). A bit nerdy, I know, but I thought it was fascinating (you can read it here). Anyway, there was this quote that really struck me:

I think that we are witnessing a fundamental shift in what society values as ‘real’, with a heavy emphasis on relationality as the answer. The philosophers used to say that ‘the real is rational’. Now they say that ‘the real is relational’. In fact, Deleuze has pointed out that ‘even the rational is relational’. Modern science has shown us that particles exist not as absolute entities but as entities defined solely by their relationships to other particles. People deeply want genuine connection and relationship to ground them and to give them life.

We are defined by our relationships (or lack of them): relationships with one another, with the earth, with our culture and society, and (listen, fellow consumers!) with our possessions.

Have you ever seen the movie "Into the Wild"? It's this compelling story about a young man who tries and tries and tries to cut himself off from a society that he deems insufficient and superficial (and there is some nobility and truth to his quest). But what happens when he finally does create that separation through a VW Van in the Alaskan wilderness and a pile of books? Christopher McCandless writes these haunting words as he is dying. In an old van. In the middle of nowhere. Alone.

"Happiness is real when shared".

We can't escape each other, no matter how hard we might try. And really, I think, most of us don't want to. At least not in the same way that Chris McCandless did. But it is our choice which relationships we allow to define us.

OK, stepping off my soap-box now.

Self-Help Yourself

The other day I was talking with my brother on the phone. He had started Steinbeck's East of Eden that week, and I was asking him how it was going. He said, "Well, I think I'm going to finish it today." I was stunned. This is not a quick read kind of book. This is a thick, involving, 600-plus page journey.

I asked Chris where he found the time to get through this novel so quickly, and he told me that he learned how to speed read. So, a few days ago when I was in Columbia visiting, I had Chris show me how to do it. He pointed me here.

I'm not a huge fan of self-help trends, so I was a little skeptical at first. I tried it anyway, and about 20 minutes later I was reading fast. Really fast.

And it is awesome.

The basic principle behind speed reading is that you re-train your eyes to read more quickly than you thought possible. Your brain at some point will catch up.

I've never read the Harry Potter books. At first it was a pride thing, but now it's more of a time thing. In my mind, to start The Sorcerer's Stone means to finish The Deathly Hallows (yes, I had to look up the names). And that's a big commitment. Now, though, it doesn't seem so intimidating.

Speed reading might change my life.

Hello, Neighbor!

A few nights ago, my roommates and I were sitting out on our front porch enjoying the unusually cool August weather. We quietly watched as a large white conversion van attempted to maneuver out of a driveway across the street and scraped up against a car parked in the road. It was one of those situations when in order to get out of the already bad situation you're in, you have to do even more damage first. So we listened to the sound of metal on metal as the van inched forwards, then inched backwards, and then came clear on the third try. It was painful to watch. We waited for the driver to hop out, assess the damage, and leave a note.

...Nothing.

We decided to give the benefit of the doubt, hopeful that the van driver's conscience would eventually get the best of him.

That was before Saturday night, when we watched the same van back out of the same driveway and ram into another helpless victim parked on the street during our friend's bachelor party dinner. This time, a couple of my roommates decided to take some action. They calmly walked across the street to confront the driver: 350-plus pounds of African American man.

I'll spare you the details of what was said (yelled, really) by our neighbor, but it was not pleasant. Cooler heads prevailed, the police were called (still waiting for them to show up...) and my roommates walked back across the street to rejoin the BBQ. There was another failed attempt to communicate about 15 minutes later. Finally, we all retreated to the back yard, convinced that this was going nowhere. Besides, we were here to celebrate with our friend, not argue with our neighbor.

Another 15 minutes went by, and we all stood at arms as our neighbor-turned-nemesis hustled across the street and made his way up the driveway into our back yard. By this time, there could only be one reason for this bold move. This guy was big, but we had numbers.

Then it happened.

He stopped, looked at us, and said "Guys, I'm sorry. I'm having a really rough day. I know you were just trying to help, and I don't want to cause any trouble." He shook our hands, specifically pointed out one friend with whom he had had most of his exchange with and said "I'm sorry for what I said to you".

We were floored. Here was a real man. Yes, things were tense. Yes, we were angry and ready to dismiss this foolish man who didn't want to have a civilized interaction or own up to his mistakes. And then, against all odds, he apologized. And this was a REAL apology. It was not the kind where someone says "I'm sorry you feel that way", but the kind where someone says "I was wrong. I hurt you." We spent the next few minutes in sheer admiration of this neighbor-turned-nemesis-turned-neighbor.

I love moments like Saturday night: moments when against all odds, when things seem totally hopeless, a new reality breaks through. There is something so raw about those moments, like our hearts are not used to experiencing something so good and right. After all, why should any of us expect someone to apologize? What is it that can bring a proud, large-and-in-charge man to walk across that street and into a group of 12 young men and take ownership for his actions and words?

Perhaps more importantly, why don't I recognize these moments more often?