The Drafting Room

The End of Ice Season

2010-03-13T22:38:00.000-08:00

Every winter I have grand intentions of filling my basement with cases of Sam Adams Winter Lager to carry me through the long months when my favorite beer disappears from the shelves. Alas, these plans have never come to fruition, but maybe its better this way. My failure to carry out this plan leaves me with seven or eight months filled with anticipation, and that savored first cold sip when I spot it on tap in the late fall.

So it is with Ice season. It’s the allusive nature of this time of year that makes it so good in the first place. Rock climbing always seems to have its possibilities. On a freezing day I could always boulder, or if I was really desperate go to the gym, but Ice is a different story. Different year to year season to season, its that mix of temperatures weather patters ground water, and (in the case of this season) how far along I’ve come on home renovations that will determine the number of climbing days and whether there will be anything worth climbing in the first place. Maybe I’ll get out twenty days this season and that rare line will be in this year! Or, maybe it will be much less, but the few thwaks I do get to hear will be worth the wait.

The anticipation for ice season begins the day I hang up my axes and remove the ice screw clippers from my harness. Sure, I’ve got some goals on the rock to get through before I strap on my crampons again, but that same line will be there without any change next year if I don’t get around to it. Late May and early June hold great rock weather, but their real significance lies in the fact that there are now only six months until the start of Ice season. By the fourth of July I’m on the downhill slope.

And then it’s October. The first chilly days arrive and I start to check the weather forecasts. Weather.com reenters my favorites list and I wait for the day when someone reports that Pinnacle Gulley has fallen to its first early season half ice, half waterfall ascent. I begin making long drives to the closest location that “might” have ice with a my truck loaded with gear I know I want need only to see less ice than I find on my gutters in the morning. But give it a few weeks, and the game is on.

Today was the day I hung up my axes and took the clippers off my harness. Well, I left the axes a little more accessible this year to enable my hopes of “training” on holds at home during the off season. But the short of it is another Ice season is over way to quickly. It’s been a good one though. I didn’t come close to my twenty day mark, but I lead some harder stuff than last season and I’ll rest easy with this year’s accomplishments. The good news is there’s only eight, maybe eight and a half months until the start of the next season.

I used to hate winter. I’ve never really gotten into skiing, so it’s always been a season to endure with deep cold and early darkness that has simply gotten in the way of my other pursuits. But it has become my most anticipated season of year offering the chance of a fresh angle on our coveted pursuit of climbing, and a few really good beers. Ice season came and went quickly this year, but my dreams for next season lead me to believe that, maybe, its better this way.

Fall

2009-10-12T20:32:00.000-07:00

The finer things of fall, perfect climbing weather.

Katrina - Four Years Later

2009-09-01T20:49:00.000-07:00

Fall is in the air again and with the arrival of September comes the annual anniversary of the most important time in my life, the three months I spent on the Gulf Coast after Hurricane Katrina struck on August 29th, 2005. I'm reminded of it constantly. Weather Channel shows, documentaries, and stories in print constantly retell those fateful hours. I usually just watch and smile to myself, knowing that those around me could never understand the impact that storm had on my life if I were to mention it. Because for me, everything reminds me of Katrina. There are too many stories to share the meaning of so many simple memories, but any late fall evening, high school football game, cross, smell of gasoline or song in my "Katrina" play list brings me back to southern Mississippi or eastern Louisiana.

Katrina woke me up. For all intents and purposes I was born on September 11th, 2005, the day I arrived in Mississippi. The days that followed challenged me and broadened my life in ways I never imagined possible as I grew to understand suffering, service, and the true joy of following Christ in the face of adversity. There is not a day that goes by that i don't think of someone I worked with or for on the gulf coast; where they are now, how they're doing, and how they themselves have recovered. I have lost track of most, and like all periods of life this is probably inevitable and perhaps for the best. But my heart will forever find it roots in the downed trees of Mississippi and the flooded remains of New Orleans.

I have traveled back to the area several times over these past four years. Its good to see the progress and travel the roads again, but like all experiences, its never the same. Everyone has periods of life that are simply magical, and while I hate that this period for me came at the cost of much suffering, it was a once in a lifetime mix of trial, triumph, and growth in the presence of the most influential people I have ever met. I'll never be able to recapture that, but the effects of that period will reverberate through me forever.

I posted the above pictures intentionally. They are not pictures of destruction, but of endurance. That cross stood beside the remains of towering buildings brought to their knees by a thirty foot storm surge, and yet remained unscathed. That family stood beside the remains of their flooded home, having lost everything, but filled with joy. Hope in the cross, and you will never be shaken.

If you're reading this and you happen to be one of those special people who I encountered on the gulf who radically altered the course of my existence for the better, I thank you. I'll be thinking about you...

RIP Charleston 9

2009-06-18T08:45:00.001-07:00

Today is the two year aniversary of the Sofa Superstore fire in Charleston, SC. The fire killed nine firemen, the largest single incident loss of life since 9/11. RIP brothers. Here is the link to the report about the fire. http://firehouse.com/firereport_051508.pdf

Writer

2009-05-28T18:31:00.001-07:00

The other day over excessively priced beer and bowl of French Onion Soup, I asked a friend of mine what his brother was up to. He replied that his brother was writing.

I'm jealous. I feel as I've heard the phrase, "Oh, he's taking some time off to write" several times in my life, and I've always wondered what that would look like for me.

I want to take some time off, move to a one room bungalow on the coast of a Spanish Island, you know, the ones with only a hanging sheet for a door. I want to emerge each sunny morning wearing sandals and a loose shirt buttoned up only half way...

And write.

Post-Galveston

2008-10-21T07:59:00.000-07:00

Thanks for the support as I traveled to Galveston last weekend in the wake of Hurricane Ike. It was a tough trip, primarily because I came down with the worst stomach virus of my life the first night there that ended me up in the hospital shortly after I landed home in Philly. That said, Galveston was heavily damaged, at least 60% of the city was flooded, maybe more, with many buildings right on the coast suffering structural damage or collapse. It appears, however, that a great deal of work is underway, most of the gutting has been completed and folks appear ready to rebuild. Galveston will be back. Thanks again for your support.

Hurricane Ike Texas Trip

2008-10-15T21:11:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I am headed to Galveston Texas to do a post Hurricane Ike disaster assessment for the Presbyterian Church in America. Hopefully this trip will yield many ministry possibilities and pave the way for volunteer response teams from across the country to come and work. Please keep my team and our productivity in your prayers.

How Soccer Explains the World

2008-07-28T07:28:00.000-07:00

I stole the title of this post from a book I'm reading by Franklin Foer. A New York Times' best seller, Foer contrasts the worldwide love of Soccer with modern theories of globalization. While a fascinating book, it focused mainly on the primary professional football clubs and it failed to discuss the idea encompassed by its title that first drew me to it: Soccer is the only activity (besides maybe warfare) that is truly embraced by just about every culture and every demographic within culture around the world.

I took the Photo above on the fringes of the Kibera Slum in Nairobi, Kenya, in June of 2006. I had been playing with some of the school children I was working with, and despite the surroundings of one of the worst slums in Africa, excitement abounded. The 2006 soccer World Cup was in full swing, and if you followed it at all you'll remember that the West African country of Ghana was doing unexpectedly well. Kenya, and from what the media seemed to portray, all of Africa as well was ablaze with excitement and support for a fellow African nation. On a continent known for its division, I was struck by this unilateral transformation of identity. Ghana flags were being sold in the streets and flapped from the roofs of passing vehicles. They didn't make it all the way, falling to Brazil just before the Quarter finals. But their strong showing brought a talented team from Africa to the forefront of the International stage.

Fast forward to the summer and fall of 2007 when I found myself on two separate disaster response assignments in South and Central America. My first stop was Peru, where 8.0 magnitude earthquake in August had devastated several southern towns. And yet the football games were not stopped, played in refugee camps by the children or with my team of Peruvian Nationals. I came proudly home with Peru Jersey.

Then on to Nicaragua in October after the Category 5 Hurricane Felix nearly leveled the coastal communities on the Northeastern coast. I took the photo to the left one night after completing a medical clinic in the town of Tuara. Despite the destruction, the game lived on.

And thus my interest in soccer has blossomed. Reading a recent post on Ryan's Blog, I was pleased to see the passion continues in Uganda as well. While I'm not sure of Asia's interest in the game and I know the US has a lot to learn, I'm fascinated by how such a simple activity could have so much relevance in seemingly every corner of the globe. If only the gospel had the appeal of football.

Thomas Friedman is Right Again

2008-06-30T14:57:00.000-07:00

Anxious in America

By THOMAS L. FRIEDMAN
Published: June 29, 2008

Just a few months ago, the consensus view was that Barack Obama would need to choose a hard-core national-security type as his vice presidential running mate to compensate for his lack of foreign policy experience and that John McCain would need a running mate who was young and sprightly to compensate for his age. Come August, though, I predict both men will be looking for a financial wizard as their running mates to help them steer America out of what could become a serious economic tailspin.
I do not believe nation-building in Iraq is going to be the issue come November — whether things get better there or worse. If they get better, we’ll ignore Iraq more; if they get worse, the next president will be under pressure to get out quicker. I think nation-building in America is going to be the issue.
It’s the state of America now that is the most gripping source of anxiety for Americans, not Al Qaeda or Iraq. Anyone who thinks they are going to win this election playing the Iraq or the terrorism card — one way or another — is, in my view, seriously deluded. Things have changed.
Up to now, the economic crisis we’ve been in has been largely a credit crisis in the capital markets, while consumer spending has kept reasonably steady, as have manufacturing and exports. But with banks still reluctant to lend even to healthy businesses, fuel and food prices soaring and home prices declining, this is starting to affect consumers, shrinking their wallets and crimping spending. Unemployment is already creeping up and manufacturing creeping down.
The straws in the wind are hard to ignore: If you visit any car dealership in America today you will see row after row of unsold S.U.V.’s. And if you own a gas guzzler already, good luck. On Thursday, The Palm Beach Post ran an article on your S.U.V. options: “Continue to spend upward of $100 for a fill-up. Sell or trade in the vehicle for a fraction of the original cost. Or hold out and park the truck in the driveway for occasional use in hopes the market will turn around.” Just be glad you don’t own a bus. Montgomery County, Md., where I live, just announced that more children were going to have to walk to school next year to save money on bus fuel.
On top of it all, our bank crisis is not over. Two weeks ago, Goldman Sachs analysts said that U.S. banks may need another $65 billion to cover more write-downs of bad mortgage-related instruments and potential new losses if consumer loans start to buckle. Since President Bush came to office, our national savings have gone from 6 percent of gross domestic product to 1 percent, and consumer debt has climbed from $8 trillion to $14 trillion.
My fellow Americans: We are a country in debt and in decline — not terminal, not irreversible, but in decline. Our political system seems incapable of producing long-range answers to big problems or big opportunities. We are the ones who need a better-functioning democracy — more than the Iraqis and Afghans. We are the ones in need of nation-building. It is our political system that is not working.
I continue to be appalled at the gap between what is clearly going to be the next great global industry — renewable energy and clean power — and the inability of Congress and the administration to put in place the bold policies we need to ensure that America leads that industry.
“America and its political leaders, after two decades of failing to come together to solve big problems, seem to have lost faith in their ability to do so,” Wall Street Journal columnist Gerald Seib noted last week. “A political system that expects failure doesn’t try very hard to produce anything else.”
We used to try harder and do better. After Sputnik, we came together as a nation and responded with a technology, infrastructure and education surge, notes Robert Hormats, vice chairman of Goldman Sachs International. After the 1973 oil crisis, we came together and made dramatic improvements in energy efficiency. After Social Security became imperiled in the early 1980s, we came together and fixed it for that moment. “But today,” added Hormats, “the political system seems incapable of producing a critical mass to support any kind of serious long-term reform.”
If the old saying — that “as General Motors goes, so goes America” — is true, then folks, we’re in a lot of trouble. General Motors’s stock-market value now stands at just $6.47 billion, compared with Toyota’s $162.6 billion. On top of it, G.M. shares sank to a 34-year low last week.
That’s us. We’re at a 34-year low. And digging out of this hole is what the next election has to be about and is going to be about — even if it is interrupted by a terrorist attack or an outbreak of war or peace in Iraq. We need nation-building at home, and we cannot wait another year to get started. Vote for the candidate who you think will do that best. Nothing else matters.

The Gimme

2008-05-28T20:19:00.001-07:00

I'm a lousy golfer. If you get a chance to play with me, you'll understand. And while in the midst of a round you may feel inclined to have mercy on me and confidently tap my ball back to me when its too inches from the cup, don't you dare do it.

I hate the gimme. Not only does it call into question the honesty of a game based on character, but am I the only one who think it defeats the purpose? Lets look at the details. In a full game of golf, your goal is the ball to fall into 18 holes. On average, a it will take a good golfer at least four strokes to reach the objective for each hole. For me, its usually between six and ten. Anyway, starting at some points over 500 yards away, your only goal is to get the ball to fall into a four inch diameter hole. So what do so many golfers do? They get it within two inches, having come some 500 yards, and pick the ball up. At least relish the satisfaction of that simple sound. Its like leaving a baseball game in the 8th inning. You've made that far, why not stay? At least in that case there is the benefit of beating the traffic. But in golf? Knock it in the freaking hole!

If I've come that far, its going in the hole.

Philly's Emergency Preparedness

2008-04-16T10:44:00.001-07:00

Philly is on the ball when it comes to disaster and emergency preparedness. Should you expect anything less from the greatest city on earth? Anyway, the city Office of Emergency Management has gotten really serious about this in the last few years and has put together some great material. Check out www.readyphiladelphia.org for everything from evacuation maps from every neighborhood to a sign-up to have emergency updates texted to your phone! Its really out-of-the box stuff. Check it out.

The Sound

2008-04-03T14:40:00.000-07:00

The sound. It was only my second solo aid climb ever, but for some reason I’d felt compelled to move up overhanging, rotten rock on two body-weight placements with ground fall potential. The first, a trusty pink tri-cam placed actively in an upside down flaring pocket, had been dumb enough. The second, though, a #1 BD wire in a crack I’d had to clean the moss out of just to consider, was pure lunacy. Soloing with a grigri up a short rock in the woods I discovered for myself the dark side of my confidence.

I weighted the wire carefully, eyeing it for movement and wondering why I would consider hanging off something so small and thin in the first place, never mind its lousy placement. Committing entirely to the aiders, I moved a slow foot up and sat slowly back loading my fifi hook. It seemed solid, but if a piece was ever going to blow, it would be this one. I studied the nut closely, examining its placement in the constricting but far from solid crack. “I’m here now, better look for something to back it up on.” I felt the cracks above hoping for a small cam placement, but this funky rotten rock wasn’t biting. I put the cams back on my rack and as I did I thought I saw the nut shift.

“Must be my imagination, it still looks like it hasn’t moved.” I reached up again to feel the rock in search of holds, feeling two positive edges that may yield a solution. Only a foot from the top, maybe I could call it quits now and huff my way over, or maybe one more placement exists to finish this properly. I happened to glance at the piece for assurance. In that moment, there was none to be found.

Ping…

I don’t know, maybe it was more of a bong, or the “ugh” someone makes when they get punched in the gut. Either way, I heard a distinctive sound I’ll never forget and after a blurry instant I was dangling free by my fingertips at the top of a climb. It’s amazing how aware you become of your surroundings in a moment like that. Aware that I was very much alone. Aware that though brother pink may hold, he may not, placing me on my ass on the ground, very much alone, and very much broken. Aware that I knew that piece wasn’t going to hold so why did I trust it? Aware that maybe this aid climbing thing sucks. Aware that I was hanging by my fingertips at the top of a climb and maybe I should save all of the other awareness for latter before I’m too dead or maimed to be aware. Back to reality…

“Wow, my hands are still holding on, that’s a good thing. Can I make it over the top? Sure. Pull slack through the grigri. It’s jammed, not letting me pull it through with one hand. Screw it, just undo the grigri and go ropeless. You sure? Yes, any other ideas?”

A few grunts and scrapes later I’d belly flopped my way over the top of the climb, scrambling a few feet from the edge to bask in my new found safety. Aware of life once again, I rigged a rappel to retrieve my gear and packed my bags in silence. It was silent anyway, after all I was soloing. But it was a sober silence I’d never before felt, perhaps induced by the sound of a failed piece, a sound that demands all others pay it reverence and respect for the gravity of awaking it from its much deserved slumber. From now on, I’ll let it sleep.

Violence Continues in Kenya

2008-01-17T09:14:00.000-08:00

http://www.bbc.co.uk/mediaselector/check/player/nol/newsid_7190000/newsid_7192000?redirect=7192077.stm&news=1&nbwm=1&bbram=1&nbram=1&bbwm=1&asb=1

http://www.bbc.co.uk/mediaselector/check/player/nol/newsid_7180000/newsid_7182000?redirect=7182057.stm&news=1&nbram=1&bbwm=1&nbwm=1&bbram=1

Please continue to pray, or start praying, for Kenya. The violence there following December's Presidential Elections has only grown worse, leaving 600-1000 people dead and causing a massive humanitarian refugee crisis in the countries western regions. Pray for peace.

The Rider on the White Horse

2008-01-03T17:02:00.001-08:00

"Then I saw Heaven opened, and behold, a white horse! The one sitting on it is called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he judges and makes war. His eyes are like a flame of fire, and on his head are many diadems, and he has a name written that no one knows but himself. He is clothed in a robe dipped in blood, and the name by which he is called is The Word of God. And the armies of heaven, arrayed in fine linen, white and pure, were following him on white horses. From his mouth comes a sharp sword with which to strike down the nations, and he will rule them with a rod of iron. He will tread the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God the Almighty. On his robe and on his thigh he has a name written, King of Kings and Lord of Lords." Revelation 19:11-16

The last two weeks have been hard for me. Why, you might ask, as they have included Christmas and the New Year, time with family and friends. Well, they have been two weeks where I have been reminded again of the depravity of the world. They have been stressful as I've revisited friends suffering from the effects of broken homes, divorces, parents that stayed together but did such a lousy job parenting their children suffer for years, broken relationships leaving scars of guilt and anger and insecurity, old age and the inevitability of death, alcoholism, poverty, and war, mixed in with my own sins and frustrations.

And then there is Kenya. The photos above are from demonstrations held earlier today in Nairobi in the wake of last weekend's corrupt election. Over 300 people have died in the violence that has ensued, and while things are far more complicated than the mainstream media explains, anyone should agree that political violence is lunacy. These events hit close to home for me because I spent three weeks in Kenya in 2006, working in Nairobi's Kibera slum, the center piece of the current violence. I have friends there, and despite its poverty, it was a stable environment at the time of my visit. I've been to lots of places after or during times of chaos and destruction through various disaster response trips in the the U.S. and abroad, but this is the first time I've seen a place I know that was peaceful descend into violence and chaos. Some of the kids and families I worked with may no longer have homes, or worse yet lives. So far all reports I hear from those I know have been positive, but there is no clear end in sight.

All of these things have given me a renewed slap in the face of the depravity of man and the sin I see in this world. But, there is hope, and perhaps these weeks were an appropriate holiday season as they have reminded me of who the God is that I serve and what he promises. I am thankful for a God that loves me, a God that loves me enough to kill his own son that I may I have life. I am thankful for the reality of the Crucifixion, but even more so for the reality of the Resurrection. I am thankful that despite the pain I see around me, there will be a day when this humble lamb, this baby Jesus that once slept in a manger and obeyed death that I might have life, will come again. And when he comes, he will come not as a baby, subjected to the laws and pains of this world, but as one who has conquered these things. He comes as King of the Universe.

I am thankful that he will come back for a fight. He will come not with humility but righteous anger. He will come not as a servant but as the leader of the armies of heaven. I am thankful that he will bring a sharp sword, bearing a name too wonderful to know. I am thankful that he is faithful and true. And I am thankful that he will be tattooed by his father with the most powerful name in all creation: King of Kings, and Lord of Lords.

I am thankful that this rider on the white horse will come back, and when he comes he will clean house. If it is true that he knows the hairs on our heads, then he has a clearer view of the suffering in this world than I do, and he has greater anger over this suffering than I do. And when he is through routing the false prophet behind our pain, he will restore the families, forgive the mistakes, heal the sick, pardon the guilty, bolster the insecure, clothe the impoverished, and make right all the things that have hurt me in the last two weeks.

So pray hard, knowing that you pray not to a baby Jesus anymore. No, not even to a nice guy, humble carpenter. But you pray to the King of King, the Lord of Lords. He hears our prayers, and he is sharpening his sword. He is able to do far more than we could ever ask him. And though the pain in this world will continue a little while, I have hope that I will one day stand before this rider after he has retired his sword, battles won with no pain left to be conqured. And he will look at me fondly and call me forward. "Come live with me, my beautiful bride, for in my father's house, there are many rooms."

1 in 4 Homeless Americans are Veterans - WTF?

2007-11-13T20:32:00.000-08:00

A Philadelphia Inquirer article today reported that Untied States Military Veterans comprise 25% of America's homeless population. That makes me sick. Have we really that little heart to reach out to these who have stepped up to serve, then have to live alone in suffering? Think what you will about politics, war, etc, these men and women deserve our respect and our assistance.
I watched the move "Jarhead" the other day. While I can't recommend it for everyone because of explicit language and sexual content, I get the impression from some former Marines that it paints an accurate picture. If you're interested to see WHY so many veterans find themselves so lost when they return to civilian status, I believe this movie provides some answers.

Back to Basics

2007-11-06T21:29:00.000-08:00

Forget everything I wrote yesterday. Well, it was all true, but I was way too concerned about fitting the word "listless" into my post. In the last 24 hours I've screwed up a lot and have been led back to the fact that all this is simply about following Jesus. That's it. I seek to follow Jesus. I do a lousy job of it, but that is what I seek to do and that is the task at hand that I need to remember. "A life in non-fiction" sounds sexy, but really I just need to follow Jesus. So, scratch what I said. I want to live a life that follows Jesus. Donald Miller is right. It really is that easy. As the wise Matt Spainhour once said, "Life is simple."

Life in Non-Fiction

2007-11-05T18:01:00.000-08:00

I'm through with the vanities of Amory Blaine. The protagonist in F. Scott Fitzgerald's (remember reading The Great Gatsby in high school? same author) first successful novel This Side of Paradise, Blaine spends his days chasing hopeless romance and selfish ambition, leaving him lost and alone. The novel ends as he adjusts to the realization that his intellectualism is bankrupt: "He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. 'I know myself,' he cried, 'but that is all-'"

I have decided to know more than myself, more than the comforts that surround me, more than the affluence I'm blessed to receive. The life of Amory Blaine was a life of fiction, and I mean that in a far deeper way than the simple fact he was a character in a novel. He choose to capitalize on the corruption of a culture that Fitzgerald wrote, was "a new generation dedicated more than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success; grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken." I see a lot of this blinded view of reality in America today, in its Church, and in myself. We choose to see the world through fictional lenses, stained with security few in the world know.

I want to live a life of non-fiction.

I've been throwing this idea around in my head for a while. Lost in a sea of stress and errands and preparation to leave the country last minute for a disaster response trip to Nicaragua a few weeks ago, I said to myself that I was at the time lost in non-fiction, burdened with the realities of the world to a point at which I longed to escape. It was then that I picked up Fitzgerald's novel off the shelf, seeking to self-medicate with stories of Amory Blaine's attempts to woo various women in a fictional paradise.

It didn't take me long after reaching the hurricane ravished, rural village of Tuara, Nicaragua, to despise the vanities of Amory Blaine, and more so my desire to allow my own life to drift into such listless realms. Somewhere in a woman's story of loosing her 23 year old son at sea during Hurricane Felix, or a mother's explanation that her beautiful 10 year old girl had been raped when she was 7, I realized that life rarely exists in the world middle to upper class Americans have created for themselves. It was in a moment walking to the well to retrieve water to bathe when I saw the before mentioned 10 year old girl scrubbing the laundry of her family that I resigned myself to break the American mold and live a life of non-fiction.

The world simply isn't safe, comfortable, warm, with riches and a full belly for most of those who live in it. I live the simple life as an individual born into the upper 1%. I believe there is a place here, and good I can accomplish, so I have no intentions of simply disposing my blessings. However, I must keep my life's relation to the rest of humanity in focus, and I must keep the picture clear. My life must be one of non-fiction.

Jimmy Eat World Does it Again

2007-10-31T08:54:00.000-07:00

With the announcement of a new album, I wondered if Jimmy Eat World could once again pull off a flawless album. After Clarity, Bleed American, Futures, and a few solid EP's, they have secured their position in my permanent top five favorite bands. But can Chase This Light live up to the others?
Yes. Yes it can. Chase this light is a solid new album with brilliant lyrics and songs that build in masterful progression (see the epic last track, "Dizzy"). Buy it today. Love it forever. This sounds way too much like an add, but I swear they didn't pay me to write it. Jimmy Eat World has simply done it again.

Back From Nicaragua

2007-10-29T21:16:00.000-07:00

I made it home from Nicaragua late last night and although I'm still getting over the intense food poisoning I came down with the last day, it was an amazing trip. There are those rare moments in life where you can honestly stop and say you know you are doing exactly what the Lord would have you do. My time in Nicaragua was filled with these moments. My feelings are hard to express as Nicaragua is an extremely impoverished nation also hit by a Cat. 5 Hurricane, so the contrast between what I saw there and the comforts of my home has me speechless at the moment. I spent twice the average yearly salary of a Nicaraguan on new tires and maintenance for my truck today. I'm more than a little ashamed. I'm mostly humbled that God has chosen to give me these opportunities. Two international disaster responses in as many months? Why me? Where does this all lead? It was a blessing to serve. More stories to follow as I readjust.

Nicaragua Disaster Response

2007-10-21T19:13:00.000-07:00

I'm headed to Nicaragua in the morning with a disaster medical team in the wake of Cat. 5 Hurricane Felix that struck the Eastern coast in September. Please keep me in your prayers.

Doubting the Dream...

2007-10-15T21:13:00.000-07:00

Tonight I had my first official meeting at the Philadelphia Fire Academy to discuss my possible employment in the near future. It wasn't just me, but an orientation for myself and about 60 others to explain the final steps in the hiring process for the next class they plan to put together for February. On Sunday I stumbled upon the fire pictured above and was reminded about my love for firefighting, but in the excitement of these developments I confess I still possess a great deal of doubt about my current path. I've spent the last two years trying to get this job, and now that's its within reach I find myself asking if its really what I want. I've been blessed lately and I've been developing other passions and making progress in jobs an organizations, and the the thought of starting all over again tires me.

But its ok. If the Lord has other plans He'll lead me to them. Right now this is the path I am pursuing and I intend on following one day at a time. Its difficult at times to truly let Him lead, but easy when faith is properly understood. Give me faith to understand faith...

Back from Peru

2007-09-09T07:28:00.001-07:00

I have made it safely back from Peru and I really appreciate everyone's prayers and support. My time there passed quickly with days filled by assessing various damagaed towns for refugee health issues, levels of damage, housing issues, and trying to make local contacts. We could have gotten more done than we did but it was a productive trip on the whole. I'll be writing about it soon.

Off to Peru

2007-08-25T08:06:00.000-07:00

In response to last week's devestating 7.9 magnitude earthquake in Peru, I am headed there this monday for a week with a disaster medical team. Conditions are such that I have little idea where I'll be or what I'll be doing, but please keep me in your prayers.

The Joy of Work

2007-08-02T20:43:00.000-07:00

For the past two months I have been unemployed and generally lacking in direction for life. After moving to Philly after school, I've looked in vain for employment while I await my chance at joining the ranks of the Philadelphia Fire Department. This has been a difficult time for me, as I've battled frustration, depression, doubt and a whole other host of emotions. People have often looked at me with a "What do you mean you're unemployed" look, insinuating that it should be easy, or that I should have marched myself down to the local Starbucks from day one. To them I have always responded that I feel I have a set of gifts, gifts I have worked hard to attain, that I would like to see put to work. To do otherwise would be foolish. I have wondered amidst these thoughts if my motives were selfish, simply trying to gorge my desire to never work an "odd job."

Today, however, I know that I was right, and that faith has once again proved victor over my doubt and general duplicity. This week I began working at the Montgomery County Fire Academy as an assistant instructor for an EMT class. The class will finish up next week, but what a joy it was for me to work 10 hours, teaching something I love and sharing my skill and passion with others. It was a long day, but I loved every minute of it. Next week I will begin working in the ER at Abington Hospital, another opportunity that I feel will use and enhance my skill sets. No folks, I think I was right to hold out on this one. I felt the joy of work today, the joy of using my God given talents to their fullest - and I loved it. They say if you do a job you love you'll never work a day in your life. I never intend to work.

Happy Birthday, Ah, Death?

2007-07-18T08:39:00.001-07:00

This week, the famed AK-47 assault rifle turned sixty years old. Happy birthday AK! Wait, ah, anything wrong with this? There are an estimated 100,000,000 million AKs in the world today and it is the clear winner for most recognizable weapon ever made. The rifle's birthday was celebrated in Russia this week, with noted guests providing testimonies about the weapon's impact on their lives. The Defence Minister of Zimbabwe, a nation with a distinctive history of civil war, commented poetically, "In the AK, I see freedom. I see justice. I see democracy. I see self-determination. I see nationhood. I see a peace broker." His list was missing some the the more notable AK associations, however, including Child Soldiery, Terrorism, Civil War, oh, don't forget death. Should we really be celebrating the birthday of one of the most recognizable products of our depravity?

Most Hopeful Moment in News

2007-07-12T17:43:00.001-07:00

Nightly News has always had a stunning musical score accompanying the evening broadcast. The evening news always begins with the lower themes and ends with the climax of their very own theme song composed by the renowned John Williams (also composed themes to Jaws, Star Wars, Jurassic Park, Olympic Games,...) It may be his theme that has made NBC my choice for world news.

Following the September 11 attacks, NBC stopped using his theme for several months. Where the show used to end with an aeriel view of New York City with Williams' resounding trumpets in the background, there was now a steady shot across the Hudson River, Ground Zero still smouldering, and some melancholy tune of sadness in accompaniment. This went for some months.

Then one night, as the news came to a close and Tom Brokaw signed off, back came John Williams' trumpets. Chills fell down my spine and tears welled in my eyes, as the New York skyline once again soared across with triumphant music that cried "We Will Survive!" I will never forget that moment as it was the most hopeful expression of patriotism and resolve I have ever felt, the most hopeful moment in news.

What Love Is This

2007-07-10T08:41:00.001-07:00

It hit me while sitting in Thursday Night Worship earlier this year, this bi-weekly low key praise and worship time led by three of my very musically gifted friends. I was sitting there, singing and thinking, when suddenly I realized there must have been this moment when God looked down at us from heaven, turned to Jesus and said, "You do realize I'm going to have to kill you to save them, right?" And Jesus looked at God and said, "I do, and I am totally OK with that." Clearly, it probably didn't happen in such a simplistic way, God being omniscient and all, but in concept that is exactly what took place. It was Christ's joy to die for us. Who does that?

A Story from New Orleans

2007-07-08T22:23:00.000-07:00

Margaret Sayles wants me to find her house. It is November 29th, exactly three months after Katrina ravaged the Gulf Coast and flooded New Orleans. Margaret has not seen her house because no one, other than the military, police, or rescue teams, has been allowed into the area of New Orleans where Margaret lived. The Lower 9th Ward. Late in the morning I set out to find a home that may no longer exist, to gain access to a place that is inaccessible.

I had never met Margaret Sayles. She had gotten my number through a team that had worked with me for a time and then returned their home church, Pear Orchard PCA in Ridgeland, Mississippi, about one hundred miles north of New Orleans. Margaret had relatives in Ridgeland and relocated there after the storm. There she waited, like thousands of other New Orleans residents, for news of what had become of her home. When no news arrived, except the knowledge that Lower 9th Ward residents were not going to be allowed into the remains of the community for some time, she resorted to other options, contacting me to see if my limited “Disaster Response” credentials might enable me to produce some information she had been unable to come by.
The devastated Lower 9th Ward was the most notorious victim of the New Orleans levee breaks. There were several reasons for this, some warranted, some engineered. The ward was the most heavily damaged due to its position by the Industrial Canal, one of New Orleans’ largest waterways, whose levee breach was the largest and most volumous breach in the city. The result was catastrophic, leveling at least the first four blocks around the breach and piling the remains on top of whatever structures were left standing. The houses with the least flooding were filled with five feet of water, the worst covered in over fifteen. And not once, but twice. The Army Corps of Engineers patched the breach and controlled the flooding just in time for Hurricane Rita to arrive and produce storm surge that breached the Industrial Canal a second time.
What has added controversy and notoriety to this area of New Orleans has been the racial issues raised concerning the occupants of this mostly Black lower class community. The coincidence that the hardest hit section of the city was also the poorest convinced many it was not a coincidence at all. A looming barge came to rest just inside the breach of the levee which some claim to have been rigged with explosives by the corrupt city government to intentionally blow up the levee and flood the poorest of the poor to protect other more viable parts of the city. Though an outlandish theory, it was a tale that arose out of historical fact. In the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927, the Caernarvon levee south of New Orleans was intentionally dynamited by the Corps of Engineers in an attempt to prevent wide scale flooding of the city itself. The resulting flow flooded St. Bernard’s Parish. In addition, the Industrial Canal levee failed in two locations during the monstrous Hurricane Betsy in 1965. Many then alleged it too was dynamited.
Amid this controversy and confusion, Margaret charged me the task of locating her home, reporting on its condition, and gutting it if possible. I was skeptical of what I could accomplish, but promised her I would try my best.

I have only been by the Lower 9th Ward once as it is an area of such controversy, devastation, and security I have no business going there. Besides, it is mostly destroyed so there is no work for Church volunteers. But today I have business going there and I arrive in the area with apprehension and caution. I park my truck just over the canal bridge at an intersection that has become the command post of sorts for all business inside the Lower 9th. I assume this much as least because every street in barricaded with the exception of this one, and it produces a steady stream of police, military, or other official vehicles flowing in and out of the destruction.
Approaching a young soldier with a look of boredom on his face and an M-16 across his back, I explain that I need access to the ward to locate a house, dropping as many official “Disaster Response” titles as I can think up. He does not threaten to shoot me or shut me down immediately which is a good sign, and directs me to a Red Cross Official apparently overseeing admissions to the disaster zone. He, too, does not shut me down but defers to the highest authority in the entire region of the city, Marine Colonel Sneed. “What have I gotten myself into” I think as I watch the Red Cross guy approach a sturdy, well built man probably in his early fifty’s who, though not in fatigues, I immediately identify as the man matching the description of “Marine Colonel.” Sneed approaches and without identifying his name or level of authority asks my intentions. I explain my undertaking and much to my surprise he responds, “OK, I’ll take you back, but you’ll have to wait a minute for me to finish what I am doing.”
Sneed disappears and I am left standing with the Red Cross representative, speechless over the ease with which I am passing through the numerous roadblocks. Chatting with the Red Cross guy, I learn that Sneed has come out of retirement to fill this leadership position. The prevalence of volunteers, churches, Red Cross types and guys like Sneed is the only thing keeping the Gulf Coast afloat after the storm. Apparently the Red Cross has devised a system to let homeowners back into the ward to see their homes, or what is left of them, but only see. “We take them around in a bus and let them look, but they can’t get out,” the Red Cross guy tells me. “We may be letting them back in on their own in a few weeks, but most everything in the ward is devastated.”
Sneed reappears and leads me to his large black Ford Excursion. “You know the address?” he asks. “There are no road signs left here so we’ll have to check it first and remember how many turns to make.” We check his large laminated table map before we leave, pinpointing where we think Margaret’s house is at 6415 Nina Street and set off. “I have to be at a meeting at the city E.O.C. (Emergency Operations Center) at 14:00, but we should have plenty of time.” I check my watch. That gives us at least an hour and a half. We start driving.
As I witness the devastation of the Lower 9th Ward for the first time I realize that it lives up to the reputation it has received. The destruction is tremendous with prevalent structural collapse, cars on top of houses, and obvious extensive flood damage to every structure. Trying to take advantage of the fact that I was getting a tour of the most controversial area of the Katrina story from a level-headed outsider in the know, I ask Colonel Sneed a few questions. He did not need much of a prompt to start talking.
“These homeowners have lost everything. They are going to have to come back to this crap dealing with a city that won’t make up its mind about rebuilding, levees, or anything. People question why they are all staying in their new cities. I wonder why they would ever come back? If you start a new life for yourself and you’re happy, stay where you are. I certainly want blame you. What’s wrong with a new life?”
Learning I work for the church, he continues his thoughts.
“You know, religion is what’s keeping these people going down here, it’s what’s getting them through. I mean it. Its not bull shit, it’s deep. These people have faith and I respect that.”
“Who were those troops I passed on the way in and what’s the role of the military here?” I ask.
“Those guys were from the Army Reserve, and I’ll tell you they’re starting to get pissed. They’re working overtime at boring jobs, not getting paid much to stand around with a rifle. These kids signed up to help their country in times of war, not stand around in some city that can’t police itself. They signed up to make a difference, not this shit. Pretty soon they’re going to get bored and quit, then we’ll have a real problem. If you’re going to make guys leave their jobs and their families, which are the sacrifices Reserve troops make, it better be for a good cause. The NOPD (New Orleans Police Department) should be handling this, but they’re so beat up and incompetent no one’s willing to step up and take over. This whole city government doesn’t have a clue. It’s a shame really.”
As he finishes his thoughts on the New Orleans government we pull up to Nina Street, or what appears to be Nina Street. The remaining telephone poles at the corners of the various roads have the street names spray painted down their flanks. We can not find 6415 so we back track. “We must have been one street over,” he says. Pulling up in front of a one storey red brick house we reach 6415. “Brick houses are a tough call. Some of them are at least still structurally sound so they may be rebuildable. It’s up to the insurance companies to decide,” Sneed says as we step around the couch lying sideways across the front walk. I snap a picture of the exterior. Apparently this house was searched by Florida Urban Search and Rescue Task Force One on September 18th based on the markings painted on the garage door. Accordingly, this house was probably underwater until then or shortly before, leaving it with three weeks of stagnant water damage.

If there are any success stories from the Hurricane Katrina federal response they lie with the U.S. Coast Guard and the FEMA Urban Search and Rescue (US&R) teams. Deployed several days prior to Katrina’s landfall, these specially trained federally funded rescue teams were searching within ours of Katrina passing overhead. There are twenty eight teams nationally, and for the first time in the US&R program’s history all twenty eight teams were deployed for a single incident. They worked tirelessly, rescuing many in New Orleans and Mississippi. The scale of the disaster was such that every structure for over one hundred miles of coast from Biloxi, Mississippi, through New Orleans, Louisiana, had to be searched for either survivors or bodies. The task was overwhelming and their work did not get the praise it deserved.
Likewise, the U.S. Coast Guard threw out every rule in the book in an effort to rescue those trapped on rooftops and other precarious locations throughout New Orleans. Helicopter pilots flew multiple sixteen plus hour missions, refusing to abide by the rules so that they could continue rescues. The Washington Post would call U.S. Coast Guard operations Katrina’s silver lining.

To my surprise, Sneed invites me to enter the house to take pictures. As we enter I am greeted by the familiar stench of stale mold, only worse than most of the houses I have been in because this home has not been opened up more than twice since the storm three months prior. I wish I had brought my mask, but the smell has little effect on Colonel Sneed so I would have been embarrassed to wear it anyway. The house is for all intents and purposes turned upside down. The ceiling has collapsed, the kitchen is the dinning room, and the dinning room is in the kitchen. The couches are overturned. Clothes are strewn across every room. All is lost. Margaret’s house still stands, but she has lost everything.
Driving back through the ward I decide to take a chance on Colonel Sneed’s generosity. “Is there any access to see the Levee Break?” The 9th ward levee break is by far the most infamous. I know I will never get another chance to view it, much less while guided by the man in charge.
“No, there’s not, but I’ll drive you over to take a look at it.” As we make our way the damage to the structures gets worse and worse. With each progressing street, houses are becoming piles, and piles are becoming piles with houses on top of piles. “We’re still finding bodies in these more demolished sections. Rescue teams searched all the standing structures, now we’re sending cadaver dogs to the general locations of individuals still on the missing person’s lists. Usually we get a hit right away.”
Eventually the houses and piles disappear and turn into a barren area about the size of two or three football fields. Straight ahead is the levee, a benign looking ridge of gravel with workmen and their equipment on top. It appears plain enough, but what surrounds me suggests that perhaps the ridge of gravel is much more. To my right I see a field of concrete cinder blocks, twisted chain link fence, and overturned cars scattered about the remains of driveways and front steps missing their garages and living rooms. To my left the ominous shadow emerges of the barge that crashed through the industrial canal levee break. The damage surrounding me rivals that of the Mississippi coast where no structures are left standing. The force of the water that flowed through this break must have rivaled that of the ocean itself where Katrina made landfall, a humbling thought.
“People claim New Orleans blew up this levee. Trust me, it’s not blown up. I’ve seen things get blown up, and this levee wasn’t one of them. New Orleans would be too stupid to blow up this canal anyway. They don’t have much of a clue, but even they aren’t stupid enough to blow up this levee. The point is they aren’t doing anything to help. They should really be doing more.”
Sneed stops to let me take a few more pictures and then we make our way back to the command center. I thank him and get on my way. My time in the Lower 9th could not have been more than twenty minutes, but I saw more in that time and learned more from Colonel Sneed than I had in my entire time in New Orleans.

Colonel Sneed did such an excellent job managing the Lower 9th Ward after Katrina that the City of New Orleans hired him on to direct their Office of Emergency Preparedness. In a recent National Public Radio interview, Sneed described the new system in place to evacuate and account for the entire New Orleans population should a category 3 storm take aim, at which time the city would enforce a mandatory evacuation. The plan includes methods to transport special needs residents from the city, track them, and return them, along with provisions for the security of the city itself. Sneed seemed confident the plan will work. Hopefully we will never find out.
Later in the day with the thoughts of what I have seen in the Lower 9th fresh in my mind I stop by another job site referred to me by the Pear Orchard guys to assess the work. I only have a few more days and a lot of jobs so I am not sure if I can get to this one. It turns out, however, that upon my arrival the homeowners are there preparing to gutt the drywall from their home. I talk with them about the job and my scheduling concerns, only to discover that they are related to Margaret Sayles and that she is in fact sitting outside in their van. I had actually walked right by her coming into the house. I have not yet planned what I am going to say to her, but I did not expect it to be in person, much less so soon. What should I say to someone who has lost absolutely everything but does not know it yet?
As I approach the passenger side of a white minivan I catch my first glimpse of Margaret Sayles. Margaret is a heavy set woman in her late 70’s or early 80’s. There is a walker by her door, indicating her elderly condition, but from my first words with her I can sense she is spunky. I introduce myself and she immediately remembers me having spoken to me the previous day. At first I do not tell her about my visit to her home. I want to feel things out first. On her own initiative she begins telling me her story.
“My home was flooded twice by the industrial canal breaches. It wasn’t much, but I’ve lived there a really long time and I’ve taken good care of it. All of my clothing and valuables are in there, if only I could get to those few valuables. Maybe they are still there. I bought homeowners and flood insurance, but some insurance man told me he looked at the house and it’s reparable. They only gave me a thousand dollars.”
This insurance guy probably only looked at it from a bus window. As she continues telling her story, Margaret begins to cry. I tell her that I was able to get into her house just a few hours ago. She quickly looks up, but I tell her that what I saw is not pleasant.
“Its pretty bad,” I say. “The house is still standing but it was heavily damaged by the water.” I do not want to use much detail, hoping she will want to see the pictures and they will speak for themselves. “Are you sure you want to see them?”
“Yes,” she responds without much thought. “They will give me some closure.”
I walk to my truck to retrieve my camera, heart racing, eyes wide with emotion, fear, and awe at the surrealistic nature of the day’s events. I am about to show a woman I just met the proof that she has lost everything. How have I found myself here?
I return, clutching my camera and reviewing the photos.
“Here they are, a red brick house, right?”
“No,” she says, “My house is blue with siding.”

I went to the wrong house. Sneed and I were on the wrong unmarked road at the wrong 6415.

“No, that’s not mine, but I’d still like to see the pictures.”
As I show her the photos of a flooded house that is not hers a thousand emotions fly through my head. Anger at wasting Colonel Sneed’s time. Frustration at the amount of effort it took for me to get into the Lower 9th Ward, knowing that I will not be able to pull off such a smooth entrance again. Shame at raising Margaret’s hopes for closure then leaving the door open. She responds graciously, however, expressing thankfulness for my assistance to her as she continues to cry.
“I don’t know what I am going to do. The only real option for an old lady like me is to go into a home. I can’t deal with all of this and I don’t have the money to rebuild. But you know what? It will be ok, because the Lord does not forsake the righteous. I know that, and He will not forsake me.”
On the brink of tears myself, I offer Margaret the only thing I can give her. “May I pray with you before I go?” I ask. Her face lights up and she offers me her hands. I take them and say a short prayer for her, through which she cries softly and mumbles “amen.”
Before long it is over. I assure her I will try again tomorrow to locate her home and will get in touch with her as soon as I do. We part and I walk to my truck, looking towards the distant setting sun with more emotions running through me than I have felt my entire time in the gulf region. As I drive home, knowing that I will soon be leaving these wonderful, suffering people, I am filled with sorrow because after I leave and return to my normal life, saying to myself “Thank God that’s over,” they will still be here and their houses will still be destroyed. But Margaret is right, and I do not have to be concerned because when I leave she is still not alone, but is in the far better hands of a God who has not, and will not, forsake the righteous.

I never saw Margaret Sayles again. The next morning I set out again to find 6415 Nina Street. I knew from what I saw and from what Colonel Sneed had said that it was difficult to navigate the broken streets of the Lower 9th, but it only sunk in with my original failure to find Margaret’s house. I did find her home this time, however, right off the main drag aided by the description of its exterior. It was still in the guarded portion of the ward, but this time I decided to take my chances and I parked my truck on the street and made a run for it, hoping to get behind a row of houses before any of the guards saw me. It worked, and I was able to photograph the outside and the shattered interior of her home. As a wooden structure, it did not fair as well as the red brick house I had visited with Colonel Sneed. The home had floated off its foundation and the interior was just as bad if not worse than the previous day’s house. Hardly repairable for a thousand dollars. I snuck out successfully and emailed the pictures to one of Margaret’s friends. I spoke to her on the phone that afternoon and she expressed her deepest thanks for my efforts.
That was the last I heard of Margaret Sayles. I had indeed found her house, but what became of it or of her I do not know. I have tried to track her down but have so far been unable. The Lower 9th ward was bulldozed in the most severe sections around the levee break, leaving an eerie absence in a place so many homes and so much thriving community once stood. I have not been able to locate Margaret’s home.
Whatever happened to Margaret, however, I am sure she was ok. Her faith moved me, and I am confident as Psalm 94 says that justice will return to the righteous.

“For the Lord will not forsake his people, He will not abandon his heritage;
For justice will return to the righteous, and all the upright in heart will follow it.”
Psalm 94: 14-15

The War Wages On

2007-07-07T19:59:00.000-07:00

A father comforted his 11-year-old daughter, who was wounded by a suicide bombing in Amerli, Iraq

As I listen to fireworks outside my window tonight over Philadelphia, I wonder what the appeal is of a medium that celebrates the sounds and sights of warfare. The photo above was taken after a suicide car bomber blew up his vehicle in a town north of Baghdad today, killing over 100 people. I honestly still haven't made up my mind about the war in Iraq. Half of me thinks we should be there, half that we shouldn't. But all of me has come to believe that war is a terrible, terrible thing.

I am not a pacifist, but I feel that responsibility demands action in the face of evil, and sometimes this means taking up arms. Dietrich Bonhoeffer writes in his Ethics that a man who tries to maintain his innocence by not taking up arms incurs upon himself a greater guilt. He says, "He [the man who seeks to maintain his innocence] sets his own innocence above his responsibility for men, an he is blind to the more irredeemable guilt which he incurs precisely in this; he is blind also to the fact that real innocence shows itself precisely in a man's entering into the fellowship of guilt for the sake of other men." Bonhoeffer's belief in action would take his life, but his conviction to enter into the sufferings of the world remained resolute to his grave.

When I look at the picture of that little girl above, I want to feel Bonhoeffer's conviction. The war in Iraq, right or wrong, is lousy. I want to stare long and hard at that photo just to be reminded that the war wages on even as we in America celebrate our independence. I want to share in the suffering in hope of in some way alleviating it. Stuck in prison shortly before he was led to the hangman's noose, Bonhoeffer wrote an interpretation of Christ's call to the Christian in the secular world. "Jesus asks in Gethsemane, 'Could you not watch with me one hour?'...Man is summoned to share in God's sufferings at the hands of a godless world. He must therefore really live in the godless world, without attempting to gloss over or explain its ungodliness in some religious way or other...It is not the religious act that makes the Christian, but participation in the sufferings of God in the secular life."

When God heard the screams of the little girl above I believe he felt pain. Thankfully, because he called Christ to suffer and Christ obeyed, she, I, and you can be free from the pains of this life. Yet as a participant in this secular world, I want to hear her screams myself, suffering with her that I may bring the peace that is Christ crucified and raised again.

Friends, remember that there is a war going on. Remember that children are suffering. Pray that there may be peace and tears of suffering turned to tears of joy, joy in the risen Christ Jesus.

Welcome to the Drafting Room

2007-07-06T11:16:00.000-07:00

Lets face it, Xanga is dead. It was a good ride but its time to move on. The Drafting Room will be a souding board for my musings on life and the world. Yes, I stole the name from a great Philadelphia resturant I ate at last night with the blog king Anthony Bradley himself, but what can I say, its catchy and rings of putting out thoughts and ideas for testing. Join the draft...