Ritual of the Habitual

I have a strap-on head lamp for early morning or dusk jogging. It also serves as a night-light beneath the covers in my twin 9 year-old son, Noah James', single bed as we read scary stories. Sure, we read his "Children's Adventure Bible" and Bill Bennet's "Book of Virtues" too. But when left to our own devices and lacking his mother's supervision and over-protective, parental micro-management, we break out the horror. So every night at bedtime, The Mom goes to read with twin sister, Olivia, about fairy godmothers, princesses, unicorns, and the like. A mere 50 feet down the hall and to the right, Noah and I are holed up in his room, beneath the blankets, lights out, door shut tight, jamming through the pages exploring vampires, leviathons, and his personal favorite: The Big Foot/Yettie. The rules are simple:

* No farting (we're vapor-locked under the covers--this is just a common courtesy);

* I read a paragraph--he reads a paragraph (this allows for an educational experience); and,

* If his mom comes in during our reading, we have pre-programmed retorts like: "Dad, why did John the Baptist have to die?" Or, "...and son, that's why character and integrity are so important."

After she leaves, we're back to zombies and poltergeists. It's our nightly ritual. It's tradition. Noah and me. His sister has a different deal. We have "Daddy Dates". We attend the annual Father/Daughter Dance sponsored by our local Parks & Rec. Dept. where she puts on a lovely dress, I get her a coursage, I wear a suit, and we hit a nice Italian dinner before our dance. Little babe knows how to cut a rug too! After our over-priced, Prom-type photo, we get right out to the floor and shake our money-makers! I do my caucasion, 80s, dork-dance. She does the latest Hannah Montana/iCarly steps. I try to emulate her--she demands I stop. So, I go back to the White Guy thing; and she laughs. Every spring Olivia and I spend a weekend at Warm Beach Christian Camp for Dad & Daughter Weekend. For the last four years we've driven to Stanwood, stopped at the Marysville Outlet Malls, eaten at The Rain Forest Cafe, and spend two and a half days doing WHATEVER SHE wants to do. The camp is beautiful, the cabins rustic, and the horse outtings are pretty cool--except the dorky helmets you have to wear. She loves it. I love being with her. She's an amazing human that loves to talk. Those are our traditions--our rituals. I will continue them until they no longer desire or outgrow them. Then I'll replace them with new ones. Traditions are important. They ground you into a time and space where life can be categorized, remembered, and treasured. If you don't have any traditions--start some today. You have that power.

Ode to Mom

That woman in the middle is my mom, Gaylyn May. She may look like she’s 45, but she’s actually in her low 60s. The rest are my brothers and the youngest is Leslie, our only sister. Mom was born in Oakland, CA, while her dad was stationed on a Naval Base there. She spent most of her youth in Baton Rouge, LA, where she married at age 19, and had her first boy at 20. Three years later they moved to Astoria, OR, and had me. I’m the dork in the banana yellow shirt. I come from a heritage of simplicity. With five kids, a dad that was a welder, and a stay-at-home mom, I never realized until later in life that we were poor. My jeans I got from my older brother. They had the hard patches on the knees that didn’t allow you to bend very much while trying to play football at recess. Sometimes we went out to eat at O’Farrell’s after church on Sunday. My Grandma bought my school clothes and subsidized my lifestyle by paying me a dollar an hour to mow her lawn, stack wood, or perform menial chores around her home. I bought my first pair of Nikes with my own money in the 4th grade. We packed our own lunches and were forced to watch Hee Haw and Austin City Limits due to my dad’s infatuation with country music. The rules were pretty simple: do your homework before you can play, be home in time for dinner, and look out for one another. Especially Leslie—because she’s “the girl”. So we did. Mom ruled the house with grace, mercy, and tough love that could include her jerking you off the ground by the back of your hair in the grocery store if you were dicking around or not minding her. Talking back would get you popped in the kisser. Dad spanked us. Especially Tony and I. Today they call that child abuse; back then they just called it discipline. Mom prayed with us every night and told us about Jesus. We kissed her every day before we left the house, and immediately upon returning home after school. We still do. She hugged us, held our hands, and told us that we were special, talented, and that we would do great things. She went without material pleasure so we could go skating at Tiffany’s and see movies at Sea Tac Mall. She toted us around to baseball, basketball, and soccer practices, and never missed a game. She taught us how to play cards, entertain ourselves, and not rely on others for our own happiness. She made us mow the lawn, vacuum, and make our beds first thing when we woke up. Behavior at school was a priority, and at church an even higher one. She modeled unconditional love and acceptance as a lifestyle and was never too busy to talk and listen. As I got older, I started thinking I was cool. Sometimes she embarrassed me by being in her housecoat doing the checkbook on the kitchen table with her hair in curlers when I got home from school with my friends. She drove a pea green station wagon Vista Cruiser with brown wooden panels and dented hub caps. We fought over who got to sit in the far back third seat facing the rear. I remember lamenting to her that I didn’t have the cool clothes and toys that the other kids had. She said we couldn’t afford them. I didn’t understand. My basketball shoes were canvas. My baseball mitt was old and worn. She said it didn’t matter: I was still the best player on the court or field. She was right. In fact, she was right about everything. I look back and thank God that I was raised by her. I look back at all the life lessons she instilled in me and how my character is a reflection of the sum total of the way I was brought up. I thank God every day for having a mom like her. I gave my daughter Olivia, her middle name. I picked a woman 16 years ago that emulated her talents, thoughtfulness, and love. I look forward to time with her, for spending the holidays at her home, and for watching my twins and allowing them to glean the very life lessons from her that I did. She’s an amazing mom, wife, and woman. And there is nothing sweeter to my ears than hearing her say: “…I’m so proud of you , Corey Layne.” Thanks, mom. I love you.

Thanks, Linda...

Kathy died last month at age 59. She took her last breath in the spare bedroom of my father's home in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, the room that I stay in when I visit my dad and his beautiful wife, Linda. Kathy was Linda's little sister. And over the past four years, Linda had been a hospice caregiver to her as the ovarian cancer continued to rob her of life as she knew it. But I must digress in the story. My parents divorced after 31 years of marriage, and shortly thereafter, my dad moved back to his hometown, his roots, and his family south of the Mason Dixon line. To be honest, I was bitter at him for doing that...both leaving my mother and geographically removing himself from my life. I felt like he was choosing that over me (and my three brothers and sister)--over watching me grow into a man, seeing my marriage, my first home purchase, my fraternal twins being born, starting my own small business. I was deeply hurt. I swept the pain beneath the carpet, as so many men do, and continued life with little to no communication with him for a few years, honestly thinking that the next time I see my father may be at his funeral. They say time heals all wounds, and one day, after running the 6.1 mile loop around my Bonney Lake neighborhood, I sat in my hot tub and dialed him up trying not to get the phone wet. I remembered the Apostle Paul's words: "...in as much as it depends on you, be at peace with all men." He wasn't just a man? He was my dad! And maybe it depended on me! We talked about the Mariners and how they sucked. The Sonics trading Shawn Kemp (this was years ago!), and how the Seahawks were rebuilding. You know, the superficial surface stuff. But over time, I made a habit of it: I ran early on Saturday mornings, stripped naked, jumped in my hot tub, dialed up the BlackBerry, and called Big Al. But this story isn't about me and my father wound. It's about Linda. About six years ago my dad remarried. I didn't know what to feel. I was skeptical. So my brother Tony and I headed down to New Orleans (pre-Katrina) to sample the Paganism of Bourbon Street for a night (2001) and head north to Baton Rouge and meet Linda. All of the preconceived notions of comparing her to my mother, to wondering who would marry my dad, to contemplating the concept of a "Step Mom" were absolutely foreign to me. Needless to say, I fell in love with her immediately. Not only is she an attractive lady, but her servant's heart, congeniality, and humble confidence more than impressed me. After a few days I felt as if I'd know her my lifetime. She is a wonderful woman, with a huge heart, and a passion for her faith in Jesus Christ and her walk with God (and did I mention she's kinda hot too?). I was floored. Tony and I flew home and marveled. Dad had scored. "How did he pull that off?" we asked. Two years ago I brought Gina and the twins down to meet her and hang with their Grandpa Al, whom they know about from the bedtime stories, pictures, and his visits to the Northwest since his move over a decade ago. They fell in love with Linda too. We fished, boated, ate, and stayed up late laughing and talking, and sharing our lives. Shortly after Kathy was diagnosed, Linda quit her job and made periodic visits to her home, to the doctors, and began caring for her as her health failed. Kathy was a non-Believer and Linda modeled Christ to her through her service, dedication, and unconditional love and acceptance. As she took the morphine for her pain, Linda read the Bible to her, prayed with her, and told her about the next life and the heaven that awaits. A few months before her death, Kathy accepted Christ, and she was baptized in the hospital bathtub inside her shared room. When the doctors gave her only weeks to live, Linda took her into their home where she knew would be her final days. Along with my dad, they cared for her, read to her, and met her needs. When Kathy took her last breath, there was a peace, a grace, and a subtle smile toward the world that she was now entering. Dad and Linda sat over her earthly body, prayed some more, and Linda kissed her little sister for the final time. The medical professionals in assistance were touched and moved by the pleasant release of a dying family member into the arms of a loving Savior that she now resides. While Linda's heart will always ache for her little sister, she is comforted by the reality that she will see her again. Our prayers, letters, and words hopefully helped during her time of grief and loss. I hung up the phone after leaving her a message shortly after Kathy's death, and thanked God for her place in my life, as an inspiration, wonderful companion to my father, and Godly woman that sees others above herself. I still miss my dad. Last summer when my water heater went out, I attempted to install another. Because my mechanical ability absolutely sucks, I threw a crescent wrench across the garage in anger and frustration. "Where is my dad that is supposed to be here helping me with this shit?" I thought! Then I was calmed. In Baton Rouge, with Linda, a God-fearing woman whom he loves, sharing their lives, happy and content in the world that they've created. And I thanked God for that. Then I called a good friend with cooler wrenches and a knack for water heaters. All is well.....thanks, Linda.

Sir Elder

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Dead Sea Psychoes

Today I blew off work and went to see the Dead Sea Scrolls at the Pacific Science Center in Seattle. I hooked up with my good friends Tos’ Fackenthall, Steve Pelluer, and Sherwood Korssjoen. They’re weirdoes that I met in Buena Vista, Colorado three years ago while hanging with John Eldredge of “Wild At Heart” fame at the Crooked Creek Ranch Young Life Camp. Sherwood looks like Richard Gere by hair with bigger eyes and sounder theology. He’s 60. I remember the moment I met him, he walked up to me and handed me a chrome-plated pocket knife with John 1:14 engraved on it, and said “Hi, I’m Sherwood. Two weeks ago Satan was on my front lawn, so I threw holy oil on my porch at 3am…” and that’s as far as I got into the story before I graciously accepted the knife and attempted to walk away. But I couldn’t. He kept talking and never came up for air. I had to listen. And while listening to his personal account of his tangible meeting with the actual Prince of Darkness and His minions, I found my mind wondering how he got this pocket knife on a 737 in a post-9/11 world? Why did he give it to me? Was there a sign on my forehead that said: “I need a psycho friend?”, does Gary Ridgeway have a brother? And that’s how I met Sherwood. Tos’ Fackenthall is just a great guy with a huge heart, huge hair, and is my only authentic Greek friend. I dig that about him. And Steve Pelluer, what can I say about Steve? He’s the former Dallas Cowboy quarter back and leader of the Pac-10 Championship Washington Huskies in the early 80s. He led the Cowboys in passing yardage and completion percentage from 1986-1989 until Troy Aikman came on the scene. Then he was traded to the Kansas City Chiefs. Screw Troy Aikman. So I and my three boys go raging into this huge exhibit, ripping on Venti Americanos, searching for some semblance of archeological validation and Judeo-Christian Apologetics for $23.75 each! We got it! While all four of us have crossed that line of full-fledged faith, where reason and logic stop, and God demands that you toss your proverbial chips and declare yourself “All In” for the reality game of ‘Texas Hold’em Life’ on this planet; we STILL wanted to see a 2,300 year old scroll of Deuteronomy. Our jaws dropped at the four foot, leather, papyrus chunk of Exodus that revealed the Ten Commandments. We sat through the :15 minute video describing the Jewish sect of the Essenes that lived in the Qumran caves (of which, John the Baptist, Christ’s crazy cousin, was a proud member!) and marveled at the fact that within all 21 copies of the 66 chapters of the Book of Isaiah there were only 22 grammatical and spelling errors from the version we have today! I don’t know if you’ve been watching Discovery or the History Channel lately; but that’s frickin’ amazing! You see, all of the secular, atheistic, academia-pussified scholars have claimed that the Holy Bible was duplicated over and over so many times that it lost its authenticity and was altered, stepped on, added to, and detracted from over the last 3,000 years; therefore, it can’t be real; therefore, we don’t believe it; therefore, eat, drink, be merry, and worship Chuck Darwin or Stephen Hawking. Wrong! Before this find, the nearest carbon radium dating held our oldest biblical copy back to the Middle Ages. This dig dug up scrolls that were over 1,000 years older than that! AND THEY’RE THE SAME! For those of you keeping score at home, that means what we’re looking at today in the New International Version is what Jesus, the Man Himself, and his founding forefathers, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, were unrolling around the campfires deep in the land of Canaan, nearly 4,000 years ago. I’m still comprehending that….? So, two hours later Tos’ and Steve bailed because they’ve got real jobs, and Sherwood and I are unpacking this little quest across the courtyard at Starbucks. All the while, watching soccer moms chat on their BlackBerries and a homeless fella mumble to himself about the human finger he has wrapped in a sandwich baggie, Sherwood locks my gaze and says, “Corey, how’s your heart, brother?” Without batting an eyelash I told him: “It’s got 22 grammatical and spelling errors; but I’ll take it.” “Not bad.” He said. “Keep it up.”

Jack Bauer Wears Drakkar

My wife called me from the South Center Mall last night: "Corey, what do you want for Christmas?" There was a pause of uncomfortable silence as my mind attempted to race through a myriad of material things that lay scattered in my subconscious. "Surprise me." I said. "Come on--I'm all done; except for you. Tell me what you want." I could tell there was an element of frustration in her voice and the notion that an all-day-chick-shopping fest had lost its novelty. My mind raced even more. I'll tell you what I REALLY want:
* I want my Grandma May to have a "pain-free day" and not hurt from the rheumatoid arthritis that has plagued her body for nearly three decades;
* I want my recently divorced brother and Ex Sister-in-Law to rewind their lives 15 years and remember what they felt like in college while they were falling in love;
* I want Bono, Michael Stipe, and Eddie Vedder to quit bad-mouthing America and the capitalistic, free enterprise system that allowed them the opportunity to perform in sold out stadiums while pimping their CDs, DVDs, concert shirts, pens, buttons, and other pseudo-marketing propaganda at overly-inflated profit margins!
* I want to get Osama Bin Laden in a small room at Club Gitmo and let Jack Bauer have ten minutes with him!
* And, I want my twins, Noah and Olivia, to stop growing up and promise me that they'll always think I'm cool, want to hang with me, love me, and let me be part of their lives.
"Corey! Corey, are you there?!" Gina was losing her patience and her mind in the full-fledged frenzy of Tukwila shopping madness. "Yeah, babe--just get me some Drakkar...like last year. " What can I say? I'm an 80s man...