Registration, please.

Digger and Hazel had been married earlier Saturday afternoon.  It was mix of bikers and medieval themed outfits coming together for a casual and enjoyable wedding day.

As it wrapped up, Digger said he needed to get his 1981 Harley Davidson shovelhead back to his place, just 6 km away.  I offered to ride it and he agreed.  Dave would ride Graham’s bike and we’d put them both in the shed.

Instead of waiting for the load of chairs to be taken back to the Anglican Church, Digger gave the following instructions: “Go to the light and turn left.”  He was pointing right.  I clarified.  I should have known this wasn’t going to go as planned. 

“Go to the light and turn right.  There will be lake on your right.”  We were up near Algonquin Park and there were lakes everywhere.  He assured me, “You can’t miss it.”

“Go to the light and turn right.  There will be a lake on your right.  There is a curve and my house is just past it so start slowing down.  My house is on the right.  You’ll see my motor home in the driveway.  Just put my bike in the shed.  The door will just open when you lift the rope.”

Good enough.  Dave and I fired up the bikes and went for our short ride in near zero degree temperatures.

At the light, we turned right.  There’s a lake on the right.  Here’s the curve in the road.  There’s the house on the right, with the motor home in the driveway.  There’s the shed.  We pull in and turn off the bikes.

There’s a van in the driveway.  The shed is locked up tight.  I can’t get in.  I can see that there are two hooks holding the sliding door securely in place.  There’s a silver padlock on the man-door.  We wait.

Graham drives by in the truck with the load of chairs bound for the Anglican Church, my wife was following in our van.  We wait.

And wait.

Dave is freezing.  I’m wearing my wife’s knit gloves.  Classy.  Very tough biker.

I called my wife.  Voicemail. 

I called Tim, another friend who was with Graham.  No connection. 

I called Graham.  No connection. 

I texted my wife.  Nothing.

Finally, a text from Tim.  “Where are you?”

“I think I’m at Digger’s”

“Are you at Hazel’s house?”

“I think so.  There’s a motor home in the driveway and a red van.  I can’t get into the garage.  Maybe wrong house?

Tim texts back, “Run.  What street are you on?”

“I turned right at the stop sign and then you guys passed us.”

“Graham is coming to get you.”

We’ve just spent about a half hour at someone’s house, peering in windows, checking all the doors to see if we could get inside.  Surely Digger, or Hazel wouldn’t mind.

Dave and I moved the bikes up to the end of the driveway to wait, since we don’t really know which direction to start heading in to find where we are supposed to be.

As we wait, an unmarked OPP (Ontario Provincial Police) Chevy Suburban drives by.  I mention to Dave, “Don’t you think that if a cop drives past two guys on bikes sitting at the end of a driveway wearing colours, he would stop and check things out?” 

He replied, “Guess not today.”

I text Tim, “K.  You want is to wait here…wherever we are?”

The OPP turned around and were now coming back for us.

Tim replies, “Do you have an address?”

The officer pulls in front of us and asks if things were okay.  I asked him what road we were on.  I texted Tim our address and let him know that we are now with the police.

The officer notes, “That’s a pretty old bike.  What kind?”

“1981 Harley Davidson panhead” I say with confidence…Digger had just told me about it earlier in the day.  Glad I remembered.

We explained to the officer that we had come from a wedding and were bringing the bike back to put away while the groom left with his bride.

Officer says, “Does the groom live here?”

I reply, “No, apparently not.”

“Do you know who lives here?”

“No.”

I tried to explain the directions I was given and he agreed that it would seem I was at the right house, but it wasn’t really adding up.  A groom named Digger should have been the first clue.

“There have been a number of break ins in the area.  I’m not saying it’s you but I figured I should check things out.”

That’s his job and that’s a good thing to do.

“Do you own that bike?” he asks me.

“No.  It belongs to the groom.”  The groom, named Digger, that I can’t get a hold of.

To Dave he asks the same question.  “No.”  Remember, he’s riding Graham’s bike.

The officer asks, “Do you have registrations for either bike?”

“No.”  This isn’t going well.

“You can see how this is sounding more hokey every time I ask a question right?” the officer asked.

“Yup.”  Sometimes the truth is like that.

“Do either of you have a driver’s license?”  Finally a question we can answer affirmatively! 

He ran our licenses.

And then he got out of the truck.  This was it.  Dave and I both figured we were getting arrested.  We are out in the freezing cold, 400 km from home, apparently lost, at a house who’s occupant we don’t know, on bikes that aren’t ours, without registration, and a friend named Digger.

I explained that Graham was on his way to get us and he could verify that he owned one of the bikes.  He pulled up just a moment later.  Graham gave his ownership to the officer.  It checked out.  I asked Tim if he bail money just in case.  He seemed…non-committal.  There were some jokes told.  Graham asked the officer what name I had given him since it came back without a criminal record.  It could have gone much worse if Graham hadn’t shown up.  I’m thankful for friends.

When everything was cleared up, the officer asked us about our colours and we explained that we were members of the Heaven’s SaintsMotorcycle Ministry.  We shared with him what we do, we shared the gospel message and gave him a testimonial DVD to watch later.  He thanked us and said that it was good to see some good coming out of the biker culture.

I later said to Dave, “Any weekend we can get out and ride, and not go to jail, is a good weekend.”

Everyone has a story.  I expected that the wedding would have been the story, and in a way it was.  If it weren’t for the wedding, for Digger’s directions, and so many lakes and motor homes, none of this would have happened.

What shall we do next weekend?

Live Deliberately

I know it’s almost February, but I have taken some time to process this in my own mind.  It’s a new year, and I am grateful.  On January 1, 2012 I woke up with the revelation that this would be a year of RESTORATION and RENEWAL!  What a relief.  Last year seemed to be the year of death and dying.  I believe in my heart that broken relationships will be restored.  That those who need a healing will be renewed.  Broken dreams and dashed hopes will take on a new sense of urgency this year as people have a renewed hope in their purpose in the world.  Their purpose is restored in their hearts.

I don’t tend to get on the resolution bandwagon, but I read an article by Gretchen Rubin who spoke of taking one word and putting a theme to the year.  By creating a theme, your actions are essentially filtered through it.  I toyed with idea of a one-word resolution, but I just couldn’t bring myself to a resolution.  A phrase rang in my soul, though. 

Live Deliberately.

I like that.  Live Deliberately.  It gives up the old living-by-chance approach.  My success as a freelance writer, a novelist, a magazine publisher or any other job or role I am in, simply cannot be left to chance. 

In 2012, I choose to live deliberately. 

Everyone has a story.  By living deliberately, I can help write my own, rather than allowing others to write a story I may not want read or be a part of.  How about you?  Give it a shot and create a theme for the year...and let me know what you came up with.

What Truly Matters

Christmas was different this year.  Actually, 2011 was a different sort of year all together.  We lost many people in a circle of influence during the past 12 months; a friend’s 10 year old son, a friend’s 27 year old son and then his father just months later, a life-long family friend, my daughter’s friend’s father in his early 30s, my mother in law, and most recently a family friend’s mother on Christmas day.  There are others, too.  We went to at least 8 visitations and funerals this year, and couple others that we couldn’t be at.

This year was different.  It served to remind us how fleeting life can be and how significant relationships are to our own existence.  Many have written that social media has caused us to detach from relationships, thus becoming more isolated and leaving countless people feeling alone despite having hundreds of “friends” and “followers.”  I think there’s some truth – if we allow the social media to replace real people.

Our family chose to simplify this Christmas season.  We helped others with Christmas gifts who otherwise had virtually nothing, and we chose to downsize our own celebration.  Having been very blessed in recent years, it was a deliberate shift back to the focus of family time, face to face time, and being in relationships with each other.

Christmas day found us in church after opening gifts with our children, age 11 and 13.  Gifts were kept meaningful and simple, a shift from digital technology that dominates the world around us.  As we later gathered with my parents, we opened gifts which were again deliberate and scaled down from years past.  We shared a traditional meal, played Bingo and Apples to Apples, and watched Red Skelton.  As we drank tea and munched on Christmas cookies, I reflected that we are so blessed.  We drank tea from 40 year old Centennial Rose china and ate our meals with gold plated cutlery, while others in the world think about their next meal, and live just one day at a time.

It’s okay to be blessed.  It’s a blessing to be so blessed, but let us not lose sight of the things that truly matter in our lives – the people, the relationships, and the memories that we make.  As the Christmas season quickly closes and we move on to the next mass marketing campaign of Valentine’s Day, I hope that we will spend the coming year focusing on this simplicity that matters.  Take the time to connect to real people, face to face, and care about them – don’t just poke, like or tweet.  Help out a neighbor, open the door for a stranger, buy someone’s lunch, lend a shoulder for a tearful friend or stranger.  We are all in this together.  When we take the time to slow things down, we learn that each of us has something to share with each other.  Let’s again become a community.

Everyone has a story.  Take the time to listen to someone’s.  They have a story to tell.  They may have a story that needs to be told, one that you need to hear.

Back to Christmas

I have been encouraged this holiday season.  An increasing number of people, including co-workers, store employees and people on the streets are reverting to saying “Merry Christmas.”  Not one retailer has wished me anything other than “Merry Christmas” and I think that simple gesture helps to bring in the spirit of season.

After a number of years of political correctness being shoved down the throats of Canadians, Common Sense seems to be making it’s long awaited return.  In all likelihood, Common Sense is just visiting for the holidays and we will soon resume taking a stand for nothing…other than a stand against offending someone.  But the holiday is called Christmas, no matter what you believe.  December 25 is Christmas Day, just as July 1^st is Canada Day if you’re not Canadian, and February 14^th is Valentine’s Day even if you’re not in love.

If you happen to be one of those who is wrapped up in celebrating a completely non-offensive and politically correct holiday, do you enjoy living?  Don’t change Christmas for the rest of us.  Actually, if you aren’t celebrating Christmas, what exactly are you doing on December 25^th?

Everyone has a story.  Let those who celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ have Christmas.  That’s the story that gives you Christmas anyways.

Welfare Mentality

“I have to start school in January or they’ll kick me off welfare.”  It was intended to draw sympathy to the person’s plight, but it stirred me.  It actually disturbed me.  Truth be told, it’s disgusted me.

Call me prejudice or oppressive, but take a moment to hear me out. 

The latest statistics that I could find show there are 201,600 welfare cases in Ontario, with 382,000 total recipients.

Welfare was created to help people through difficult times.  That’s noble. 

Welfare was not created to develop a lifestyle.  That’s enabling. 

Approximately $1200 per month is paid to a parent with one child (plus the child tax benefit which I understand is at least $200 to a non-working parent, tax credits, GST returns and other government incentives).   A run down on the province’s website that summarizes the benefits for those receiving social assistance can be found here, including dental and vision care as well as prescription coverage.

There are many individuals and families who maintain employment, yet do not receive the same benefits.

My struggle with the claim of attending school to maintain welfare is this: there is no internal drive to become a “better person.”  There fails to be an intrinsic value on bettering one’s self.  No drive to gain employment.  No drive to create a self sustaining life or contribute to the community.

Instead, a mindset has been developed that makes welfare a career of choice.

How has our system of social supports created a segment of our communities that are content to only receive without giving?  Even more disconcerting, to limit one’s potential?  If we allow our neighbours and fellow community members to limit themselves, aren’t we allowing ourselves to be hurt too?  We are in this together. 

I am not disgusted with the person who made the statement.  I am disgusted that we have allowed this to become a viable option.

Everyone has a story.  I hope that I can be a part of showing people that they have so much more potential in their life and I hope that you will join me to encourage people in your circle of influence.  To do otherwise is to allow mediocrity to become the standard, and leave a life’s story unwritten, unread, and untold.