Support your Red and White

I woke up this morning and went about my usual routine; staying in bed as long as possible, having a coffee, checking in with Facebook, Twitter, and Gmail, double checking my agenda to make sure I’m on my way to the right place, getting another coffee ready for the road.  Nothing glamorous about my mornings.

Another great day was shaping up.  Sun was out, the breeze warm.  My car, unlocked and the door not quite closed.  Wait, what?  I don’t always lock my car, and this wasn’t the first time that someone exploited my trust.  CDs, papers, and business cards were scattered across the drivers seat.  My multi-tool money clip from the church was gone, a red Bic lighter was gone, some loose change was gone although some remained.  This is the second time I’ve had a red Bic go missing, yet I’ve never purchased a Bic lighter before; I find them on the ground, in parks, along the curb.  The first one was taken from my office.

It wasn’t really worth phoning the police over, but the last time this happened, the local authorities advised me that they need these reports for two reasons: 1^st, statistics, 2^nd, they know where to focus their time during shifts.  It’s not uncommon to see the police roll through out neighbourhood, but nothing substantial goes down.  Most times it’s for things such as what I faced this morning, or to recover stolen bicycles that found their final resting spot on a front lawn.

As I waited for the police to arrive, I noticed a 31” scrape along the rear right quarter panel.  That’s new.  I initially thought it looked like a scrape from a bicycle’s handlebar, but the police advised me that it was keyed.  They’d faced a series of similar concerns on the south side of town a couple weeks back, but there has been little to report over the past week or so.  I was now the first of five calls this morning.  Looks like things have moved to the north side.

This sort of thing doesn’t really bother me.  It’s annoying, it’s rude, it’s an invasion.  It’s stupid.  I hope that whatever they were looking for, they found.  I hope they find it useful. 

It’s in these situations that I am reminded, “It’s just stuff.”  And I rarely find myself concerned about stuff.  Stuff can always be replaced, but those things that matter, the people in life, the relationships, and the memories…those are the parts of life that matter.

Everyone has a story.  Mine goes on.  The people that took my stuff, well, only time will tell how theirs will end…

All of this got me thinking about being robbed.  I’ve been watching the Olympics every day since they began.  While I wasn’t able to watch the entire opening ceremony, what I did see was quite a spectacle.  Visually thrilling, and I think that a seat at home was the best place to watch such a production.

The men’s gymnastics seems to have so many pieces and events to make up the event, I really don’t know when it was, but there was an event that saw the China team file an appeal which resulted in Canada being bumped from the medal standings. 

Now I am the first to admit that I don’t know a ton about gymnastics, but if you saw the video recap to determine whether the hand stand by the Chinese was worthy of points, I am sure most people would say “Nope.  That wasn’t a handstand.”  The judges, however, changed their original scoring, elevating the Chinese team from fourth, to second, moving Canada from silver to bronze, and removing Ukraine out of the standings.

I felt robbed as a Canadian.

I’m not an athlete.  I don’t represent Canada on a public stage (except on my various missions trips).  But I do have a sense of pride in Canada.  I feel a genuine sense of joy when our athletes capture a medal.  To be the winners of silver, only to have it downgraded to bronze because of a disagreement just felt wrong.  Robbed.

Much like I felt this morning.  Disappointed in the actions of others, actions that cost me.

As a final word, I want to encourage my Canadian readers to support your Red and White – the colours of Canada.  Be proud of our country, stand up for it, defend it.  Support your Red and White.  Fly your flag with the pride that so many other countries show. (Watch for another blog coming soon on the Red, White, and Blue).

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.