As hard as Apple i-everythings want us to believe otherwise, there’s no digital substitute for the charge that came from passing a note.
On that score, society is bored and desperate for a counterfeit.
Old school flirting & texting had a much higher heat index.
I’ll never forget Sr. Josephine busting me in 8th grade passing a rather randy for-the-time note to a girl. She’d (not Sr. Josephine) been in the cross-hairs of my virgin, libidinous, adolescent love-radar all year. So nervous as to actually do anything about it, she lived only in the guilty-pleasure recesses of an altar boy brain formed in molds of shame and guilt.
After a recess game of dodge-ball on a warm spring day in 1968, I finally took a shot.
Still learning about predicate adjectives modifying the noun subject, so please bear with me.
Where was I? O’ yeah…girls.
Catholic grrls have their own style and method. She (who shall remain unnamed)blushed and smiled demurely when handing her the note. Unceremonially busted by the evil nun in a quest to connect was no cause to abort the mission at hand. Chivalrous points were scored by not outing her as the recipient. Today, chivalry is not dead…only smothered by the oppressive Antichrist of political correctness.
It was well worth falling on the sword. Two months later, the maiden of my affections reciprocated. She stalked me in the hallway with brown squares to line up on. With perfect timing, she pounced like a female leopard, and pushed me into the open locker in the hallway. Being pinned in the locker for a kiss on the last day of school made it worth the first felonious charge of being busted for passing a desperate note of longing.
Her furtive kiss shocked my young eighth-grade sense of propriety inflicted by frustrated nuns. Holy Guacamole Batman. That kiss provided a serious charge shooting from the soles of my feet through the top of an Irish melon that’s never forgotten it.
Her sweet, not-so-innocent kiss fired every brain synapse in a fractal cacophony of impact. As she withdrew from the strike and smiled, I could only slump in that locker and drool. With knees of jello later bent in a prayer of gratitude, it was a holy event.
She went on to Bishop Foley while I went on to moral bankruptcy and debauchery in the public system of More Fun. Truth be told, those Foley Girls could party like rock stars.
But I digress…again
Today, the PC Police might call that 45-year-old memory a source of trauma. Imagine being harassed, bullied & man-handled into a dark locker for a kiss. The horror, the horror…not. It was righteous, real and fun. Can’t do that with a smart phone.
Seeing her happily married at the last Bishop Foley reunion, nothing needed to be said. For a millisecond with eyes locked, we smiled and connected. She may have even blushed.
Either that, or Hurley is just getting delusional in his old age.
The art of kissing ought not ever diminish, fade or become boring. I was forty years old before learning how a well placed kiss and lip-lock of connection beats getting laid any day of the week.
The wisdom of that concept gets better with age.
The options some fall for aren’t worth even considering.
Porn sucks. Being a promiscuous idiot is even worse.
Flirting is fun. If it leads to a kiss or brush of the tongue, that’s cool too.
Now either go rip-off your partner or take a cold shower.
The Greek word for Grace is “charis” and is used about 150 times in the New Testament of the Bible. The word refers to favor that God gives freely without expecting something in return. God provides his grace to us not because of anything we have done to earn it and not because of anything God desires to get from us. In fact, grace is dispensed in spite of the low-life scumbags we can be. God’s grace is free of charge…but it ain’t cheap.
The apostle Paul referred to the gospel of grace as a “mystery.” The inability to wrap our puny minds around something as awesome as grace doesn’t negate its profound reality. Like Paul, I sure don’t get it, but recognize grace when it presents itself.
Here’s an example.
An old friend called me fourteen months ago. Knowing I was struggling to get back on my feet after a sabbatical with the Michigan Department of Corrections, he wanted to help. He also sensed some kind of value in my writing and encouraged it. Without having to ask, this brother provided a flight to Florida to gift me with a 1997 Honda Accord and drive it back. He paid for everything, even the gas for the return trip. No strings attached. The only caveat was a commitment he wanted to pursue writing.
That’s a pretty good deal. We’re not talking the prison kind of Ramen Noodle grace. This was Radical Grace.
The Honda has faithfully served this Irishman. I knew when receiving the car that it wasn’t just about my needs. Bill Keaton who was a brother, mentor and sponsor, spent the last year of his life rollin’ all over southeast Michigan in the Accord. It was an honor and privilege to be his chauffeur. Now at 234,894 miles, my brother Joe would have quipped, “Hey! It’s just breaking in.” Alas, the reality is El’ Hondel started running a little rough.
Hoping to get by with a tune-up and the elimination of a “small leak” coming from “somewhere” (my words), I took the trusty Accord to a shop in Berkeley, Michigan my sister had recommended. The mechanic tried to break the news gently. Discerning he was a pro, Nick called me into the service bay to watch as he performed electronic diagnostic testing. Codes began flashing and numbers started jumping like my poor car was on meth. It wasn’t good. Then hoisting the car up on the lift, he grabbed a flashlight and invited me to join in for a further inspection.
The “small leaks” turned out to be rivers of un-living waters. An Unholy Mix of coolant, oil, power steering fluid and sludge coated the under-carriage of the motor compartment. At this point, I wasn’t exactly over-flowing with the joy of Jesus. The $1,100.00 estimate for a new distributor, crankshaft sensor, timing belt, water pump, axle boot, head gasket and a few other items did nothing to warm this soul on a cold Michigan morning.
After meditating on the situation, it became clear that getting a comparable runner for the cost of repairs would have been an exercise in futility. I told Nick to pull the trigger. Living in the “D”, you gots to have wheels.
That’s not the real point of this blog. We all go through this stuff. It’s called life on life’s terms. No biggie. In twelve step programs we call these “gold-plated problems” because we could be dead. Amen?
The higher struggle was this.
How could I afford the repairs, rent, bills and tithe at the same time? Having my butt planted at the Renaissance Vineyard Church in Ferndale, Michigan since being released from the Jackson Cage has been an awesome experience. They opened their doors and hearts to provide this prodigal with a place of restoration. Now slammed with a demonic bill, what was a disciple to do? Because my faith & trust are still in the developmental stages, a short period of vacillation ensued. After ten minutes of worthless bartering, the next right thing became clear as crystal . Tithing when everything is going great with money in the bank is one thing. To stop when things get tight is kinda’ lame. In spite of the present financial crisis, I’d feel like a punk for folding under pressure. We’re not called to give a tenth so we can barter with God or get something in return It’s not about that. Father wants to know if we’re gonna’ be faithful stewards of the stuff He’s provided. As I hit the “enter” button to tithe through PayPal, a sense of obedient joy supplanted anxious thoughts of the present moment. In fact, I started chuckling at the thought of how easily I can resort to being a dick. Then I started laughing at the thought of Jesus laughing with me. It made no sense, but it was sovereign and cool.
Within 24 hours, provision for paying for the car repair came from a couple moved by grace.
Tickets for a Chris Tomlin concert this month that came right after, serve as icing on the cake. Please hear my heart on this kids. I’m no spiritual giant. In fact, I really didn’t want to bake that cake. God knows the desires of our heart and will move heaven & earth to drive home lessons we resist.
None of this is written as any kind of boast. There have been countless financial crisis’ where I blew off tithing in lieu of trying to figure things out on my own. I’m ashamed to admit being such a petty jerk. At the end of the month, it never worked. Not once did I get ahead of the game by being a putz. When withholding from Father, I’m basically telling God with my actions;
“I don’t trust you.”
My sense is God doesn’t give one hoot about our money. He’s not bankrupt. He wants our abandoned trust. He knows how selfish I can be and only uses bucks to further His Kingdom. The choice is clear. Either we can remain bankrupt souls, enslaved to a world economy going south, or we can strap on a pair and trust God. Dad never gives up on His kids.
Just For Today, I thank God for his patient chastening, His long-suffering love & radical grace.
Mad props to Mat for the ride. Know that I’m writing up a storm my brother.
A very special thanks to Jeff & Karen. You guys are the bomb.
Written back in 2005 to an old friend I'd re-connected with online in the Synanon Yahoo Group. Not much polish on this one...just a few updates.
Warning: It's a tad crude and not recommended reading for the faint-at-heart.
Bernie Kolb and I got to know each other over the course of a few years as we'd commiserate online about our respective battles with opiates spanning several decades and the victory from active addiction.
Flying down I-75 on November 29, 1986, the conversation with Kelly went something like this;
“OK…I got this! You cool?”
Tim…you don’t have to speed
“Whaddya’ mean I don’t have to speed? We’re not going to 7-11 for a Slurpee!”
I know honey…it’s OK. Ah’ wait. No it’s not…go ahead. You better hurry!
With the pedal to the floor we made the hospital in Detroit in record time
Wailing into the entrance with tires smoking, I slammed on the brakes…hopped out…flew past the guard…grabbed a wheelchair and bolted back out to Kelly before the rent-a-cop even knew what was happening. Blowing past his wide girth in the hallway, he tried to tell me to wait and sign in.
“THERE’S NO TIME FOR ANY OF THAT MY MAN! WE’RE HAVING A BABY!”
“Now Tim…calm down” Kelly purred…only to have her tone change dramatically as the next contraction hit. No time for calm. We were on a mission from God!
“LET’S GO!”
While Kelly was in labor for almost two days with older brother Timmy, Josh was having none of that. In the time it took for Kels to get prepped and this Dad getting changed into scrubs…Joshua was ready to rock out within 55 minutes of arriving at the hospital. Barely making it into the delivery room in time, Josh emerged ass up…balls down…hung like a little race horse and cryin’ like a banshee.
O’ yes my friends…Pure Michigan. Pure Hurley. That’s MY Boy.
He scored 10 on his initial Apgar Test
No he didn’t.
I just lied.
I don’t really remember the score. All I know is he had 10 fingers, 10 toes, had great color and was handsome as all get out. You know how most babies look like little wet shmooshed gerbils when they’re born? Not my boys. Those guys popped out lookin’ like Gerber Models and are still turning heads to this day.
That’s no brag…just fact. Given the copious amounts of hallucinogens this dad consumed during days of his misspent youth….it’s a miracle they didn’t come out with gills, fish heads, webbed feet and two dicks. Really
To God be the glory.
So yeah…there he was. Did we ever shed tears of joy that day.
One of the first words Josh came up with was “Bop”. Eating food…Bop! Filling his diaper (gosh could that kid dump a load)…Bop! Hitting his brother Timmy…Bop! I mean…it was like he had this one word vocabulary for a couple of months. It was great. I’ve been trying to meet a woman like that ever since. Jes’ kiddin’. We’d have whole conversations where I’d look at him in his crib and go “BE!” Josh would look up and smile while replying with “BOP!”
So, that’s how Josh’s first nickname became BE-BOP
What a joy it was raising you Josh. You really kept us on our toes.
After graduating High School–and like a majority of young folks away at college for the first time, Joshua found his new setting to be very liberating. At one point, Kelly and I had some parental concerns about the parameters of said liberation. We paid him a surprise visit one night at 10:00PM at his college dorm.
Josh greeted us in the hallway and asked…hahaha
“To what do I owe this surprise visit?”
O’…no biggie son…we just want to take you out for dinner.
“Like now?”
Yeah…let’s roll Buddy.
As we settled in the car, Josh broke the awkward silence with his patented wit & humor.
“So are you guys gonna’ tell me what this is all about? Or is it classified information?”
He was all of 17 years old when coming up with that one. O’ God…we laughed so hard, then proceeded to have a REALLY great meal together.
This song in his birthday video is significant between us as father & son. He played it for me on the way back from Western Michigan. Driving from Kalamazoo to Holland, Josh played U2′s “Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own” …turned to me and sang this lyric; “You’re the reason why the opera is in me“. At a very young age, Joshua learned an important truth, many guys never come to understand. Knowing when to play, hold & fold is an acquired art.
That you chose to drop out of college and come live with me in Holland for six months or so took me by surprise. Our time together there remains a very rich period of time between us. Now engaged and pursuing your degree with a great job…I’m very proud, happy and grateful for you Be Bop.
From your birth to that pivotal moment in Kzoo, until today….your life has been a real blessing to many Joshua.
Your Mom & I still have your back. However, over the years we’ve learned with the wisdom that living brings…that you were never really ours. You were just on loan from God for us to parent for a season. We were far from perfect in that mission…but know this Josh, we love you with every fiber in our being. Whatever you choose in life is yours to choose. Honestly, for all our missteps, we never charted out a course for you. We only wish for this–that you fulfill whatever God’s plan is for your life and live it with a modicum of joy. Have the best year of your life.
At the end of the day, it’s still all about grace.
Saturday Night’s alright for jammin’…get a little action in.
I see it all before me: the days of love and torment; the nights of rock-and-roll. I see it all before me. Sometimes my spirit’s empty; don’t have the will to go on. I wish someone would send me energy.
Give me something. Give me something to give. Oh, God, give me something: a reason to live. My body is aching. Don’t want sympathy. Come on. Come and love me. Come on. Set me free. Set me free.
The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me through the path of righteousness for His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.
Patti Smith/Easter/Privilege (Set Me Free)
On that note and with lyrics that abound, resound and rebound off the ceiling of this soul, here’s a clip that might shake your money makers. Van just called Le’ Man Cave and said;
“Dig this Hurley, I need an acoustic rhythm backing track on ‘Wild Night’. Ronnie Montrose was only 17 when he laid down his opening riff. The kid did a good job, but I like the way you hammer that D string while playing the G. Put a little of that Irish Detroit on it. Check’s in the mail my brother.”
OK Van the Man…you got it. Strictly rhythm, I don’t make it cry or sing.
Two of the finest young guys any man could be blessed with just celebrated a birthday with their Dad. Went and saw "Flight" with Timmy and then the boys took the old man to dinner @ Lily's in Royal Oak.
"Flight" (starring Denzel Washington) is one of those movies that comes along once every half decade or so.
