Seriously… “It’s fun to do bad stuff”? When asked if he thinks there should be any punishment, “Maybe no video games for a while and that’s it.” If I were the kid’s grandma, I would’ve whooped the tar out of him for the camera so that no other 7 year olds got any wise ideas…
It’s not our public face that defines who we are, it’s who we are when no one else is watching. Men judge by actions, but only God judges by hearts.
(It’s probably been said by someone more eloquently than I, but it’s just a thought I had this week)
Ah, what a day. It’s funny, it seems like since I’m not intentionally trying to blog every day, now I have no lack of material (although I didn’t use yesterday’s). But tonight, I blog.
The morning started out with me getting to church for setup. I was a little shocked, I was there at 8:30 and the sound booth hadn’t even been rolled out. I go in, call out upstairs (figuring Dave was up there) and it turned out that Jared was up there. Dave’s father in law was in the hospital and so he was with his wife at the hospital. I’m sure you all know what this means: I’m the only non-choir-member sound guy there (and only one of two total sound techs in the building, as Kellie AND Dave are both in the ministry). This also means, being the only non-choir sound guy, that I was pretty much by myself the whole time.
Well, sound check went okay, but there was the proverbial wild card with the first special: The choir was singing to back up Kim. This is a wild card for two reasons:
1) We don’t run sound check with choir
2) The mics can be finicky about cooperating for the choir
Usually the choir sound check is the opener, during which I try to adjust monitors so she can hear them, and after which (during prayer) Miss Faith and I communicate by lip reading and frantic gestures to figure out what we can do to fix things. today was not a good day, because by the time the opener was over, I had cranked her monitor to +5 (which is max on the dial) and she couldn’t hear anything. So everyone bows their head and the frantic gesturing begins, I get my point across, and I unmute Kim’s mic.
Or so I thought.
You see, Kim usually uses one of the wirelesses, which happens to be the same one that Amanda uses, and since I set Amanda’s settings first, I set Kim on another microphone. However, when I unmuted it, I unmuted Amanda’s. Kim goes to start the song, I hear nothing, and I reactively flipped the other mute button off (I have the right instincts when something goes wrong, at least), then wanted to crawl under the sound booth and hide.
Well, after the service I found out that tonight we were going to do a run through for next sunday morning’s group ensemble (which involves two munchkin choirs, the teen girls, and a quartet of my sister, Amanda, Casey, and Kim). This is something that, normally, I would’ve let Dave handle because of the complex nature (and my own feeling insecurities about the job and not feeling on par with Dave, he is, after all, infinitely more experienced). But, recall, Dave wasn’t there and wouldn’t be there for the evening service, either. So, again, the task falls to me.
I did make the smart move of letting Glen mix the teen girls for the evening service (if I’d had to do that, AND the pre-sunday check, I probably would’ve cracked and declared myself emperor of the hundred acre woods…). Then, after the service, I took a seat at the back of the auditorium and waited for the large group to come, and come they did. It wasn’t quite what Miss Faith was hoping for, though, because we didn’t have the mics for the munchkin choirs (Jared’s getting those this week), and the choir mics are hung too high to pick up the teen girls (in fact, the majority of what I picked up through the choir mics was actually the piano…). The ladies quartet in the center couldn’t hear anything from the monitors, the teen girls couldn’t be heard at all, and the munchkins didn’t get mics to use because we didn’t have them yet. I think it’ll go well sunday, but there’s going to be a lot of playing by ear to get everything perfect, which makes Miss Faith nervous, I can tell…
Well, after all of this, I broke down everything, put it all away, and went to my sister’s house to pick up the birthday cake I left there yesterday. After that, I decided (being it was fairly warm outside) to grab a milkshake on the way home. So I went to Baskin-Robbins and got myself a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup shake. This turned out to be the randomness of the night. You see, for whatever reason, some genius at B&R decided that putting a big old dollop of hot fudge in the bottom of the milkshake. Let’s think about this for a moment.
First of all, hot fudge, for those who aren’t familiar, is rather thick when heated. when it cools, it becomes thicker. and, being in the bottom of the cup, it’s the first thing you try sucking down the straw, which doesn’t really work. Add to that the bits and pieces of Reese’s, which tend to clog up the straw all be their lonesome. So, take reeses bits, add hot fudge, and suddenly, I’m wishing Drain-O wasn’t toxic so I could get the blasted straw unclogged.
And now, here I sit, on the verge of going to bed, realizing in addition to 25 years disappearing, I have no bloody idea where my week’s vacation went…
I was reading this story on CNN today, a verdict came in on three men who were accused of killing an unarmed man on the night of his wedding, and good ol’ reverend Sharpton said “Justice was not miscarried, justice was aborted.”
So much of the focus has been on the police (represented primarily as white supremicists, as evidenced by someone’s screaming that the shooters were KKK members) shooting an innocent black man, but really, I don’t think that this is the time to be playing the race card.
Please understand me, this is a great tragedy, I would not wish this on anyone, but at the same time, I’ve been around police enough to know it’s hard enough second guessing yourself on tactical decisions without having the general public screaming that you’re a racist murderer. I’m glad the courts weren’t caving to the political spectacle that Sharpton drags out every time he involved himself with something.
Now, as far as why I think this is a lousy time to play the race card, let’s take a look at something here: The five cops that shot the victim. Of the five, two were black, one was white, one was Middle-Eastern, and one was of biracial Haitian/Mexican descent. In addition to this, the first officer to fire was, oddly enough, black. So now is really not the time to try playing racial politics.
Additionally, anyone with enough sense can take a Citizen’s police academy course (quite a few have them nowadays) and at one point or another, you come to the realization of how quickly the officers have to react. If you try something stupid, say reaching into your jacket pocket when told to put your hands in the air, or trying to run an officer down with your car, the officer has limited time to think and react, and if you’re not complying you’re automatically tagging yourself as a potential threat. When I was in CPA for WashCo, I got to go into the deadly force simulation, and you know what? The reaction time between when a perp doesn’t have a gun and does have a gun is almost obscene, I wasn’t even holstering my weapon and the guy still got the first shot off before I could drop the hammer on him. Time for a police officer isn’t measured in seconds; it’s measured in miliseconds. You never know what kind of situation you’re walking into, and you have to react accordingly.
Let’s look at it from another angle. Let’s assume, just for a moment, that Mr. Bell was, in fact, a bad man. Let’s also assume that, when he went back to the car, there was a gun there. And, just for kicks, let’s assume that the officers, instead of shooting at a perceived threat waited until it was a definite threat. I’ve been shooting enough to know that it does not take a long time to empty a 12-round clip, for kicks, let’s say he’s got a 9mm glock with high-capacity magazines. That’s 16 in the clip, one in the chamber. If you’re fast enough (and accuracy is no object), you can easily empty a clip in under 10 seconds. Now, instead of one potential threat (who, again, wasn’t complying with the officers) dead, we have potentially three to five dead NYPD detectives.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, stop second guessing the decisions made by cops on a daily basis and educate yourself, Mr. Sharpton. Unless you’ve been in those shoes, unless you’ve been there on that dark street, with the possibility of not coming home that night being real to you, you are in no position to pass judgment on those officers, so stop trying to act like you think you know all there is to know in the world on the subject.
…how unbelievably adorable this is:
Seriously, cutest thing all week. Especially the one in the middle that halfway through the song put his arm around the one next to him…
And for your SNL Ferrell-Catan fans…
Yes, I made my annual mistake of going to Red Robin.
Yes, they sang to me.
Yes, they made me stand up and hold my sundae for all to see.
And yes, they put balloons behind my ears. A purple one and a pink one. I think Alona liked them when I asked her mom if she could have them.
And now it comes to it: The big finale, as it were, after a series of sometimes humorous, sometimes rambling, occasionally pointless blogs between my third blogging anniversary and my 25th birthday. I admittedly had considered throwing this in sooner rather than later, but ultimately decided it’s more meaningful to end out with this one than to throw it in in the middle. Of the whole group, this one means most to me.
My grandfather’s name was Robert Avon Tjomsland. (Before you even consider any “Avon calling” jokes, keep in mind a) it’s my birthday, and b) I will end you. :-p) He was a great man, and a great example in my life. He was a devoted husband, loving father, and a wonderful grandfather. He passed away on April 17th, 1998, one week before my 15th birthday, my freshman year of high school. I still remember my parents coming to pick me up at school the day he went in to the hospital. He’d had heart surgery after a heart attack, and a cough that the doctors had said was a normal part of recovery turned out to be pneumonia. For any who know my inherent distrust of hospitals, now you know why: At 14 years old, I got to watch my grandfather pass as a result of someone screwing up (or at least, that was my mindset at the time).
Now older and wiser, I’ve come to understand that it was his time, whether I wanted to admit it at the time or not. Whether by pneumonia or a car accident, if God was going to call grandpa home, he’d do it however he pleased. But another perk in being older is I can look back on and cherish the life lessons my grandpa taught me while he was alive. Today, on my 25th birthday, I’d like to share a few.
1) If you want something, work hard for it – My grandfather was a child of the Depression. Everything he had later in life was a result of how hard he’d worked earlier in life. My grandfather worked with the CCC in his young adult years, went on to work construction most of his life. He paid his bills on time, he paid cash for everything. He even built a beautiful house out in Hebo, Oregon (which is the place I knew as a child). And after his heart attack, when he and my grandma decided to move closer to town, he paid cash for their new home, too. Admittedly, this is a lesson I wish I really would’ve grasped earlier in life, but having had that example at all is, in this day and age, rare. My generation tends to want everything handed to them on a silver platter. That’s why we’re into the “get rich quick” schemes, we want everything our parents had without any of the work it took for them to get it. And what’s sad is, more and more parents are giving in and giving it to them. Then we wonder why our kids are lazy. Gee, I wonder…
2) Don’t save things unless they’re useful. – My grandfather had an amazing shop when I was a kid. He had power tools, hand tools, nuts, bolts, screws, nails, everything you can imagine. If you ever needed a nut or bolt, Grandpa was the man, chances are he’d have it.
3) Don’t save the useful things unless you plan on using them. – To this day, my grandmother still has baby food jars of nuts, bolts, screws, and the like in her garage. She’ll never be wanting for any of them, but I think we could take all the walls off of the place and put it back together just with the stuff she has there.
4) Love your wife. – My grandparents were married fairly young, but they remained married. In fact, I don’t think there was ever a doubt in my grandmother’s mind that grandpa loved her. When he was older, at doctors appointments and whatnot he’d flirt with the nurses, but grandma didn’t mind; she knew he only had eyes for her. That’s another thing increasingly rare in todays culture: husbands actually telling their wives they love them. I’m no marriage expert (being, after all, unmarried), but guys, how often do you tell your wife you love her? If you haven’t said it since you got married, do yourself a favor: Go do it, right now. Seriously, step away from the blog, find your wife, give her a hug and a passionate, “I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks” kiss, and tell her you love her. Then, and only then, do I give you permission to finish this blog. Go on, I’m not going anywhere. Do it. NOW.
Okay, now that that’s out of the way…
5) Take care of your family, even when it’s hard. – My family, for those who aren’t aware, is far from perfect. We don’t really define the dysfunctional family, but we certainly have had our moments (and will probably continue to do so). Grandpa was the proverbial glue that held the family close, and I think it was because of this: No matter how stupid the things you did, grandpa didn’t hold it against you. Even if he told you it was a bad idea, even if he warned you not to do it and you ignored it, grandpa wouldn’t say I told you so, he’d accept you back just as if you hadn’t done anything. Now, mind you, I think he thumped me once or twice when I was younger, but it was a loving admonishment, he got it over with and got on with it.
6) Be a servant in whatever you’re doing. – I think of all of the lessons I learned from grandpa, I picked up on this one earliest, even if I didn’t fully understand it at the time. If you asked my grandpa for help with something, he would be glad to help. I think this example is what got me holding doors for people at a young age (just ask my mother: On a cub scout visit to mentor graphics, while all the other kids were running ahead, I held the doors for the parents. True story. =)
Am I always the man grandpa was? Hardly. So many of the lessons I learned were kind of late-breaking revelations. But I hope someday, after a long, full life, that I can have my grandkids writing about the lessons they learned from me that I’ve passed on from him. I hope I’m making you proud, Grandpa.
Adios for now, kids, we’ll see you later.
~Andrew =)
Cannot… wait… Want… May… 16th… Here… Now…
This makes me giggle.
Alas, it’s not true…
When I was in elementary school, I was a boy scout. I don’t remember if I asked to be in it or my parents just put me into it, but it was a fascinating time. We used to go out to our den leader’s house, which was out in the middle of nowhere (at least to me, in my older years I figured out it’s actually just outside of Sherwood). His family had this large piece of property, with horses and woods and trees and creeks. Growing up I liked going to the park and catching salamanders, so this was a lot of fun for me.
Sometimes we’d go on night hikes and learn about the flora and fauna in the great outdoors. Well, the flora at least. there wasn’t a whole lot of fauna that we saw while we were out there. I always enjoyed the random craft projects we had. Like making hurricane laterns out of a mason jar, a tuna can, and a wooden stick (because we all know how often hurricanes hit in Oregon). Or the bird feeders and bird houses.I also really enjoyed the pinewood derby and raingutter regatta, the organized competitions we did while in scouts.
When I was in scouts, I only ever got to go camping with the group once. I remember we went up to Mt. Hood and were camping somewhere off the Zigzag river. My dad went along, we got all the camping gear especially for the trip. Sleeping bags, tent, the works. We went hiking, avoided drowning ourselves in the river (as boys can be curious when it comes to fast moving shallow water and hopping from rock to rock, this one proved tricky). I also remember playing with (I think it was) Nolan Farr’s dog. It was a hyperactive dalmatian, I don’t remember its name, but I remember holding up a stick, him taking a run at me to take the stick, and then twirling out of the way like a bull fighter. I think I might’ve even said “Ole!” (not that I knew what it meant back then. Come to think of it, I still don’t know what Ole means… Aside from Jose Ole’s Taco Sauce…). That dog was crazy, no matter how many times I dodged him grabbing the stick, he still tried.
Memo to self: Go camping this summer. Michael, this means you, too. :-p