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We drove our car into the belly of the huge boat. We got out of the car and wandered through that massive, dark, underwater parking lot. We could feel the gentle sway under our feet, even while anchored in the harbor.

A cool breeze blew up off of the Bristol Channel, and we stood on the deck of the ferry and waited for the boat to ease out into the water. We were on our way to Ireland with an 8-hour ferry ride ahead of us.

The sun set into the water as the boat rotated towards the west, so we retreated back down into our tiny room. It was eight weeks square and held two miniature bunk beds. The storm began after we had already fallen asleep. I woke up to a violent pitching that nearly rolled me out of my bunk. The bottom of the huge ferry crashed down against the waves, then rose up again.

I kept waiting for water to flood down the stairwells and into our room.

* * * * *

Then I imagine the disciples being in a tiny fishing boat, adrift at sea, surging up and down as the storm gathers. Waves wash over the sides, pooling water in the bottom of the boat. Lightning explodes in the sky. The wind lashes them with rain. They look to the miracle man, the one who has healed many people, the one they’ve begun to put their trust in. But he’s asleep.

They’ve seen him do amazing things, but they don’t know how to respond in the face of his apparent apathy.

Jesus was sleeping at the back of the boat with his head on a cushion. The disciples woke him up, shouting, “Teacher, don’t you care that we’re going to drown?”

* * * * *

There are things the disciples don’t say:

The disciples don’t simply shout, “We’re going to die!”

They don’t cry out, “Save us!”

They even refrain from the question I hear so often, “Why are you letting this happen?”

No, the first words out of their mouth give a voice to one of my gravest concerns about God:

“Don’t you care…?”

Don’t you care about cancer? Don’t you care that I don’t have any income? Don’t you care about all the vulnerable children in the world?

And in the face of that blame-filled question, Jesus gets out a can of rebuke. But he doesn’t direct that rebuke at the person asking the question – he directs the rebuke at the wind and the waves. He doesn’t rebuke their doubt about whether or not he cares – he rebukes the difficult circumstances.

Then he turns to them, because they are still afraid. It’s only after the calm has settled in that he asks them, “Why are you afraid? Do you still have no faith?”

* * * * *

I’m still searching for conclusions regarding this story of Jesus and the storm, but one thing is clear to me:

God is not offended by the question, “Don’t you care?”

A few months ago I had coffee with this really nice guy, Dan Schmidt, who somehow convinced me to do what I’m usually very hesitant to do: contribute to a collaborative effort. So I wrote a chapter for his book, Letters to Me. Mostly I agreed because I was fascinated with this idea of writing a letter to my younger self, but the talent of the other writers also got my attention (including folks like Lore Ferguson, Tamara Lunardo, Eric Wyatt, and a whole host of others).

Anyway, it’s available in paperback and digital formats. Check it out HERE.

* * * * *

I’m also thrilled to announce that Maile and I are finalizing a book about our four-month cross-country trip. It’s called How to Use a Runaway Truck Ramp (and other tales from our cross-country adventure). The goal is to release it on December 10th in paperback and digital formats – stay tuned for more information, cover photos, and giveaways.

In fact, if you want a chance to win a free paperback copy just before release, sign up for my email newsletter (you can do that over in the left side bar on this page). More on that the first week of December.

I’m doing the final edits and cover design for my upcoming book, “How to Use a Runaway Truck Ramp.” If you have a blog and would like to help me promote the book’s release during the week of December 10th, shoot me a message with your email address and I’ll send you a free PDF copy. Plus, I’d love to send a free paperback copy to one of your readers during that week if you want to run some kind of a contest or drawing.

Thanks! More details and a picture of the cover to come next week!

 

Maile and I sit at the tiny kitchen table in my parents’ basement. Christmas music plays quietly. Cade and Lucy are asleep in the other half of the basement, Abra and Sam sleep back in the bedroom, and the laundry turns in its erratic rhythm. We are counting down the days until we can move.

But there is peace here, in the midst of a slowdown in work, and living in tight spaces. And a stupid speeding ticket. There is peace in the midst of more doctor’s appointments and more words I want to write and an overwhelming desire to contribute.

I’m not always sure where this peace comes from, but I have a feeling it originates mostly from hope. When I’m hopeless, I’m peace-less. Hopeful, peaceful.

* * * * *

As we sat at the table, Maile pointed out an article at Yahoo.com about the parents of Columbine shooter, Dylan Klebold:

When asked what they would say to Dylan if they could speak to him now, Tom says, “I’d ask him what the hell he was thinking and what the hell he thought he was doing!”

Sue’s answer is a revelation. She says, “I would ask him to forgive me, for being his mother and never knowing what was going on inside his head, for not being able to help him, for not being the person he could confide in.”

I think one of the quickest ways we lose hope is when we stop confiding in people. When we start providing all of the answers to our own questions.

* * * * *

I received an email from someone I met on the interwebs. She told me she was walking through the valley. She told me that sometimes she came pretty close to losing all of her hope. She told me that reading one of my old posts (“You Will Want to Give Up. Don’t.”) is one of the few strands that she can hang on to.

And I’ll tell you this – her simple act of confiding helped to pull me up out of my own downward cycle. This, I think, is what happens when we confide in one another: outside voices, even desperate ones, carry their own small vein of hope. Because when someone confides in you, or you in them, something besides the words is communicated.

There’s a chance I’ll get past this.

There’s a tiny possibility that we’ll talk again, in better times.

Even though I sometimes want to give up, I hope.

Don’t keep all of that sadness or depression or madness to yourself. Find someone to confide in. You might find an unexpected hope.

Not even politics divides our country as violently as the “when-to-start-listening-to-Christmas-music” debate. You have the traditionalists who, if they hear a Christmas song being played before Christmas Eve, go into cardiac arrest. At the other extreme are the churches who sing “Joy to the World” in their regular worship rotation.

Today, I’m settling it once and for all. Here are five reasons you should have started listening to Christmas music on November 1st:

1 – Waiting until after Thanksgiving to start listening to Christmas music is like waiting until you’ve already started peeing to unzip your pants. By then, it’s just too late, and you might as well skip it.

2 – When I was a kid, and Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer came on the radio, my dad would always kind of laugh, and then my mom would give him that look that asked, “Are you going to let our children listen to this violent ridiculousness?” And then he’d come to his senses and change the station. I would like to be reminded of this memory more than one month out of the year.

3 – It’s Christmas, Charlie Brown is a year round album. Seriously. I’ll fight you about that.

4 – The economy is suffering, folks! And it’s a proven fact that people spend more money when there is Christmas music playing in the background. Playing Christmas music in November = job recovery and national debt relief. Playing Christmas music for the owner of Papa John’s = good economic sense.

5 – I find that reminding my kids that Christmas is just around the corner (and beginning this process on November 1st) is a helpful aid in two-months’ worth of behavior modification, instead of just one (ie all that nonsense about coal).

When do you start listening to Christmas music? What’s your favorite Christmas song (and by which artist)?

“The most important thing you can do is…do a lot of work.” An insightful interview with NPR’s Ira Glass: