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I don’t shave very much, now that I don’t have a real job. Mostly because it’s kind of a bother, but also because I have a sensitive face.

Did I mention I’m a huge wuss?

I feel bad for my buddies who have to shave every day, and for you poor girls who have so many more square inches to shave than we do. So I spent wasted some time on the internet looking up interesting facts on shaving. Read on – thanks to this website you won’t be disappointed:

1 – It is estimated that a man will shave at least 20,000 times in his lifetime.

2 – While shaving, a person removes about as much skin as hair.

3 – The average person has about 615 hairs per square centimeter.

4 – Men’s facial hair grows at a rate of approximately half an inch per month (6 inches per year).

5 – For men, it would take roughly 16 years of shaving to collect together one pound of hair clippings.

6 – Peter the Great of Russia imposed a tax on beards, which was collected at every town gate.

7 – Nearly 70% of American women prefer a clean-shaven man.

8 – 10 feet the length of the longest mustache on record grown by Birger Pellas of Sweden.

9 – 17.5 feet the length of the longest beard on record grown by Hans Langseth of Norway.

10 – Pseudofolliculitisbarbae is the the medical term for razor burn.

So which of these is your favorite shaving fact, and what do you think about it? For that matter, what do you think about shaving in general?

“What are you looking for?”

To answer this question, or comprehend it, requires so much stillness in our lives, so much solitude. A willingness to step back. To step away. There are too many competing signals in our lives, like a radio simultaneously tuned into 100 different stations. All of these signals distort our ability to know ourselves, fool us into believing that surface level things can be the things we want. So we start looking for things that won’t satisfy our genuine desire.

“What are you looking for?”

A cursory answer to this question reveals all the shallowness that human life has to offer. “More money,” we say, as if what we want can be found in pieces of multi-colored paper, or a larger number on our bank account statements. But numbers and paper, while giving us the ability to acquire, meet no deep-level need.

If the lie – that money is what we truly want – weren’t so sinister, and so believable, it would be funny. Who spends their life hoarding up pieces of paper? Who spends an existence trying to increase a number? But we believe that we need more money to be happy. We believe that money can buy us the stuff of which happiness is created.

When people asked Jesus what they needed to do to enter the kingdom of the heavens, he never said that they needed more money. But sometimes he told them they needed less, or that they needed to leave what they had.

There’s no financial threshold you need to meet before you can begin living out your purpose. You can start fulfilling your purpose anytime. You can start right now.

* * * * *

“What are you looking for?”

Perhaps you’ve gotten beyond the shallow answers to this question, to a place where you know things like “more money” or “a bigger house” or “a swimming pool” aren’t what you’re looking for. Somehow you’ve managed to tune out the “American Dream” signals and arrive at deeper things. You’re looking for stuff that’s not on the surface.

But even at this next level, the things you think you are looking for are still just mirages of something greater. Something more fantastic.

“I’m looking for a spouse,” some say.

“I’m looking for a job I enjoy,” others say.

Those are not bad things, but it’s still not what you are REALLY looking for.

By now I can hear some of you saying, Who do you think you are? You don’t know what I want!

You’re right, I don’t.

But I still think that most people who think they want a spouse actually just want to be truly known by another person, and still loved, even after all their peculiarities get exposed. We don’t want to be alone. We want to be loved for who we are.

Most of us who want to enjoy our job actually want purpose. We want to believe that our existence isn’t arbitrary and pointless.

Deeper still. We have to go deeper. Can you drown out all the other signals?

* * * * *

Somewhere inside all of us, the answer to the question “What are you looking for?” is the same answer the disciples gave to Jesus when he asked them that very question.

Their answer to his question was a question:

“Where are you staying?”

In other words, they were looking for God. And not just, “where is God,” but where is he staying, where is he, AMONG US.

I think all of us, at the deepest level, when asked “What do you want?” answer with the question, “Where is God?” And this question takes us to so many different places.

Some look for God in religion. Others try to find him by serving the poor. Some search for God in the great cathedrals in Europe, or in the solemn temples in the East. Some look for God in sex or material things, in other people, or even inside themselves. Some look for God at the end of a business transaction, or in the temporary high given by chemicals.

Some conclude that the answer to the question, “Where are you staying?” is…no where.

* * * * *

What if we realized that our answer to the question, “What are you looking for?” is not an answer, as much as it is another question. It’s not a destination as much as it is a journey. How would this change the way we lived? Interacted with others? Judged or chose not to?

What if we didn’t spend every waking moment trying to make more money, or looking for pleasure, or searching for a comfortable life?

What if we realized that at the heart of everything we truly want is the question, “Where is God?”

And what if, somehow, we could understand that his answer to our one true question is:

“Come and see.”

Twenty years ago this Easter I got news I wasn’t expecting.

“Shawn? Shawn? Wake up.”

I opened my eyes. My mom was standing beside my bed with a confused look on her face. I could tell she had been crying.

“What’s wrong?”

“Grandpa died this morning,” she said the words as if she was watching herself talk from somewhere else, somewhere impossible. “At his house in Florida. You can stay home from church – I have to make some calls and make sure Grandma gets back okay.”

I remember laying there in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling shocked. I felt guilty, too, because I was glad I didn’t have to go to church that morning.

* * * * *

When I was young, I went to a charismatic, evangelical church. Easter revolved around celebration. The cross at the front of the church was vacant, and I had no idea what Ash Wednesday was.

When I was young, Easter sort of came out of no where – one day I was mowing the lawn on a cold, spring afternoon, and the next day I was in church, singing “He is Risen.” Then I’d go home,  enjoy a huge meal, look for some Easter eggs and eat about five pounds of candy.

Maybe it was my immaturity, just my own particular focus, or perhaps it was a deliberate choice by the church, but the Easter season in those days barely had room for the cross. Two angels sitting on top of a stone? Check. An empty grave? Sure. But death? Death was the foul smell we were eager to cover up with the flower-laden aroma of Easter morning.

* * * * *

Incarnation. Death. Resurrection. Redemption.

These are four of the key tenants to a Christian world view – can the last two even exist without death? Without death, there is nothing to resurrect. Without death, there is nothing to redeem.

Miniature deaths can lead to all kinds of good things, like freedom and simplicity and social action. When I die to my selfish longing for revenge, I find myself in an unexpected place of freedom. When I die to my selfish longing to have more material things, my life is actually simplified by having less to worry about, less to take care of, less to replace. When I bury the idea that I am the center of the universe, I find myself caring for others.

What about major deaths? What about major losses? Could it be that what fills the vacuum after those larger “defeats” is incrementally greater than the victories that follow “smaller” deaths?

* * * * *

I’m gonna miss you
I’m gonna miss you
When you’re gone
She says, I love you
I’m gonna miss you
And your songs

And I said, please
Don’t talk about the end
Don’t talk about how
Every living thing goes away
She said, friend

All along I thought
I was learning how to take
How to bend not how to break
How to live not how to cry
But really
I’ve been learning how to die

* * * * *

During this season of Lent, beginning with Ash Wednesday two days ago, I am trying to enter a space of death, a space where things that are rotten and putrid and entangling me are allowed to die. For 40 days this process will continue, I hope.

In the words of Jon Foreman, I am “Learning How to Die.”

My hope? A better understanding of Easter, of resurrection, of redemption.

* * * * *

* * * * *

For a beautifully written piece on the cycle of life by a Jewish friend of mine, check out “Living a Life in One Day” by Sara Eiser.

And I know it’s late, but you should also check out Rachel Held Evans’ recent blog post: “40 Ideas for Lent”

Cade is my 7 year-old son. He says some funny stuff. There was the time he suggested I breastfeed our baby, or the time he explained to me why God made clothes.

Just before we left on a trip to see Maile’s family, one of our daughters asked if Maile’s brother Ryan still had a dog.

Behind Geoff Campbell, thick drapes held the night at bay. Two small lamps, in the corners behind him, sent a glow through the cavernous study. His large mahogany desk sat in the middle of the room like a stone altar.

His wrinkled fingers gently lifted the sheet of paper, methodically folded it into thirds, then slipped it into a small white envelope. Just as he licked the flap, the door to his study opened. But he didn’t look up. He knew.

“Mr. Campbell?” the young woman’s voice asked hesitantly. She pulled back the hood of her sweatshirt. Her dark hair fell down around her shoulders like a curtain.

“The girl?” he asked. Everything about Geoff was typical of an old man except his voice, which sounded smooth, hard and young.

“She ran.”

“She ran?”

“She ran. We let her go. We didn’t want to hurt her.”

He stared at the letter, then put it into his breast pocket. Then he stared at the back of his hands, as if trying to read a secret map hidden in the folds of rice-paper skin.

“She ran,” he said again, this time to himself, then, “Did you follow her?”

“Yes, we know where she is.”

“Did she have her ticket with her? Don’t do anything else for now. Just keep track of her. Any progress with the other seven?”

“No Mr. Campbell. She’s still our best bet. We believe our only bet.”

He looked up at the ceiling, frowned, then sighed.

“On second thought, I think it’s time to move. I want you to find her, make sure she has the ticket, and then you can take her place.”

“Take her place, sir?”

Mr. Campbell looked at the young woman for the first time during the entire conversation.

“Take her place, Sara.”

* * * * *

Macy sat between two trash cans in an alley, about 100 yards off of 3^rd street. The smell reminded her of coffee grounds and two-day old fast food. And dirty diapers.

She peered down the narrow alley. The same black sedan kept passing by, every five minutes or so. The rain began to fall, and she moved into a crouch to get off the ground. Shielding her phone behind one of the trash cans, she sent a text to Penelope.

“Need help. Hiding in the alley across from Stan’s, on 3^rd. Pick me up?”

The reply came back quickly.

“5 minutes.”

She sighed. Then, remembering that the girl had asked for the ticket, she pulled it out of her pockets and scanned the numbers. Her hands started to shake, first in small vibrations, then in large tremors. It felt like the buildings were spinning around her. She almost dropped the ticket as she looked over the numbers again.

1 – 2 – 4 – 7 – 9 – 11 – 12 – 32

She had won.

A car pulled up beside the alley. Penelope. The rain started coming down harder as Macy rose to her feet and ran. But when she was about halfway to the street, she saw two men approach Penelope’s car. She flattened herself behind a dumpster and held her breath. When she didn’t hear anything, she peeked out.

One guy was talking to Penelope through the driver’s side window, his forearms resting on the top of the car, while the other walked around to the passenger side and peered down the alley. Then he turned around, opened the door, and climbed in. The first guy climbed into the back seat, behind Penelope.

And she drove off.

This time Macy’s entire body started shaking. She leaned back against the brick. Her hair was soaked and hung in long, tight strands. What kind of a nightmare was she in?

“Macy!” a woman’s voice called from the street, echoing back the alley. She recognized the voice. It was the girl from the fire escape, and she was walking towards the dumpster.

“We know you’re back there. You need to stop running, Macy. Running will only get you hurt. Come out now. And bring the ticket.”

Just then her phone started vibrating. She looked down to see who it was.

Penelope.

* * * * *

This week you get to make two decisions. The first one will answer the question, what does Macy do next?

1)     Macy ignores the phone, hides the ticket in a dry place she won’t forget, and goes out to meet the girl

2)     Someone opens a door on the other side of the alley. She ignores the phone call and runs through the door.

3)     She answers the phone and someone (not Penelope) offers to help her escape, if she’ll follow their instructions. She agrees.

The second decision you get to make this week has to do with what the Super Eight winners actually get. And it’s not money:

A)   The eight winners are taken to a secure place in the city and given the opportunity to start a new life under a new identity, and no one else will know.

B)    The story takes place in a walled city. The eight lottery winners get to leave.

C)    The story takes place during a time of population control. The eight winners are women who are now allowed to have babies.

* * * * *

To read the entire story so far, go HERE (but to vote, you’ll need to come back to this page)

We’ve done a top 10 candy post before, but we’ve never broken it down to this level, and it needs to be done.

No longer can we simply present the name of a candy and say it is our favorite, unless we are going to clarify which flavor we are talking about.

For example, it doesn’t make sense for us to say we love Runts, when what we actually love are the purple and pink pieces (while hating the bananas, oranges and limes).

Why am I writing as if there is more than one of me at the keyboard?

Anywhoo…on to the top ten candy flavors of all time (in no particular order):

1) Big League Chew GRAPE

2) Sour Skittles CHERRY

3) Sour Skittles GRAPE

4) Sour Patch Kids RED (what is that, strawberry or cherry?)

5) Laffy Taffy STRAWBERRY

6) Laffy Taffy GRAPE

7) Now N Laters GRAPE

8) Now N Laters CHERRY

9) Swedish Fish GRAPE (no longer in production – trust me, I contacted the company)

10) Nerds STRAWBERRY

Now for a brief list of candy flavors so disgusting most other countries use them as fertilizer, or sift from their tastier counterparts before putting them in septic tanks:

– Black Licorice (including those pink and white pill-shaped things that hide black licorice inside)

– Banana Runts (like eating a curved Calormene scimitar)

– Lemon Sour Patch Kids (redundant?)

– Banana Laffy Taffy (just plain gross)

I expect today’s comments section to be filled with complete agreement, as this is the best candy list every compiled.

Good day.