Vol II: #96 Thoughts and Laughs

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The hardest part of my trip thus far is my biology. I have to force myself out of bed in the morning. And then, I get an energy thrust starting around 5 PM each evening lasting until 5 am. Since California is nine hours behind Paris the timing of my shifting energy levels fits perfectly within this timeframe. I blame myself because I knew I should’ve stayed awake the day I landed. Oh well.

Today, I’ve got a two new thoughts to share as well as a few amusing stories.

1. Paris is truly an international city, and I believe it rivals New York. Streets are named after leaders of other countries and important historical dates. And the city has a monument every other block. Again, many of these monuments aren’t French heroes or leaders. For example, they have statues for George Washington and Simon Bolivar, but also a tribute to the Armenians who were murdered by the Ottoman Empire.

   Additionally, you’ll hear music from all of the world blaring from cars and headphones, and Paris has every kind of cuisine you could imagine. Within five minutes of my hotel I’ve seen: poke bowls(ahi tuna and rice), dumplings, Pakistani, fried chicken, Indian, Turkisk, Italian, Hunan, Cantonese, Lebanese, Greek, tapas, pizza, burgers, and of course tons of French cafes, pâtisseries, boulangeries, and brasseries.

   I think I get it. Within a three hour flight of Paris is all of Europe, Russia, Turkey, and North Africa. It’s the reason I’ve heard Arabic, German, Italian, and Brits from one block to the next. More over, I think Paris is interested in people from all over- to some degree. (I have no idea what the political environment is in France. It’s nice to be ignorant.)

2. Despite all these influences and cultures, Paris is very French. They are obsessed with preserving the past- sounds like a country I know- while accepting new ideas, technology, and culture. In fact, one country seems to have made an impact on every person I’ve encountered: The United States. Yep. We are everywhere. Whether it’s Nikes on every kid under 18 or iPhones, or the Portuguese grandmother carrying her grandson’s Cars backpack, the US has made significant inroads into the lives of many people. Hip hop, a most American invention, is the official music of the youth. Everyone eats McDonalds, and its possible that the French like Burger King more than we do. French TV features Grey’s Anatomy and Storage Wars (why??) And, I lost track of how many Star Wars t-shirts I encountered.

   My point is the impending doom most Americans feel is overstated. The world doesn’t hate us. Judging by the teenagers playing basketball and listening to rap in the park, we are still loved.

Now, for some funnies.

1. I’ve seen way more public nudity than I thought I would, and not the sexual kind. Twice, and directly in front of me, I watched a mother drop her top and begin to feed her child. Good for them, but I never know how to respond to public breastfeeding- I usually stare at the ceiling. Public mom boobs aside, nothing tops the family in the metro station.

   The surge of tourist caught everyone by surprise this summer, in Paris and tourist destinations. So late on Thursday evening, the trains were packed with sweaty commuters and tourist trying to make their way from the Eiffel Tower to dinner or a glass of wine. I decided to perch myself on a blue bench beside the platform to people watch. After a few trains, a young family jockeyed their way to the empty seats to my left. The mother sat directly beside me and immediately her youngest son started a familiar dance. He spoke what I assume is Thai, and though I did not understand the words he used, I know what he said. Roughly translated he said,“I gotta pee and I can’t hold it” while he grabbed himself and hopped impatiently. At this, his older brother laughed a loud mocking laugh that only brothers have for one another. His mother shrugged and looked at the boy’s father.

   Without a blink, the man produced an empty water bottle and whispered instructions. Immediately, the older son let out another round of mocking laughter while the mother helped the boy lower his pants and the father knelt to hold the bottle for the boy. The oldest son still laughing, now began to point, while the mother tried to shield potential onlookers. The amusement was not lost on the young parents and they began to laugh and shout encouragement to their youngest son. A few moments later, the boy was smiling and his father held a water bottle half-full of his son’s pee. That’s expert level parenting at its finest and they got a fun memory for the effort.

2. I had a feeling the Louvre would be packed today, but I was still not prepared for the sea of humanity in the museum. The mass of bodies probably helped push the temperatures higher than normal. And, I soon learned to find the air grates in the grand hallways and rooms. I also made use of the benches and chairs. On one such occasion, a round and spirited Spanish lady plunked down next to me. She was in her fifties, and had a huge mole above her lip. And her family stood around her as she fanned herself. Then, her son said something about el bano and the lady nodded.

   As soon as the boy and his father left, she whipped out her phone and tapped the screen. I believe she attempted to log into the museum wifi, but was unsuccessful. I believe this because dropped among a few Spanish cuss words was a very clear f*cking piece of sh-t. I snorted, and she looked over at me and smiled before returning to her phone. After watching a few people stroll through the hall I turned back to my new friend. She had prepared a text. The message included a selfie she took in front of the Louvre, which is a popular thing to do, and a caption. I about fell over when I read, “Te amo mi negro.”

3. Finally, this isn’t a story so much as a thought. You know most Americans believe Wal Mart is the place some people go to discipline their children. In fact, it is difficult to make it safely in and out of a Wal Mart without seeing a youngster in tears and the correspondingly embarrassed parent. Now, picture for a moment that Paris is a giant Wal Mart. The people of Paris have no issue arguing and/or yelling in public. It’s hilarious and makes me feel at home, like these people aren’t that sophisticated.

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Vol II: #95 First Impressions of Paris

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My dad taught me to look like I know what I’m doing regardless of the situation. In other words, display confidence even when I’m completely lost or bewildered. For example, within my first two hours of being in France, three separate people asked me for directions. In Redding, this is quite normal, but in Paris I had to laugh. If only they knew I spent 45 minutes trying to decipher how to leave the airport.

And now, some of my first impressions:

1. To answer the question of how to leave Orly International Airport: Take the Orly Val train to Antony Station, then transfer to the B line north.

2. Paris is a maze of streets and boulevards.

3. Paris is packed and dense. Every inch of the this city to put to use and the parks are lovely. And, people are everywhere. All kinds of people. To put the packed/dense thing into perspective, the city of Charlotte has 900,000 people living on 300-ish square miles of land. If Charlotte were as densely populated as Paris, it would have 16 million people. That’s staggering to think about. The only city in America that’s comparable is Manhattan in NYC.

4. Yes. The bread to noticeably better than in the US and not expensive. We have quality breads in the US but they tend to be expensive ie a good sourdough loaf in Redding is $10. What I mean to say is, the average bread in Paris is delicious.

5. The relationship between the Catholic Church and Paris- and by extension France- is very real. I walked into two separate Cathedrals yesterday. One was commissioned by Napoleon and the other was built by local priest. One was dead and one was alive. I’ll let you guess which was which.

6. Finally, of all the US cities, Paris most reminds me of…New Orleans. I know, what a shock.

That’s it, for now.

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Vol II: #94 Facing Loss

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I didn’t know which direction Bill Johnson would go in the aftermath of his wife’s death. My best guess was that he would preach sooner than later, and I hoped he would let us see his process. And, a mere three days after her passing, Bill stood on stage and told the world that God is good. He declared it through tears and without jokes, though his humor made a few appearances over the hour he was on stage. He let us in on his pain and how he missed his wife. In all my life, loss and grief have driven more people away from the Lord than science or logic. (People tend to find the “facts” well after the pain takes root.) For Bill to do what he did on Sunday morning was miraculous and- for me- his finest hour.

My entire life I’ve observed people in their moments of pain and heart ache, some self-inflicted, some not. And, I experienced by own versions of loss and grief. What I can firmly proclaim is it’s not if we experience pain but when, which leads us to a choice: to sit at the Lord’s feet and hold onto to hope…or sink into despair and anger. Unfortunately, we are encouraged to define our lives by how we’ve been victimized and/or abused. And real as those horrors can be, it’s not healthy to identify with the worst moments of our lives. That’s the plan of the enemy, to pull our heads down and cover us in doom.

To echo Bill, I’m not entitled to anything. And, I certainly will not tell the Lord how to be God. But, I will hope. In the days to come, whatever comes, I will expect the Lord’s presence to go with me wherever I go, and for Him to fulfill His promises. When the losses mount and the pain is great, I want to stand on my stage and say God is still Good!

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Vol II: #93 Bill Spoke

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“The back-slider in heart will always judge God by what He didn’t do. But those who run with tenderness for who He is will always define Him by what He has said, by what He has promised, and by what He has done.

And to be as honest as I know how to be, I’ve seen too much of His kindness to think anything other than He is absolutely good. Always, always good.”

• Bill Johnson, three days after his wife passed away from a long battle with cancer.

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Vol II: #92 Beni

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I couldn’t fall asleep so I turned to my phone and checked the time. A new text message flashed on the screen. “Oh Nik,” it read from the sender. I quickly opened my phone and read the entire message only to confirm my suspicion. Beni Johnson, wife of Bill Johnson and Senior Pastor of Bethel Church, had passed away from a nasty battle with cancer.

Bill, ever Heaven bound, wrote a three word caption under the photo of Beni he posted on social media: Healthy and Free. My heart goes out to Bill. He and Beni met as school kids and married as soon as they could. He’s a few years older and I’ve heard him joke about “Praying for his teenager at home,” when he was 21 and Beni was 18. The truth is Bill never spoke of anyone the way he talked about Beni. And, he will have a fresh hole in his life. Part of me hopes he grieves in public. We need an example of how to face death.

After I set my phone down, I apologized to Beni. I was harsh on her messiness, and I judged her words and actions when they conflicted with mine. But, she was never my enemy. She was a sister and a saint. What she gave the world will always outweigh her mistakes. Because, God is good.

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Abstract: Death of a Saint

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Heaven doesn’t have a scoreboard,

hung above the pearl lined gate.

Instead, one question is asked of every soul seeking admittance: Did you learn to love?

To turn from fear or anger, greed and shame?

Learn to give? To hope? To receive?

And, make your anxieties known to the Lord?

Did you pray for your enemies and the ones who laughed at your pain?

Did you forgive your worst offender and set them free of the debt owed to you?

Did you grow in kindness and faith?

And, to the person in your mirror, did you love them too?

This is what all saints do,

in their own way at the pace predestined by Him.

How you began the journey makes no difference,

or where you end.

What matters is how you finish the race you ran.

Beni Johnson passed away late Wednesday evening. Whatever she was, her legacy is love. She loved the Lord, her husband, and family. She loved her community to best of her ability and left a mark on the earth. My prayer today is for her husband and for us. May we all learn to love and leave our mark on the people around us. There are no small saints in Heaven, only people who learned to love.

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Vol II: #91 Think On These Things

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They almost got me last week while watching videos on YouTube. It was subtle and appealed to my intellect just like the enemy does. The first was a video on Critical Race Theory in which a clean cut young man named Andrew explained- in great detail- what Critical Race Theory is according to the people who created it. The second video was done by a young black woman from Africa. She hates wokeness and explained why. Again, she was thoughtful and did not speak in language common to Fox News or CNN. Rather, she talked about forgiveness and restoration as part of the Civil Rights process. And then, YouTube, as it does, brought me slightly darker content from less eloquent people.

I could feel my attitude shifting as I became more defensive and angry. In the following days I battled a sense of doom and hopelessness. These were not the thoughts and feeling of the Holy Tree. So…I stopped watching the videos and went back to writing and reading and drawing. However I affect the world it will not be out of anger or fear. If I want a peaceful and kind world, I must be peaceful and kind. And to be peaceful and kind, I’ve got to shut off all the channels aimed to distract me from Jesus. He’s the source of peace and kindness, and His kingdom is my home. Whatever I do and however I affect people will be because of the Jesus inside me, not how educated and articulate I am on social/political issues.

The world will say we are ignorant and useless. That’s ok. As I’ve said before, I’d rather be a hopeful idiot.

Summing it all up, friends, I’d say you’ll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse. Put into practice what you learned from me, what you heard and saw and realized. Do that, and God, who makes everything work together, will work you into his most excellent harmonies. - Philippians 4:8, The Message

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Short #5: College Expectations

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The professor marched through the door at the rear of the classroom, up the center isle, to the lectern at front. The normally talkative man remained silent as he pulled three folders from his tote bag and placed them on the desk next to the podium. Two of the vanilla folders were jammed with our essays- the first of the semester. And, the third folder was mysteriously thin. Remaining silent, he then stood at attention and waited for the class to finish finding their seats.

Dr. Greene was a middle-aged man who had the look of a man who both loved and regretted his chosen career. His tired eyes sat beneath thinning grey hair and he wore the same navy blue cardigan everyday. He loved anthropology and teaching, but often lamented the financial rewards. And, despite the demands or lack of rewards, Dr. Greene taught with passion and empathy. These qualities made him a respectable man.

Once the class matched Dr. Greene’s silence, he launched into a speech of what he expected from a college essay. With a sly smile he began, “When I assign you an essay, I expect you to show me what your’ve learned. I expect you compare and contrast the various authors from the reading, add some your own research, and develop an argument.” Then, he plucked the thin folder from the desk and removed the short stack from within. “I’m going to pass these around. Make sure you get a copy. This is what I expect from my students.” It was biting start to this rebuke and I got more nervous when I read the title at the top of the mystery handout: HOW TO WRITE A GOOD ESSAY.

Over the next 20 minutes, our professor detailed what he wanted from our writing and thoughts. He started with content then went over grammar and style. A general sense of gloom settled over us as he hammered our poor effort. I felt like I was back on a high school practice field, at the receiving end of a tongue-lashing from a coach. And like a good coach, Dr. Greene was determined to push us and refused to settle for a lackluster effort.

He ended the speech with the specifics of how he graded every essay. He detailed what he expected from an A paper then wrote a large two on the board. “This is how many people in this class turned in an A paper,” he said, and rapt the board with his left hand for emphasis. He finished with what he expected from B and C papers. And just as he did with A papers, he wrote number beside each. The class produced four B papers and twelve C papers. Dr. Greene didn’t bother to mention the D or F papers or their numbers.

As he reached for the two fat folders, my confidence wained. I wrote my paper- on the political and social issues facing Indian farmers- the night before it was due, fueled by energy drinks and cigarettes. I spent the whole night in a computer lab on campus pulling commodity prices from online indexes, critiquing Marxist authors, and editing my supporting arguments. At 7 AM, I pulled a printed copy of my paper off the printer, stuffed it in my saddle bag and went for a nap in my truck. An hour later, I strutted into class and proudly dropped my work on Dr. Greene’s desk. Now, my bravado was gone in the face of our professor’s reprimand.

As he handed us our papers, I hoped for a C. I think we all did. My heart beat in my throat as he called my name. I saw plenty of red on the cover page and assumed the worst. Why had I waited to start writing this paper? The grade was on the final page and I paused before getting on with the dirty work. And the shockwave I felt when I saw my grade was too much to contain. “This was an excellent essay. Your argument is well stated and supported. -A.” Dr.Greene shot me a knowing glance as my eyes widened. And, I excused myself to celebrate in the hallway, out of sight from my classmates. I leapt and pumped my fists and whisper-screamed my joy. “F-CK YES!” What a crazy swing of emotion, from doom to elation. I felt like I had won the lottery.

Dr. Greene, according to his speech, I earned my A. And the triumph caused me to examine my essay writing process. I no longer tried to follow the prescribed approach and leaned into my method- with a few tweaks. In the final two years of college days, I repeated my success essay after essay in class after class. In turn, my professors loved me and often gave me preferential treatment.

Unfortunately, I didn’t let these successes bleed into other areas of my heart or life (though age and Grace would not let me forget them.) It’s a tragedy when we forget who we are and what we are capable of doing. Years later, the Lord reminded me of moments like the one I had in Dr. Greene’s Anthropology of Food class. Part of why I write is because of them.

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Vol II: #90 Ex-Slaves, Still Slaves

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I’m reading through the Bible for a second time and have a few thoughts I’d like to share.

Moses wrote- about himself- he talked to God as one talks to a friend. And, I’m curious, didn’t anyone else want that too? All these ex-slaves and none of them seemed interested in the Lord? Isn’t that odd? Bethel doctrine says a miracle of that nature should result in revival and culture change, but it didn’t. When the children of Israel left Egypt, they carried idol-worshipping slave-ways with them. This is proof the Lord delivered His people because He is good, and not because of their righteousness or pious ways.

Think about this: The children of Israel whined and moaned, took wives and did the nasty with forbidden tribes. Then, they made and worshipped golden idols. The final cherry on top of this crap sundae is how Debbie Downer they were about taking the promised land. All of these behaviors are signs of a broken and poverty riddled perspective. See what I mean about slave ways? Though they carried the riches of Egypt into the desert, they still desired the whip and lived only for the moment. The Lord wanted His people, but they wanted to be their own version of Egypt.

While it is easy to judge the children of Israel for their sins, I would’ve been one of them. I’m glad I live thousands of years later and have access to their experience. I’m encouraged to live like Moses and reminded of what I will become if I don’t.

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Vol II: #89 Blessed To Be An American

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The more I love Jesus, the less attached I feel to a worldly identity. Put another way, I don’t see myself as a sports fan or southern or as a foodie. I like sports though I watch less every year. And, I love food despite learning to love the most common ingredients and recipes. The last ten years taught me to love and appreciate different aspects of life without making them a major part of my identity.

Accordingly, the idea of “proud to be an American” seems more foreign than ever. (And, if it needs to be said, I am not ashamed to an American.) My country of birth is a wonderful gift from God, passed to me by immigrants from Europe. And, what a beautiful country it is- the people and land. But, pride? No. Patriotism and/or nationalism are not Biblical in any capacity. The New Testament is clear on this. Jesus first, then Paul, make explicit where our hearts and heads should focus: the Lord and His Kingdom. This isn’t to say we can’t value our homeland. But, my aim is to value the Lord and His people over any place and its laws and culture.

What I want to say is I am blessed to be an American. And every blessing from the Lord is a responsibility. Every American Christian owes the Lord interest on the gift He gave us for which we will give account for when we pass on. I believe, with our eyes on the Lord, we can navigate this age without swearing allegiance to any party or person. And may we never lose sight of the fact that our biggest impact will be on our families, neighbors, and coworkers. Love conquers all and is more powerful than money or sin or votes.

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Short #4: Jeff’s Bucket Shop

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There are two ways to sing karaoke. The first approach is to close your eyes and belt out your favorite song as though your were contestant on a reality singing show. If you choose this path, give it your best effort and don’t look back. Please, grab the microphone and tilt your head back. This tact works well for people who have talent and a God-given ability to sing in public. I advise you to pick a song you know by heart and in your vocal range, and stay away from singers with incredible range like Whitney Houston or Freddy Mercury.

The second approach to karaoke is to have fun and this is what I recommend for budding karaoke enthusiast. Be ironic and choose a song like Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like A Woman” or the crowd pleasing “Family Tradition” by Hank Williams Jr. Give the people a performance and don’t worry about pitch or key.

With this in mind, I have a few more tips to help you enjoy your evening:

1) Hip Hop/rap songs are fun if you know the lyrics. I’ve watched plenty of people freeze mid song because they thought they knew lines to Rapper’s Delight.

2) Karaoke is best with a group of friends. I suggest at least five of your best mates. You’ll want that support when the music hits and the whole bar is staring at your face.

3) Always tip the karaoke MC. Yes, always.

4) To loosen your vocal cords and get your head in the right space, drink a cheap beer or two- the cheaper the better. Karaoke is not a snobby hobby and I will not abide martinis or any adult beverage over $4.

5) Depending on the city, arrive after dinner but leave before the frat boys crash the party. In a city like Charlotte, that window is from 9 PM til 1 AM.

6) And finally, should you ever visit Nashville, Tennessee, make your way to Santa’s Pub in south Nashville off Bransford Avenue. It is without rival for both quality and enjoyment whether you decide to sit or sing.

Charlotte was loaded with karaoke options in 2010 but none finer than Jeff’s Bucket Shop which is a ten minute stroll up Park Road from Valley Stream Road. I can’t remember my first song or my last, but I remember plenty from our frequent visits.

Jeff’s Bucket Shop- more commonly known as “The Shop”- is in a basement under a rotisserie chicken restaurant on Montford Avenue. As you walk inside, the bar is to the right and the stage is on the back wall to the left. The large blue neon sign hanging from the wall behind the stage is the only decoration in the room. The karaoke MC is set up to the right of the stage. Booths line the outer edges of the bar with a half dozen small tables set back from stage a few steps from the bar.

Blake was the first person to mention the Shop and it became part of our Friday nights, birthdays, and bachelor parties. It was, in a way, the place we gathered to have a laugh and let go whatever the previous week. And, while it’s true that Jeff’s is similar to many bars across the United States, what made it unique was the patrons. That’s the real reason the Shop kept us coming back.

His name is Dave. He was just over six feet tall, sported white jeans, and was from either Brazil or Eastern Europe. The Shop was unusually tame when he was called to the stage. Blake and I had only just arrived to reserve one of the corner booths. While I retrieved a copy of the song list from the MC, Blake ordered the first round. Then, the music hit. Out of nowhere and with all the gusto of a TV preacher, Dave began to sing. In reality, it wasn’t singing. He sang-yelled- in very broken english- half the words to Who Let the Dogs Out. I stood in awe of his charisma and flair.

When chorus came, Who let the dogs out? (Who, who, who, who), our hero began to bark and gyrate across stage. Then, he twirled and tangled himself in the microphone cord and forgot to sing the second line of the song. The previously languid Shop came alive. Dave was soon joined on stage by several new friend, and everyone in the bar helped sing the final chorus. He was cheered as the champion he was as the song finished and the MC summed up the performance in the only way possible, “That’s Dave everybody. And, don’t you fucking forget it!”

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Vol II: #88 Focus Pinky

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I quit social media in large part because of the endless parade of political garbage. More accurately, I quit because I wanted to fight everyone who used made up facts and spread misinformation. The last two weeks are a good reminder: I best lay off the socials. While I spent most of the last six years bewildered by my fellow conservatives loyalty to an immoral jackass and bully, the liberal meltdown over the Supreme Courts recent decisions’ - abortion, freedom of religion, guns, etc - pushed me to edge earlier today. They use words like theocracy and Entho-Christian state. And, they seem to have very little self-awareness over the matter. After all, this is the same group of people who want to limit free speech, brain wash children with gender theory, and abort nearly full-term babies.

The extreme right and left of the United States appear to want to push their views on the rest of us, and I’m not about that life. Even still, I don’t want to get hung up in the debate. Every second I spend arguing with fake liberal attackers is a second I could be doing something productive. And, I have plenty to do. So, instead of debating strangers on the internet, I’m going to write and draw and watch an instructional video on perspective drawing. Like the man said:

Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

Philippians 4:8 NASB

*For the unfamiliar, the phrase “Focus Pinky” comes from a cartoon called Pinky and the Brain. Pinky and the Brain are lab rats who are on a mission to break out of the lab and “take over the world.” Brain is obsessed with their mission and Pinky is his lovable but moronic sidekick. Whenever Pinky’s mind drifts from their goal Brain famously says “focus Pinky, focus.”

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