Move it!

We moved.

Three weeks ago we wrestled eight-year-old roots from country soil and replanted ourselves in the midst of suburbia. It was an arduous process. We’re still herding the last boxes into their rooms and daily attacking ubiquitous clutter. With rejuvenated clarity I’m remembering why I told my wife eight years ago we’d never move again.

In the turmoil of this transition brews a smorgasbord of emotion. The excitement of change brings energy through the anticipation newness – neighbors, bedrooms, noises, and experiences. Yet there’s the pull of the old – familiar, comfortable, trusted, and expected.

Memories – both pleasant and painful.

Written into our family story during the years at the former home are washboard roads. Power outages. Apple Wars. A snake in the basement, a mouse in the attic, bees in the floor joist and not a single bat in our homemade bat house. Star-filled skies and open spaces. The Wildcat Fortress. Air soft bunkers. Bee stings. Rubber boots and naked romps through giant mud puddles (he was only a toddler, so it was ok). A smashed-up, man-making John Deere lawn tractor. Pheasants, coyotes, otters, foxes, hawks, and chickens. A puppy. Walks through the orchard and fun on the quad. The Man Wall. The zip line. Adoption. Death.

Chapters well written – and treasured.
As we turned a new page on a new(er) home, the story was written with themes of work, heat, and humidity. Piles and messes and surprises and disappointments. A truck, a trailer, and tired backs. Firm, welcoming handshakes. Deep-fried chicken wings and warm corn bread. Conversation. Bike rides and bread-eating fish. French-pressed coffee. Ice cream pie. Ice cream sandwiches. Half-gallon containers of ice cream (yes, moving requires copious amount of ice cream refreshment) Hole digging. Chainsaws. Dangling wires and pockmarked drywall. Lasagna from scratch, blueberry pastry, fast food lunches and donuts. Kickball. Football. Voices. Laughter. Street Lights. Convenience. Friends.


A satisfying – and disruptive – opening to our next chapter.

The monumental task of moving can dredge emotion layered deep within our souls. Thoughts and feelings that betray strongholds of affection and inclination and fear. This disruptive force has invited me into self reflection. I’ve discovered that despite my natural propensity for introversion, there’s joy to be harvested from frequent neighborly interactions. And even though I prefer to be stubbornly independent, a humble reception of help secures long-term relational dividends. In fact, I’ve been so disturbed that I’m finding it less difficult to lay down my idol of accomplishment in exchange for the enjoyment of time with drop-in visitors. I’m even paying others to do work I could do myself. I’m loosening my finger-nailed grip on the desire for control.

I’m aware the relocation pendulum will sway from euphoria to second-guessing for some time. There’s beautiful and ugly with such transitions. But losses and gains and tears and smiles and hope and love are the threads of life that create a sacred tapestry.

Our recent move wasn’t due to boredom or lack of contentment. It wasn’t because we couldn’t think of something better to do this summer. I don’t seek-out such massive disruption. But where we live is important. Some say location is everything. I’m sure it’s not everything, but as we settle-in I’m asking God to use this new place to encourage my clan of seven toward a larger vision for community. For family and friends and relationships that are redemptive. My desire is that we each perpetuate a story that shouts “Glory!” to the One who saw each box we packed. Who envisioned the flat tire on the truck and broken trailer lift. Who smiled over hands that hung a “Welcome” sign and left cookies that anchored those first moments in our home into the bedrock of friendship. Who shows Himself a Strong Tower in every moment.

We moved. It was disruptive. And I am grateful.

Lone Ranger Manhood

Last week I was privileged to be a special guest.

No, I wasn’t invited to join Prince William and Kate at the London Aquatics Centre to cheer Phelps, Adlington, Lochte and Franklin. It was better than that. I was selected to be a guest blogger for Trevin Wax. Trevin’s blog is called Kingdom People and can be found on The Gospel Coalition website (

Even though Trevin and I haven’t met, I think he’s amazing (yes, I admit my bias). He blogs daily. You should follow him. I’ve been encouraged, educated, challenged and motivated through his writing and collection of valuable tidbits from around the web. He also has a keen eye for excellent guest bloggers.

Anyhow, click here to read my guest post. Below is the long-version of the link. 

In other news, my family is heading-out on an epic American West adventure. I’m sure our travels will provide plenty of fodder for future posts here on “Dwelling…”

Stay tuned.

Tapping the Draft

Full disclosure before I begin.

This post has nothing to do with beer. It’s not about hymn lyrics written to pub songs or tips for evangelizing the bar scene. And it certainly is not a treatise on a biblical view of alcohol consumption. I admit that I chose to prey on curiosities with a play on words. Even so, I will explore the draft – but in terms of biking, not beverages or the military. But first, some background.

My family recently returned from several days of re-creating at one of our favorite camping spots. While away we drunk deep of sun, sand, woods, and water on the west side of Michigan’s Mitten. It was spectacular.

In addition to the wonders of Michigan, I enjoyed a bit of bike riding. No, not the ¼ mile helmet-less rides around the campground loop. I’m talking a ride of the leg and lung-burning sort. The kind that fosters a deeper appreciation for motorized vehicles.

It was a breezy, sunny day that my son, a good friend and I chose to test our biking prowess. After dropping our families at the beach, we began our ride along the sand-swept coast of Lake Michigan.

Our pace was brisk.  The miles floated by. We felt strong. Manly. Alive! Like warriors on carbon and aluminum steeds. A modest tail wind and flat roads might have inflated our egos and heightened our enthusiasm. But that’s beside the point.

Well, it didn’t take long for my enthusiasm to meet a harsh reality. Several miles into our ride, we exited a busy two-lane highway with a gentle right-hand turn. As we did, my friend said, “It gets a little hilly up ahead.” Moments later it became apparent that he and I have different definitions for ‘hilly.’ It seems one man’s ‘hilly’ is another man’s ‘mountainous.’ I felt all of my 40+ years as I pathetically pedaled-up the pile of earth – hill or otherwise. Each bend in the road brought not the summit, but a steeper grade. The ‘hill’ seemed to laugh at me and my legs of rubber. Through sunglasses streaked with sweat, I could see my son 100 yards in front of me. I was jealous. And for a few moments, I wasn’t appreciating his youthful vigor.

It took some effort, but I finished the climb without significant delay. In the thin air of the mountaintop (a.k.a ‘hilltop’ to some folks), we caught our breath. I tried to blame my sad performance on being trapped behind a desk during the workweek. A classic case of office lethargy. Then I glanced over at my friend. Who sits in the office next to me. Who finished the climb before me. Who is a few years older than me. So much for excuses.

Fortunately, up-hills are eventually followed by down hills. My legs sang as we continued our trek with a winding descent. But in the midst of enjoying gravity’s pull, we encountered a biker’s nightmare.

Flat tire. No spare.


Fast-forwarding this tale, we found some friendly locals who gave my son and his disabled bike a lift into town where the tire was repaired for an exorbitant fee. By the time my friend and I had ridden back to the bike shop, the bulk of our available ride time had passed. So, we decided to head back to our sunbathing families.

My son, fresh from his emergency evac was chomping at the bit. I told him he was welcome to take the lead and pace us back – this time into the wind. He bolted away from the bike shop while I scrambled to be the caboose of our little procession.

As we ground the gears – up hill and into the wind – my appreciation for the technique of drafting was renewed. In biking terms, drafting is when a rider stays very close and directly behind the biker in front. Doing so puts the trailing biker(s) in the lead biker’s slipstream. A biker riding in the slipstream does not feel the full resistance of the wind. Less resistance means easier pedaling, which means more energy for the hills (mountains) along the way.

My son was a workhorse. My friend and I drafted tightly. I was grateful.

Thinking about that ride and how I tapped the draft of my son, I’m reminded of my weakness. Of my need for help – help that comes through relationships. As a follower of Jesus, I get the best help through the community of saints – the Church. Many times I’ve been carried along in the slipstream of godly men and women who have allowed me to draft their faith journey. At times I purposely draft. Others times I ride unaware in the grace of someone’s slipstream. That’s how it works in a unified, loving, Christ-centered community.

The Christian experience winds along mountains and valleys. Kind winds nudge us forward while head winds demand extra helpings of the Spirit’s fruit (Galatians 5:22-23). As I ponder my roles of husband and father, I want to create a welcome and safe place for my wife and children to draft. I want to be strong and unswerving. I want them to observe how I tap into the power of God’s Word. How His Spirit guides me. And how I give and take (lead and draft) amidst the community of believers.

Hebrews 10:23–25 (NIV)

Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.