Kara & Jeremy

So, now that wedding season is over and we're past the shock of entering the season of newborn-toddler-excitement, we're hoping to reminisce back through this year's weddings and share some of our favorite images.

It's crazy to think Kara & Jeremy will be celebrating their one-year anniversary soon!

Pearl and I met Jeremy years ago when we first moved to Lancaster. Jeremy and I had a brief season of co-teaching 4th graders (he's amazing on stage!) where I learned just what a huge, fun-loving heart he had. I'd watch him go into character and have kids glued to his every move like a Oscar-winning actor. Not only can he captivate students' attention, but he is also a gifted designer and stage director.

We met Kara when she was introduced as the new LCBC Church Middle School Events Coordinator. She was quiet, gentle, and able to blend into any room. But really she was a sleeping dragon. Over the years of working with Kara, she has shown that she is a detail guru. Her ability to create sustainable systems, clear next steps, and jaw-droppingly excellent events has caused her to win the heart and trust of many opinionated leaders. She walks into our meetings, gently takes her place at the table, and with a quiet strength, leads.

When rumors started that Kara and Jeremy had crossed paths and attraction was in the air, we all knew the opening chapter of an amazing love story was starting to form.

Each of our pasts contain defining moments, some moments that we forever hold dear, others that we feel will haunt us until we die. The amazing thing about love--especially love that is defined by grace and forgiveness--is that every now and then it allows us to observe sacred moments. Sacred moments when love overpowers the past's poisonous lies and paralyzing fears, and when love sets hearts and hope free.

This is the story of Jeremy and Kara.  A love story that is wrapped in redemption, grace, and love.

To capture their day was a great honor, but it's even more of an honor to be called their friend.

Wet pants, bikers, and Jesus

So there's nothing really as awakening and invigorating as walking out of your favorite coffee shop where you've been diligently working for the past 5 hours, totally oblivious to the outside world, to discover it's raining... and you're on a motorcycle.

And because your bike is 35 years old the lights didn't turn off when you took the key out, so your battery is dead.

And after jumping up and down on the starter for what feels like eternity as half of Lancaster passes on their way home, your tan khakis are a little shade darker and tighter then when walking out.

That was my evening, and with a super soaked crotch I laughed as I headed home for a date with my smoking wife, and I was laughing at how we'd soon be laughing about this.

But, on the way through the city another biker rode next to me. Not just any biker, a "biker" biker.

He looked like he had killed several cows for the amount of leather he had on, and like he may have actually killed a few men as well in the process. I looked like I had bubble wrap around me from all the protective gear I was wearing.

He was the embodiment of every biker gang member Hollywood ever created. I was a pastor with a laptop bag.

His bike had chrome in places I didn't know chrome could go.  My bike was dripping oil out of places I didn't know oil reached, making me look like a rolling fog machine.

As we made eye contact he throttled the engine and it sounded like a crash of rhinoceroses bursting onto Orange St. I tapped my throttle & it whistled like I was calling Lassie home for dinner.  I started wishing my muffler would fall off again to give me that throaty "I've got testosterone to spare" sound again, but it didn't.

So there we were two polar opposites looking at each other. Him on his new Harley, me on my ancient Kawasaki.

And he did that thing that I've never understood, he nodded and gave me the "biker wave," that iconic two finger flip just below the handlebar. And turned left onto Prince St., as I went straight towards home.

We more than likely have nothing in common, but because we were both on bikes, we were equals.

I find Jesus to be like that.

A few months ago as our church celebrated hundreds of stories of folks whose lives were being changed by Jesus, I remembered listening to one lady share about finding Jesus in a homeless shelter and working to prove herself capable of getting her kids back, followed by a lady working as a CEO of a wealthy business figuring out how to give away what she had been given.

Extreme polar opposites, but equals, peers, friends because of Jesus.

That's what motorcycles do, that's what Jesus does.

moments matter

Today after church I ran into the grocery store for a few quick items and was reminded that moments matter.

I know we think of this when we're doing stuff we view as "important," but in my 8 minute trek up and down the grocery aisles I was reminded that moments matter, even the ones we don't think any one else notice.

Like when a mom is telling her kids to "shut up and stop asking questions" (she added some extra adjectives to help make her point clear) or an employee complaining at the front door about having to work 12-5 each shift and how his boss must hate him.

I observed these moments in passing, I don't know why the mom was so frustrated with her kids or the employee with his boss, but I do know these brief moments affected me.

I felt sad for the kids, and wanted to scold the mom for being so harsh. I felt annoyed at the employee and wanted to talk with him about being thankful he's at least employed.

But again, my knowledge of both of their worlds
was only 15 seconds at max, but in those 15 seconds I judged them, determined what their "problems" were, and in all my ample wisdom how to fix it... in just 15 seconds, am I good, or am I good!

Moments matter.

I judged them in just a moment, and honestly I was wrong for that.

But this morning at church I had a couple of other moments.

- A mom said thank you for something, and in a moment I felt valued.
- A friend stopped and asked how I was, and not the simple socially polite, but a genuine ask, and in a moment I felt loved.
- My boss asked my opinion instead of just telling me what to do, and in that moment I felt trusted.
- A 4th grader ran to give me a high five, and in that moment I felt cool.
- My 2 year old wanted me to help him make a "pretzel smoothy" (which we did, picture above), and in that moment I felt childishly creative
- My wife complimented me on exploring creativity with Zi in making the smoothly, and in that moment I felt cherished.

Little moments,
But big feelings.

Moments matter more then we realize.

I hope the moments today that ultimately make your memories are great.

Happy Sunday
Matt

Death, .22's, & snoring

Growing up I remember going to Grandpa & Grandma's house. I idolized them! For me they represented strength & wisdom & generosity, and were pretty much all of Americana wrapped up into people. 

They lived in the heart of Appalachia! To go to their house was to travel into the heart of the Appalachian mountains and 40 years back in time.   

I remember Grandpa would pick his 12 string guitar on the front porch, while Grandma stringed beans and I would play with my cousins building forts, trying to dig to China, target practicing with our .22's on soda cans across the valley, and driving the tractor over to see if we actually hit anything. 

This mountain was a little boys dream come true. I was Huckleberry, Daniel Boone, and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle all wrapped into one.  

One of the things I remember vividly about Grandpa & Grandma's was their bedroom. Their house is a simple ranch house, 30' deep and no more then 60' wide. A carport turned into living room with a pot belly stove, kitchen, pantry, the original living room only used to steal quick naps, and two bedrooms. 

The back bedroom and theirs. 

For some reason the back bedroom was almost ever used. But Grandpa and Grandma's room had a Gun case, queen bed, dresser, and a twin bed. 

This twin bed was where I slept as a kid. The thought of what lived in the woods 20' beyond the window made this bed, next to Grandpa and Grandma safe, secure, I knew that there, next to them, and next to their guns, all would be ok. Safe from bears, coyotes, foxes, and about a million other "monsters" I was convinced lived in the mountains. 

I would often lay in that twin bed next to my grandparents and think about that days adventure and the adventures to come tomorrow, but I'd also think about how much I love them, idolize them, but as I got older I would also think about how my Grandma was sick. 

She was born with a heart condition that made her weak, but she'd never allow me to actually see her be weak.  I remember hearing stories about her being sick as a little girl, and I knew Grandpa always had a cautious eye on her, but to me Grandma was always strong, always moving, always working, because that was just who she was.  

Because of her heart condition she had to have the valves in her heart replaced several times in her life, and for a 8-year-old boy open heart surgery was about the most amazing thing ever, and to make it even more awesome Grandma was getting parts from a pig's heart put into her heart, which still blows my mind today! (It was always awkward to watch her eat bacon after knowing this)

But I remember as a little boy laying in my twin bed, next to Grandpa and Grandma, in their house tucked into the side of the mountain, tucked back in time, listening to the sounds of the mountain, and thinking... thinking about death, trying as an 8 year old to wrestle with the weight of death. Of life ending. Of saying goodbyes and letting go. 

I'm not sure why, maybe because of Grandma's health, or the fact my favorite cousin died in a car wreck, or the fact that every pastor I met seemed to only want to talk about death and hell, and knowing for sure where I was going, but no matter why I thought these thoughts, I did.

I would lay there listening to the mountain, listening to my Grandparents snore, and quietly in my bed be totally freaking out. 

Emotions of anger from letting go, sadness of not getting to experience life, jealously of why others would get to experience things I wouldn't, fear that faith was all fake and there'd be nothing next, or something worst like those pastors were all right and I hadn't said "that prayer" "that way" "sincerely enough" and God would disqualify my best attempts and I'd be eternally hosed because of it. 

Crickets would chirp, Grandpa would snore, and I'd freak out. 

Quietly, in my twin bed. 

This didn't happen much. About once a year, then once every two years, then seasons would pass, but every now and then it all comes crashing back. 

And now I lay in a king size bed, not listening to crickets but cars passing, not snores from Grandpa but from tiny exhausted boys tucked into our sides, and all those thoughts, fears, and emotions come crashing back upon me. 

This week several people have experienced death or the rumblings of death near me. We had two people we know attempt suicide, a friend was one of the first three on an accident where the driver was pronounced dead on the scene, another friend is walking with his best friend whose three-year-old daughter has recently diagnosed with an aggressive cancer, and moments ago a friend texted saying her father-in-law was being rushed to the hospital with bleeding on the brain. 

This week the idea of death and dying has been in my head and old fears, old anxieties, old worries, crashed in again. 

So I ask again, not as an 8 year old hoping to one day drive but as a 31 year old madly in love with his wife and boys wanting to see them grow old: 

- What will it actually be like to die. 
- What will happen to us when it's all done. 
- Will Jesus really be there to catch me?

If I'm honest, even thou I'm a pastor, have studied theology and tell people weekly to trust Jesus, I have a level of anxiety around the idea of dying, a level of anxiety around not being in what I know anymore. 

A level of anger at the thought of not getting to see my boys grow old, to hold their kids, and see them grow into young men. I get angry at not growing old, wrinkly, and saggy with Pearl, I want our marriage to be like a fine wine, aged through the decades of life together. 

I found myself starting to mentally spin out of control, starting to freeze in fear. 

But the other night as all this started to crash on me, as all the questions, emotions, panic came, I found myself praying a weird and yet childishly simply prayer. 

"Jesus, please be true, please be enough, and I choose to trust you. Help me sleep, amen" 

To be honest I had to pray that about 10 times over a 30 minutes period. I'd pray it, calm down, then freak out, pray, calm down, freak out... you get the drill. It wasn't a silver bullet prayer for my fears and anxieties, but more like a paper cut that finally slain the dragon in my head.

So as this week comes to a close and I hold my 2 month old in my lap I ask different questions.

Knowing I can't predict or control the future, knowing I can't answer my questions of death, and knowing that choosing to have faith about what's next, is simply that, faith. And yet still in all it's confusion and fear death will one day come for me, my boys, my wife.

I ask:
- Is what I'm doing really matter? Am I investing time on what counts?
- Is this argument really worth it?
- Is that gadget really worth the hours of my life I'd have to give to get it?
- Do those who matter most, know they matter most? Has my words, actions, time told them so?

So knowing we're finite beings, with no guarantees of the future, am I really making the most of today, the most of the time I do have?

So I hope as you look at your weekend you have a focused approach to what matters most and a reminder of what you need to be giving your time and attention to and that in light of the deadline of your life, in light of a period coming to your name, you're able to say you're living with focus and attention and that you're making the most of the time been granted. 

And when the fears of the unknown come able to pray, "Jesus, please be true, please be enough, and I choose to trust you. Help me sleep, amen" 

Have a wonderful day.
Matt 

defining a man...

This is my "manly" place. 

It's in the back section of our basement under a exposed bulb, wires, air ducts and 107 years of house and stone. It sets the mood of a 50's integration room filled with testosterone and dirt. 

When work causes my brain to overload or binary code erodes the textile nature of flesh and blood, sweat and dirt, I escape here. 

I hit stuff. 
I fix stuff. 
I make stuff. 
I break stuff.

I listen to old CD's on my original CD player from 4th grade. 

For me sawdust and oil are smells that warm my bones, restore belief in my work and remind me I'm not as weak as my emotions or fears may be whispering, or on rough days, shouting at me. 

I escape to this work bench to refine, re-find, and refuel me. 

Tools and sweet, work and dirt were what I grew up around. It was what my dad did around the house, it's what my grandfathers did, its part of my story, it's part of how a man was defined for me.  

As a father to two son's I've been asking the question for my boys of how do I, today, define a man.

What does a man really:
- look-alike
- do
- dress
- talk
- love
- lead
- learn
- etc.  

Knowing that I will be the primary definition of what a man is for my two boys, I've been soul searching about what I need to be modeling, doing, saying. 

Yet I also know that past stereotypes no longer work. 

Stereotypes are easy. They remove the weight of thought and reflection. they're like tidal waves that you allow yourself to get sweep away with and enjoy the ride, yet sadly they also are waves that can drown you and destroy those near you.  

When I look at culture today, what it means to be a man is no longer clearly defined with gender roles and stereotypes. There's no one set "cultural" standard of manhood in media and the positive push for "acceptance" has caused us to "accept" any action done by a male to be considered manly.  The cultural spectrum of "manhood" appears to be all inclusive.  

Roles are changing, jobs are changing, expectations are changing. 

For me growing up sawdust and oil were a part of what defined a man. 

But I also was shown that one's skill with a hammer and nail does not fully define a man. 
Or knowing how to swing an axe or weld a chainsaw may be a great days work, but it's not a full definition to live by. 

Today the tidal wave of past stereotypes have past, and as I now watch the current wave that's rising I see great potential yet also great harm, and I simply refuse to aimlessly throw my sons in and wait to see what happens. 

I want to know what I believe it means to be a man today, in our culture, in our time? To know what my boys must know, hold belief in and behave like.

Growing up my father could not have been more different then my grandfathers on the outside, one's blue collar, one was white collar. One was highly educated, one dropped out in the 3rd grade. One worked mainly with their hands, the other with their head.

But what was clearly the same between them, was that to be a man, especially the man of the house, meant you: 
- Worked hard at home even when you had already worked hard in your work week.
- You made stuff right even if you didn't break it
- You tried, even if you were scared and didn't fully know how 
- You didn't make excuses, you acted

The world my boys will grow up in will be wildly different then the mountain tops of my grandfathers adventures or the sixties of my dad's explorations, or the blissfulness of my Appalachian  foothills but either way I hope my boys discover and believe that to be a man, in the Parks' family, means taking responsibility. 

Responsibility for your faith, yourself, your loved ones, and those that God may bring in your path. I don't fully know what responsibility looks like and acts like today, much less tomorrow but for now, I'm going to keep sharing my tools, asking questions, and helping my boys figure it out. 

Hope your weekend was wonderful. 
Matt