Steve and Liz go to church with me. Scratch that. Steve and Liz are my friends. I love these two people. They have shown me what it looks like to remain faithful in God's promises and how to still enjoy life in the process of it all. Steve is the most easy-going, adaptable human I've ever known...he's fun to be around and has a personality that draws you in. Liz is willing to tell you how it is with brutal honesty and as a fellow brutalist, I love that about her. Plus, she loves NASCAR.

Below is a story I did on Steve and Liz's journey towards parenthood.

It will play at our church gatherings this weekend. Check it out:



More of these video stories can be found HERE, HERE, and HERE.

Lots of photographs are taken for a story like this.

Obviously...not all of them can be used:

I was running around in Clifton today and I stopped in Rohs Street Cafe for a quadruple latte. A man named Daniel was sitting outside smoking a hand-rolled cigarette watching the college kids as they walk by. He nodded to me as I entered and as I exited the cafe he asked me if I had some spare change. He was honest with me. He said, "I'm just tryin' to get some change for a beer before I go home."



I told him that I didn't have any money on me, which was the truth, as I just paid for my coffee with my tattered debit card. This was a seven swipe transaction inside...that magnetic strip is just so worn out. I asked the man what his name was and I shook his grubby hand as I told him my name. His name was Daniel. I said, "Daniel the Prophet!" and he yelled, "Hey! That's what they call me!"



There was change in my car though. Quite a bit of change actually. I had just parked in a garage earlier in the day that cost me $3.00. I had a $20 bill on me and the automated machine spit out 17 $1 coins as my change. Initially, my thought was, What the crap am I going to do with these?



Thinking about my gold doubloons, I figured I could toss some of them Daniel's way. I grabbed 4 of them out of the car and I also grabbed my camera. I walked over to him and I said, "I've got 4 bucks with your name on it, but you've got to let me take your picture. I'm a photographer and you're an interesting dude...waddaya say?" He said, "DEAL!" and shook my hand.



I asked Daniel where he got his collection of stuff on his necklace. He told me several fun stories and we laughed a good bit...the truly funny thing is how similar you find yourself to be with someone when you take the time to listen to them.



We sat down and talked for a while...mostly about nothing. Daniel had a bag of half-rotten food items that he had picked out of the garbage. Originally he told me that it was for the raccoons, but later let it slip that the food was for him.



My initial thought when I was approached for money was the normal one. Nope...leave me alone...I have nothing for you. Sometimes I don't go with my initial thought though.



Sometimes it's worth just sitting down and talking to someone at eye level who probably gets looked down upon quite a bit. We have a lot more in common than you'd think.

It took my mother-in-law and I four hours to complete it, but it's done. The playhouse is finished.

Wanna see the process?




--------------------------------------------

And now for another story entirely.

I was at Sam's Club yesterday (have I mentioned I like that place?) and as I was walking in I noticed an employee pushing carts into the store. I thought it was a man, but as I got closer I noticed it was in fact a woman. Her hair was short and she was muscular. She was built like a man and from behind...you'd be hard-pressed to make the right gender judgment.

I immediately thought to myself, Whoa...I thought that was a man. Good thing I didn't say something stupid.

Not 5 seconds after that thought did an older man stop her to grab a cart from the train she was pushing. She broke one off the front for him and as he turned around he said, "Thank you ma'am..."

I thought, oh good...he knew it was a lady.

Just then however, he turned back to her and said, "Oh, I'm sorry sir...I thought you were a woman for a second there."

I looked at her and she didn't say a word back to him. He just walked away and as I got closer to her she said in a mumbling undertone, "people always think I'm a man. It's my haircut...I always get my hair cut like a man."

I turned to her and said, "oh well...I wouldn't worry about it too much. That guy was pretty old...I'm pretty sure he thought I was a Buick." She grinned a little, but I could tell she was really hurt. And I just kept walking...

As I shopped, I thought about going back to tell her that God sees her as beautiful child, no matter what her haircut looked like. But I didn't and I feel like I missed it. If I see her today I'm going to tell her though. Because she's worth it.

This past weekend was a powerful one. Vineyard Westside held an annual outdoor baptism service as we have done for the past 3 years now. We typically meet inside the movie theater, but for this service, we call everyone together all at once and meet outside in the parking lot.

We set up tents and chairs and expect that hundreds of people will show up. And they do. Five hundred or so show up hungry for hamburgers and hotdogs, drinks and sides, but most importantly they show up hungry for God.

Our worship team cranks everything up a few notches and they play until their fingers are numb.







They rock out a few songs and get everyone excited to be there.



At this point, Jim, our children's pastor comes up to do baby dedications. This is an opportunity to have parents and their kids prayed over to devote themselves to a life of following God.



And now it's time for the waterworks. Emotions quickly begin flying all over the place as people line up to get into a horse trough. We don't have a fancy baptismal or anything like that. We've got a 300 gallon Rubbermaid container...and it's holy. It's holy because people step into it who are announcing to the world that they're willing to die to themselves to be raised to life in Christ.

Music continues to play as friends and family join around loved ones for prayer and support.



And then it happens. People surrender themselves and become so vulnerable that everyone can see it. And we have baptism. My sister goes first. Those of you who know me personally are aware of the insane crap that's gone down with Amie...here's to a step in the right direction.







One after another, people line up and get ready for the big splash.







I even got the opportunity to baptize people who are very close to me.

This is my father-in-law Ted. He wrote a letter that stated he doesn't want to do it all on his own anymore.



Ryan and Carrie, our beloved house mates were baptized.



My friend Jon baptized his son Jonah.





My wife's sister Andrea came out of the crowd as she was overwhelmed by the Spirit...she just had to do it. Her husband Chris was given the honor.



Lo and behold my beautiful bride Allison made the decision to be baptized as well. She was baptized as a baby and she wanted this one to be up to her.





I'm still reeling from everything that happened yesterday. It was all a bit surreal. I took about 400 pictures and this is less than 20 of them. At least 35 people were baptized yesterday and some serious damage was done to the kingdom of darkness.

Praise be to Jesus.

Everyone's got a story.

I met Harold yesterday. He was sitting alone in his wheelchair outside of the public library in Downtown Cincinnati. A friend and I had been walking around taking a few photos and Harold noticed the camera around my neck.



"Are you gonna take my picture?" He said as I walked up.

I asked him if he really wanted me to and he said, "Oh yeah, yeah...take my picture!"

I snapped a photo of Harold and then my friend and I extended hands and introduced ourselves to him. He said his name was Harold, but I already knew that from the name badge he had proudly displayed on his mid-section. Harold was the resident of some sort of assisted living home...our conversation proved quickly that he wasn't there for a lack of mental capacity. He was sharp, quick-witted, well-spoken, and from what I could tell, entirely with it.



It was pretty easy to see that something wasn't right though. Aside from his physical disability, which we learned had something to do with a spinal disorder, he had an overwhelming sadness to his eyes. The kind of sadness that goes far deeper than a temporary smile could ever cover up. I'm not entirely sure how it happened but within a few short minutes Harold told us that he hadn't been out of prison for very long. He mentioned matter-of-factly that he was locked up for 35 years for an armed robbery charge and murder.



He didn't seem remorseful...not even nervous really. Harold just looked down at his chocolate bar, broke off a piece, popped it into his mouth and then offered us some. He said that he's addicted to chocolate.



Harold liked my tattoos and he began to show me the ink he got in prison. Somehow tattoos have a special way of connecting people to one another. He told us he loves the artwork and that we wouldn't believe how good some of those inkslingers are in prison. "I'm an artist myself" he said, telling us about his favorite mediums and whatnot.



Harold was lonely, and it was pretty obvious that he was excited to have someone to talk to. He had come to the library to get some music as he does every month or two. He was waiting for the bus to come and pick him up and we just happened to stop as he extended an invitation for conversation. I'm really glad we stopped to talk with Harold...How many Harolds do we pass up each day? We crave companionship.



A man named Leo Buscaglia once said "We need others. We need others to love and we need to be loved by them. There is no doubt that without it, we too, like the infant left alone, would cease to grow, cease to develop, choose madness and even death."

As we parted ways I had this incompleteness in me that felt like I should have done something more. That maybe we should have prayed for Harold or talked to him about God. I'm comforted by the fact that it doesn't have to be over though. He told us about the home where he lives and invited us to come and see him some time.

We might just have to do that.

Do you ever think that the reason we try to stay so busy is so we don't have to slow down and face our stuff?

* Disclaimer * The following post is from a personal experience of mine. It's about a specific person and while I normally don't "out" people as a pastor, I am this time. I want you as a reader to know that I have permission to share the following information from Pete himself. It is of utmost importance to me to keep the confidentiality of my friends / family /and cohorts. Sorry about the disclaimer...I just want you to know that you don't have to worry about me "sharing your stuff". * Disclaimer over. *


I met Pete somewhere around 2 years ago. Maybe longer, it's fuzzy.

We were fresh into the new church we started and eager to help anyone we could. This isn't a bad thing at all...it can be dangerous though. Several of us somehow got connected with the Mt. Airy Men's Shelter and tried to serve them as best we could. The shelter was essentially just a drug/alcohol rapid rehab center for guys who can't manage life on their own. Mt. Airy houses anywhere from 55-65 guys at any given time and they take them through stages of progress to get them out on their own.

That last paragraph makes Mt. Airy Men's Shelter sound better than it really is. It's a bit of a dump honestly. We've continued to maintain a connection with the guys who come in and out of there. Each week anywhere from 8-15 guys show up at Vineyard Westside and we love that they're a part of our body. To see the homeless sitting next to the wealthy and they embrace one another...it's a beautiful sight. It breaks down the Us and Them mentality.

Pete came from the men's shelter. His name was Arthur, but he always went by Pete. He had been at the shelter for a couple months and was now moving on to live in an apartment by himself. He wasn't ready for this kind of responsibility, but the system doesn't worry about what people are ready for. He went through the program...now it was time to kick him out. That's just how it works.

I connected with Pete more deeply through a Saturday morning men's group that met at Panera. This was just a group of guys, totally messed up, who were looking for the things God was trying to teach them through their everyday lives. Pete wanted to go to the Panera group, but he was without wheels. Me and a couple other guys took turns giving Pete a ride to the group as well as other places. Sometimes Pete would come home with me to look through books I had or to get something to eat. I got to know more of his story and he got to know more of mine.

My wife Allison already knew Pete because he took a class where she was Pete's table leader. Pete was an amazing singer. He could belt out Negro Spirituals like no other I've heard. We always encouraged him to use his secret talent and most of the time he would start sweating profusely and escape before we forced him to sing. Pete was somewhat like a giant teddy bear. He seemed so child-like and innocent in so many instances.

I looked up Pete's police record online because I'm OCD, nosey, and that's just the kind of thing I do. I knew that he had been in trouble with the law on and off for a while. I found out that he had been arrested some 30 times in the last 5 years for offenses such as Drunk and Disorderly Conduct, Physical Abuse, and Public Nuisance. It seemed old Pete couldn't keep himself out of the slammer for more than 30 days at a time. He explained to me once that jail was a safe place for him. He couldn't get drunk and he spent most of his time reading the Bible and devotionals. He was a better human being when he was incarcerated. Some kind of a "gauge out your eye if it causes you to sin" mentality was at play.

Our relationship progressed and it seemed that Pete felt comfortable to share more and more of his chaotic life with me. He told me about the scars on his face and how they were from his mother and sisters. I remember vividly how he described them. He sheepishly admitted to me that his sisters all held him down while his mother hit him repeatedly with a baseball bat saying, "I din't want no boy! I din't want no boy!".

Pete called me one day and he asked me if Allison and I could come over to his apartment so he could talk to us. We said sure and we headed over there after church one Sunday. We went inside Pete's tiny efficiency apartment and had a seat on his couch. He thanked us for always helping him out and told us that he'd been reading the bible and he felt like he needed to tell us something. He said, "I'm going to hell. I'm going to hell and I'm scared." We asked him why he thought he was going to hell and he told us that he had been reading the book of James in the bible. It said that he should confess his sins to his brothers in Christ.

He began sweating like he always did. Pete sweat like no human I've ever seen when he had to talk to people. It would just start pouring from his bald head. As the sweat beaded down his face he looked at us and told us the story of how he had killed someone. He explained that he had been drinking with some guy all day several years back when they got into some kind of argument. Pete told us that he had stabbed this man to death and that he just ran away. He'd been running for some time now.

I remember when he told me I began praying immediately in my head. I asked Jesus to keep Allison and I safe as we prepared to respond to this confession. I opened up my mouth and I wasn't sure what was going to come out. If I said the wrong thing, Pete was capable of panicking. Maybe he immediately regretted telling us...what then? What if we freaked out? What could Pete do to us? As the words formed in my mouth I just grabbed Pete by the shoulder with a reassuring touch and said, "I think we should pray."

We prayed for a good long while and I can tell you that when you're in that situation your prayers are very real. We stayed with him for maybe an hour, we hugged him and thanked him for telling us the things he told us. When we drove away...we didn't know what to do. We went to some friends' house and let them know what Pete had told us. I didn't feel comfortable being the only two people who knew about this. So we told our trusted allies and we went home.

Over the few weeks I gently coached Pete that he should turn himself in and he agreed. During this time, however, Pete started drinking again. He began getting in trouble with people and he was calling our house late at night with strange requests and threats. He would leave drunken messages on our answering machine cussing us out and then telling us he loved us and then telling us he was going to kill himself. Things were getting out of hand and I was sitting with Pete's confession in the pit of my stomach. I didn't want to turn Pete in...I wanted Pete to turn Pete in. While God forgives us even the most evil transgressions we still have to be accountable to the law. I sat on it for a few more weeks. Things got even worse.

I found out that Pete had been getting rides to different places from young women. He also spent Christmas with some friends of ours who have 4 kids. They had no idea what Pete had done. The final straw came for me when I found out that Pete was going to stay at the friend with 4 kids' house when he got kicked out of his apartment.

I called my father-in-law. He's a judge. I asked him what I should do and he gave me the steps to turn Pete in to the authorities. Allison and I had to go and tell our story to the Norwood Police and they had to investigate it further. Everything checked out and they solved an open case. Pete had indeed killed a man 8 years ago. They arrested him and He's now in prison.

You can read a small bit of news story here ----> 1998 Norwood Murder

I don't know how to end this post. I still feel so icky about what happened. I haven't been in contact with Pete since he was arrested. I was told it wasn't a good idea and that's given me a great excuse not to face him again. I feel not right about that part.

I know I had to do what I felt was right at the time. I've replayed it over in my head a thousand times and I'm not sure what I would do differently if it happened again.

That's all I got...I'm officially wiped out.

Below is a video project of people ages 1 to 100 drumming a drum. I'm not really sure why, but I feel a wide range of things when I see it. It conjures up many thoughts really. The humanity. The diversity. The shortness of life. So many stories.

I've made the decision to be a part of a men's missionary group going to Honduras in April. This is a big step for me as I've never done anything like this before. From what I understand thus far, our group of guys will be doing guy-stuff. We'll be doing manual labor and building things. We may get to build a house or we might get to work on existing projects...I suppose I'll find out exactly what we'll be doing when we get there.

What I do know is that Honduras is one of the poorest countries in the western world. They have an outrageous unemployment rate and as with many downtrodden areas, the wealth is very unevenly distributed. We'll be hooked up with an organization called Mercy International from April 3 - April 10th. Mercy International is located in a small village of Central Honduras called Yamaranguila. MI will let us know what we'll be working on and who we'll be working with.

One thing is for sure, we'll be working with "the least of these". I'm excited and I'm nervous at the same time. One of the exciting parts is that I'll be going with a group of amazing men. So far the roster looks like this:

*Dan Thoms
*Ryan Doan
*Matt Pfannenschmidt
*Vince Gramaglia
*Jonah Price
*Jon Price
*Tim Urmston
*Jamison Lyman
*Jim Mandershied
*Ryan Detzel (hey that's me)

This is bound to be an incredible journey. The travel costs and grounds fees will be $1200. I checked my bank account and since I have pretty much zero dollars I had better start trying to raise funds. I need $600 by the middle of February. I'm not too terribly worried about coming up with the cash because it seems like God always provides the green when He wants to get something done. That said, I am a little concerned. All of my friends are poor...or at least they don't come off of the money too easily. We'll see what happens.

If you would like to help me financially you can contact me at detzelpretzel AT gmail.com
I will be your internet slave forever.

I've got to get my passport together as well as a bunch of shots. (Malaria, Hepatitis, Tetanus, Typhoid) This should be an interesting venture. Pray for me.

"I tell you the truth, whatever you have done for the least of these brothers of mine, you have done for Me." - Jesus, Matthew 25:40

A twenty dollar bill and 4 singles are stuffed in my pocket as I pull up to the window at Dunkin' Donuts. I'm able to justify spending 3 bucks on a large Vanilla Latte at the donut shop rather than 5 bucks at Starbucks. This gives my guilt acquittal and allows me to sleep at night.

<*static*> "Please pull up to the window sir." <*static*>

As I pull up my car is still ice-cold and I can't wait hug my coffee and use it to warm my rigid chassis. I hate the cold. I'm sick all winter long and to be honest it just sucks.

<*window opens*> "That'll be $3.20 sir...and here...try a free sample of our new hash browns." I hand her the money and think to myself, Don't mind if I do. <* window closes*>

Eighty cents change comes my way and by now I've already consumed the tiny delicious sample of hash browns. I want more of them, but I don't want more of them. I drive onward to things of business with Andrew Jackson gasping for air within the capsule of my jeans. Poor little guy...he'll be okay. I can't ever seem to keep any presidents held hostage in there too long. Nothing to worry about Mr. Jackson...you'll be free soon enough.

After a couple of hours I forget that Andrew is even there. He doesn't take up much space and I am consumed with other thoughts. Consumed, that is, until I reach the grocery store. You see I've got some men to feed tonight. Men who will arrive at my home for spiritual insight and challenges. Men who will arrive for food. I want to feed them something healthy tonight...I think Baked Chicken in a light pan sauce with *Mirepoix Couscous will do the trick.

I gather up my missing ingredients and I head for the check-out line. This is where I remember Andrew. He's in my pocket. He's ready to help me out when I need him. So long as I have less than $20 worth of stuff I can use him. Hmm...I think this weird lasagna thing I'm having for lunch might put me over the top. Sorry Andrew, I think I might have to use my debit card.

The lady in front of me is fumbling about.

She can't seem to locate her payment method and she is searching frantically for it. I feel for her as this just happened to me last week. A friend of mine used my debit card and then attempted to steal it from me...or forgot to return it to me in a totally innocent manner...I can't remember which. Either way, I got up to pay for something and I didn't have my payment method. This kind of thing can make one feel totally helpless AND dumb.

The cashier keeps the line moving. She postpones this lady's transaction and gets mine moving. I sneak a peek at the woman's total before the cashier starts ringing in my items and it's $19.82...I remember because that's the year I was born...and because I'm OCD...and I'm a spy. My items are scanned in and my total comes to something I can't remember which bugs the crap out of me because it means I'm not being a very good OCD spy. Blast.

I use my debit card to pay. I stare spyishly over at the lady who is still searching for a way to pay for her goods. The Holy Spirit whispers to me, "Use Andrew, Use Andrew." I decide not to argue with Him since He's right even more often than my wife is and I can't possibly win this one.

I grab Andrew by the throat and I yank him towards the lady. I say..."Here, use this." She looks at me as if I were purple and just had hot magma pour from my face holes. We squabble for a moment and she gives in finally to receive Andrew as another temporary owner.

The woman, defeated, calms down and says gently, "But I don't even know what your name is." To which I responded, running backwards, "I'm just someone who loves Jesus."

She looked at me and simply said, "Okay."

I'm still a little confused as to why she didn't fall on her knees to receive salvation then and there like they describe in cheesy Christian devotionals. For me though, I couldn't have asked for a more excellent anti-climactic comment such as, "Okay."

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*Mirepoix (meer eh pwah) which means cuisine, is a traditional French cooking base for many, many things. It's made up of 2 parts onion, 1 part carrot, and 1 part celery. It is actually known as the "Holy Trinity" of cooking. If you start with a good Mirepoix...it's almost difficult to make the food bad from there.

...I've decided to come up with a cooler, more professional name for Dodgeball. Sphere Eluding. Well...either that, or Orb Avoid. Or maybe Ditchglobe? I dunno, maybe I'm reaching.

Dodgeball is a good name I guess. It's definitely a good game. I'm proud to say that I'm the owner of at least one good idea in my lifetime. That idea was men's dodgeball. For over a year now we've been renting a little gymnasium and gathering anywhere from 15-30 guys to play a couple hours of ferocious dodgeball every Sunday night. Dodgeball isn't a new idea, but what's different with our dodgeball session is that we play with dangerous brutality.

We don't use the "regulation" full-sized, wouldn't-hurt-if-it-fell-off-a-building-and-landed-on-your-head, foam balls that actual dodgeball leagues use. Those balls are for ninnies.
We bring the pain.

The funny thing about our dodgeball is that it's opened the door for many people to get connected with God. Guys from all over the place show up for dodgeball...guys who would never set foot in a church. Time and time again they show up and after the group of dodgeball players show them that they're real men who have fun AND happen to love Jesus, they end up coming to church. It's been an amazing opportunity to show people the love of Christ...oddly enough by smashing them in the face with a rubber ball. God is weird like that.

I brought Tony with me to dodgeball tonight. Tony is 15, and he works at the hobby store with me. I've known him since he was about 5 I guess and he never really says much. He's a teenager. He either mumbles or he whines. I told him I was picking him up tonight for dodgeball and he was all for it. I picked him up and he was his shy, normal, teenager-y self. After dodgeball though something broke...Tony was talking up a storm and he was asking me questions and telling me stories and kind of acting like a real human. Once again the mysterious power of dodgeball has opened up some kind of door. Schweet.

God is telling me that I'll be the person to open the door for Jesus in Tony's life. We'll see.

I love dodgeball. It's so many things to me:

* A healthy outlet to vent anger or frustration.
* Proof that I do guy stuff too and not just gardening, cooking, and stampin' up. I mean...I don't do stampin' up...that's for women only! I do not do that kind of thing!
You should see my new Valentine's Day Bundle I picked up from cincymoms.com!! It's so totally fab!! Love, love, LOVE it!!
* A work out like you wouldn't believe.
* Connection for guys who aren't ready for church.
* Guaranteed sympathy from onlookers...the occasional black eye is great for attention!!

If you'd like to play some serious dodgeball in the Cincinnati area...lemmeknow!
Just remember, we play for reals yo.

...here she is. Ain't she purdy?

Who me?

We brought some of our old friends and new friends together tonight at El Mariachi in Harrison. It was lots o' fun. Ryan and Carrie will be heading back to Vancouver super early on Sunday morning so we probably won't see them until they get back. They will be living with us though...so we'll probably get sick of them pretty quick once they're here.

*Random Thought* - There's a lady whose main hobby seems to be walking up and down our street repeatedly. I once saw her venture out onto another street, but that was a once in a lifetime kind of thing. It doesn't matter what the weather is like, she walks up and down our street every day. Up and down, up and down, up and down. You'd think she'd get sick of the view. The funny part is that she wears a sweet 80's fanny pack on her hip every walking excursion. You can tell it's completely full to the maximum capacity. I look at that fanny pack and every time I can't help but think, What in the world does she have in there?

I mean, it's not like she's taking some long trip where anything could happen. She's walking up and down her small street. I seriously want to know what the heck she has in there. Any ideas?

I cleaned my aquarium the other day. We were having a party and it looked a bit on the disgusting side. Ever since I worked for an aquarium maintenance company a couple years ago, I've had a hard time keeping my own little piece of indoor ocean clean. Rebellion? Laziness? Yes.

Whenever I clean my aquarium it causes me to think about odd things related to it. For a moment, I think about the inconsiderate and mindless ways in which I pulled together a few thousand dollars to get it. I worked my butt off, but I also stole, lied, and cheated my way into owning that aquarium. I look at it's beauty and I remember the person I was. And then I look at it for a few more seconds and I remember the Jesus who came to forgive me and restore me...thank you Lord Jesus. Thank you for leaving the ninety-nine to come and get me.

Looking at a beautiful saltwater aquarium also brings up some really offbeat memories. I can distinctly remember the first time I laid eyes on a marine aquarium. It was brilliant blue with bright orange Clownfish and gorgeous Anemones. There were Blue Hippo Tangs and amazing corals ebbing and flowing in the current. My face was glued to the glass as I watched the Volitan Lionfish prowl through the crystal clear water. I was hooked. At that very moment, even though I was only 9 or 10 years old, I vowed to myself that when I was older I would own one of these marvels. This amazing and majestic mini-ocean was sitting in a man named Phil's basement.



Phil was bi-sexual. I say that because I am certain that he was "with" my mother and I am also certain he was "with" other men. I'd rather not go into the details. Phil was one of the random scumbags whom my mom would drag my sister and I to stay with. To this day I still have no idea how she met these people. She would go over there to get drunk or high while my sister and I would try to keep ourselves entertained. Phil was one weird dude. I remember he always gave me the creeps and I never wanted to go over there. My dad would go to work and during the summer mom just took us wherever she went. We would tell her we didn't want to go over there and she would convince us that it would only be for a little while and she would buy us something or take us somewhere we wanted to go. Many times a couple of hours would turn into a couple of days and World War III would take place when dad finally found us. It was a mess.

As strange as this Phil character was, he didn't hold a candle to Dave. Dave lived directly across the street from Phil. Dave had a repugnant house that made me want to vomit every time I was in it. It smelled of urine, tobacco, alcohol, marijuana, and death. There was garbage everywhere. He had two gigantic Great Danes and a sofa/love seat combo that were covered in thick plastic. You wouldn't want the furniture to get all messed up in a fancy place like that now would you?

Dave's pinnacle of weirdness was achieved in the form that he wasn't Dave anymore. Dave had become Rebekkah. Dave saved up his money and had a sex change operation and was now a nasty ugly man with woman parts. Dave's candy...excuse me, Rebekkah's candy was Cocaine. He/She had little brown vials of cocaine all over the place and my sweet mum liked the same kind of nose candy as DavBekkah. I'm not entirely sure, but all signs point to DavBekkah being a cocaine dealer. Both Phil and Dave had children...oh how I'm praying for them right this second.


I believe the most insane memory I have of Phil and DavBekkah would have to be the night my mom had some sort of overdose at DavBekkah's house. As I try to remember to the best of my ability I see myself as being 11 years old. There was some sort of freak party going on and I was supposed to be with my dad. Mom said she was taking me over to his apartment, but we were going to stop at Rebekkah's house first. Mom and dad were divorced by this time and they hated each other a good bit. Dad got custody of me and mom got custody of my sister Amie. I was sentenced to spend every other weekend with my mom. Although I tried to make the most of it each time, there was anguish and a sense of impending doom rising up in me each time dad dropped me off.

Minutes stretched to hours at DavBekkah's house and I continually tugged on my mom telling her we had to go. The next time I came in the room to request our departure my mom was laying on the floor with white vomit pooled under her face. She was passed out and did not look okay. She would shake every now and again and I was freaking out. I remember they wouldn't let me use the phone and I was cussing at them.

All I wanted was my dad, he could make this better I thought to myself. Or at least be a sane person to talk to. I didn't know what was wrong with my mom. I'd seen her passed out many, many times, but this was different. I found my mom's keys in her jacket pocket and I dragged her outside and shoved her into the car. This was a lot of work for a boy my size. I took a deep breath and I started the car. I knew how to get to me and my dad's apartment from there...it was only 5 or 10 minutes away. I weighed the benefits and the consequences out in my mind. I thought about what would happen if I got pulled over by a police officer and I remember I was so mad at my mother I knew I could place all the blame on her. So we drove.

I couldn't see over the steering wheel, but I could see through it. I drove straight to my dad's house and by this time it was 11 or 12 at night. There was hardly any traffic out...I remember this because ever car I saw was an anxiety attack in my mind. I drove 2 exits down the interstate and within a couple more minutes I was pulling into my familiar little apartment complex. Oh how happy I was to see that complex. We pulled up and I noticed that my dad wasn't home. He and my sister were probably out at my uncle's or something...I can't remember. I do remember that I started to drag my mom into the apartment and I decided against that. I left her in the car to sit in her vomit and I went inside. I sat there and cried for a while waiting on my dad to get home and I fell asleep on the couch.


I don't know why I didn't call 911 or drop my mom off at the hospital. I guess I didn't really know how bad that could have been. She could have died that night. The next morning and abstract time period after that incident have all become very blurry to me. I can't quite focus in on what transpired of all that nonsense later on...there had to be consequences for some of it.

I have no resolve or moral of the story for the end of this post. I can tell you that I am alive, my family is alive, some of them more alive than others, and I'm filled with joy because Christ lives in me. Jesus is the opposite of those things I remember and that gives me even more hope for the future. I heard a few years back that Phil died of AIDS. I am unsure about DavBekkah as that was the last time I ever saw him/her. Pray for these people...God is big enough to restore.

Jeremiah 29:11 says, "For I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you not to harm you. Plans for hope and a future."

Amen to that.