Ghostbusting in Poky

I'm safely back in the frozen tundra of Boise this week after spending an eventful few days "on the road." That's right, kiddies, I took my lounge act to Pocatello and unleashed my unique brand of sermon on a group of unsuspecting Unitarians. Poor, poor people. They had no idea what was coming.

I have to say that, personally, I was rather proud of my sermon. I thought I covered all of the bases - my dog Kiki, ghost stories, Merle Haggard. All of the essentials. The speech elicited a rather unusual response, however. The crowd of college professors and graduate students failed to grasp the intricate wisdom inherent in the television show "Most Haunted." The professors decided to catch up on their sleep just a few minutes into the speech. At least I was helpful in some way.

I thought I would post the sermon here, and let you decide for yourself whether it is a brilliant work of art, or a great sleeping aid. Either way it's good for something. Right?

"WE AIN'T AFRAID OF NO GHOSTS"

David M. Ward

A hearty good afternoon to one and all. We’ve been together now for, oh, about a half an hour. In that time I feel we’ve developed a special bond. A cosmic hug, if you will. Can you feel it?

Can you feel the love?

Considering this special bond between us, I feel it is only appropriate that I stand before you and spill my guts. It’s what any self-respecting person would do in front of strangers, right?

So here goes. My name is Dave and I am hopelessly addicted to college football. I love to sing in my car, although I do sing quite badly. I often turn to my husky dog, Kiki, for advice and usually that advice is extremely helpful. I used to consider myself intelligent, but I now have concrete evidence that my four-year-old son Michael is in fact smarter than I am.

Oh yeah, and I believe in ghosts.

Not the sort of ghosts you’re likely envisioning. I’m not talking about the oogedy-boogedy ghosts that float up and down the stairway and inspire one of my all-time favorite guilty-pleasure television shows, “Most Haunted.” If you haven’t seen this show, you need to check it out. Basically a group of bored British actors travel to the creepiest old castles you can imagine, walk around in the dark, and completely scare the willy-nilly out of each other. It’s hysterical! My absolute favorite character is this “medium” guy that enters a room and immediately unleashes a dramatic swoon that would make William Shatner blush. He claims to see everything from maids jumping out of windows to long-lost children begging for dolls.

I absolutely love watching it. I just don’t believe the show holds any real truth.

No, the ghosts that I believe in are much more personal. They are easily recognizable and three times as terrifying as anything shown on television. They don’t reside in ancient castles or cemeteries. The horrifying reality is they reside in our hearts, our minds and our souls.

I call them the ghosts of our past. (Dum, dum, dum!)

These shadowy figures haunt us with memories we would just as soon forget. Wonderful recollections of people we’ve shunned, or embarrassing mistakes we’ve made. They simply relish reliving anything that brings horror to your heart and a cry of, “I can’t believe I did that!” from your mouth. You’ll be snug in your bed, smiling and content from a blissfully positive day, when suddenly a ghost will fly out of the closet, bend down to your ear and softly whisper … “Do you remember when you spread those rumors about your college roommate, and the pain it brought him? Boy you really messed up that time! I’ll bet he’s still recovering.”

These hauntings leave you shivering between the sheets and longing for one of those movie ghosts that simply rearranges furniture or fries eggs on the counter. Personally, I’ve battled a number of these ghosts from my past, and I’m guessing you have too. Through the years I’ve learned to deal with these hauntings, although it has not been easy. I’ve found the secret lies in humility, confession and a whole army of loving support. That’s where you fine folks come in! You beautiful Unitarian Universalists you!

The type of loving support needed to silence these pesky ghosts is located inside these very walls, and lovingly wrapped within the very hearts and souls that make up our beloved UU family. Each day I grow more grateful for this community of spiritual seekers, dedicated to nurturing souls and helping to heal the world. Tirelessly striving not only to help people discover their true spiritual path, but also to find their best selves and achieve a happiness they may not have thought possible. I’ve benefited tremendously from this faith, and judging by the smiling faces in this room, I’m guessing a number of you have benefited as well.

Okay. Enough koombayah for now. Let’s move on to some more spooky ghost stories, shall we? You may not be aware of this, but your beautiful little town is haunted by a terrifying ghost. An extremely scary supernatural entity that is actually quite handsome, if you ask me. After all, this dashing ghost looks just like me! Only quite a bit younger and with a lot less gray hair (A friend calls my gray hair a sign of wisdom. So feel free to change that last sentence to “a lot less wisdom in his hair,” if you like).

I have to be honest. The invitation to visit your wonderful Fellowship left me both excited and terrified. Excited to meet all of you, yet terrified at the prospect of returning to the very spot where my greatest ghost resides. You see, I lived in Pocatello several years ago while attending Idaho State University (Yes, I am a proud Bengal). I continued to reside in the Gate City while my wife, April, earned her Master’s degree.

I spent six memorable years here, and like most people’s college years, this time in my life can best be described as a little good, a lot of bad and a pinch of ugly. It’s the ugly part that breathes life into my ghost. Sets him free to roam among the streets and spend ample time haunting various alcohol establishments. Let’s just say I spent a lot of my time paying homage to Merle Haggard’s classic line, “I think I’ll just sit here and drink,” while living here.

I was in my early 20’s at that time, bulletproof and I knew everything. All you had to do was ask me. I’ve discovered through sharing this story that I wasn’t alone in my youthful exuberance. But it still doesn’t change the fact that “young punk,” is probably the most accurate description of me in those days. I honestly thought the world revolved around my brand new leather jacket, and people were just dying to hear me espouse my wisdom on every topic from the evils of organized religion (I had no idea what a “UU” was in those days), to the reason water never actually starts boiling while you look directly at it (Again, I did a lot of drinking in those days).

They say that confession is good for the soul, and since we don’t have a Catholic priest handy, I’m humbly asking you to serve that role right now. If you will indulge me, I feel it’s time I finally came clean and confessed my sins. I was a piece of work back then, notorious for saying, “I’ll call you soon and we’ll do something,” and then never actually picking up the phone. I made an art form out of saying awful things behind people’s backs, and I wasn’t above cracking rather hurtful “jokes” right in front of unsuspecting victims. I thought I was being hilarious. Looking back now I realize I was simply being a pain-in-the-you-know-what. It gives me the heeby jeebies just thinking about it.

My greatest regret, the incident that my ghost most relishes reliving, actually included a former member of this Fellowship. Many of you may know Steve Miller, who worked as the Managing Editor at the Idaho State Journal newspaper. Mr. Miller was my boss in those days, and I decided that I did not care for him. Mainly because Mr. Miller had the audacity to believe that I in fact did NOT know everything. He dared to question my brilliance and reprimanded me for my cocky behavior.

Well, one night I happened to see Mr. Miller standing in line at the movie theater. I was several yards away, and for reasons that I will never understand, I decided to shout, “Steve us such a (let’s just say I used a word that rhymes with “grass mole”)” loud enough so that he was sure to hear me. Not surprisingly, Mr. Miller whipped around with steam pouring out of his ears and started to shuffle toward me. I simply strolled out of the theater with a sickening swagger.

Please know this incident haunts me every day. It devastates me every time I think about it. If any of you are still in contact with Mr. Miller, please tell him that “punk kid” Dave Ward is utterly and truly sorry for his actions.

We all endure hauntings from the ghosts of our past. Some are not nearly as embarrassing as the episodes I’ve shared with you this afternoon. And some might be much more painful and life altering. It is extremely important to remember, however, that these hauntings are only reflections of the past. Yes they are terrifying, but they have absolutely no bearing on the present or the future. The best thing you can do is acknowledge the pain, admit the guilt, and use these hauntings as learning tools for the future. You might say to yourself, “Here’s how I acted in that situation. Here is the incredibly mortifying result that came about. Perhaps it would be wise to not make that choice again.” Sounds logical, right?

Always remember that life is one long and glorious journey. I’m sure you’ll agree the ride is anything but smooth. There are ups, there are downs, and there are enough twists and turns to keep the excitement flowing. We all need to cherish this wonderful gift the unnamable powers that be have bestowed upon us. The good, the bad and, yes, even the ugly. It’s all connected. I dare say it’s all beautiful.

UUA Moderator Gini Courter recently spoke at my home Fellowship in Boise. During a truly inspiring sermon she pointed out how most UU’s cannot agree on whether there is life after death. But all of us can agree that there is definitely death after life. Her slogan for UU’s would state – “We are all going to die. Have you lived yet?”

Part of this “living” includes making mistakes. Some mistakes are dreadfully embarrassing and worthy of haunting status. Yet we all need to search our hearts and seek forgiveness. In a perfect world we would find each person we have offended and beg for mercy. Real life often does not allow this. The real key is forgiving yourself. The reason is simple. If you can’t forgive yourself, nobody else will.

Joshua Loth Liebman writes, “We achieve inner health only through forgiveness – the forgiveness not only of others but also of ourselves.”

A wonderful poem by Sri Chimnoy adds to this theme:

Forgive,

You will have happiness.

Forget,

You will have satisfaction.

Forgive and forget,

You will have everlasting peace

Within and without.

The time has come to seize the pain, and cast it out of your heart forever. Make room for healing. Make room for love.

A lot has transpired since my dreadful night at the movie theater. I’ve accumulated a significant amount of wisdom in my hair. I’ve matured over the years. The powers that be somehow saw fit to place me in charge of a helpless human life (and thankfully I haven’t let them down yet!). Most importantly, for the first time in my life I’ve discovered the truly saving grace within a loving, trusting and genuinely caring community.

I realize now that life’s journey is not a solo ride. It’s meant to be shared with others. Around four years ago I discovered the UU faith. I had no concept of a religious community, and my burdens were locked deep inside my soul. It wasn’t long before I realized I was unleashing those private burdens and falling gracefully within the loving arms of my UU family. We are so lucky to have a community where our troubles are shared, our hearts are open and our lives are accepted. Period.

I commend you here at the Pocatello Unitarian Universalist Fellowship for including these wonderful themes in your mission statement. Your quest to, “nurture our own and other’s spiritual growth, giving each other comfort, and sharing laughter along the way,” is a lifeline for troubled souls in need of a home. As is your dedication to, “honor life experience as a source of our religious values.” I was only half joking when I opened my speech by referring to a bond between us. Thanks to these tremendous goals listed in your mission statement, I knew I was among kindred spirits. I could indeed feel the love.

You want to know something? Lately when I look closely at my ghost, I see through the arrogance and the swagger. I look directly in the eyes, and guess what I find? I find fear. I see a young man thrust into adulthood and scared to death. A young man harboring tremendous loneliness and a feeling that he just doesn’t “fit in” among his peers. A lost soul in search of a home.

Boy I could have used you guys back then!

After recognizing my ghost for what he truly is – A scared soul consistently making bad choices – I no longer feel fear. I actually feel empathy. Not for the choices that I made, but for the confused young man that I was. I am now able to understand and forgive. I hope that you will join me in vanquishing the ghosts of the past, and steering your sights on a bright future ahead. It’s quite liberating.

I’d like to close this afternoon with a beautiful poem composed by a rather underrated writer. I’ve found that “Author Unknown” has produced some terrific work over the years, and this poem is no exception. It is entitled “Forgiveness,” and it speaks to the very heart of our UU principle of “acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations.”

To forgive

Is not to forget.

To forgive

Is really to remember

That nobody is perfect

That each of us stumbles

When we want so much to stay upright

That each of us says things

We wish we had never said

That we can all forget that love

Is more important than being right.

To forgive

Is really to remember

That we are so much more than our mistakes

That we are often more kind and caring

That accepting another’s flaws

Can help us accept our own.

To forgive

Is to remember

That the odds are pretty good that

We might soon need to be forgiven ourselves.

That life sometimes gives us more

Than we can handle gracefully.

To forgive

Is to remember

That we have room in our hearts to

Begin again

And again,

And again.

So the next time your ghost comes floating out of the closet in the dead of night, don’t cower under the sheets. Sit up straight, wrap your arms around its ghostly body and tell it you love it – big scary flaws and all.

Once you’ve had your Hallmark moment, go ahead and ask it to help you rearrange the furniture in the living room. It’s high time it did something useful for once. Don’t you think?

Who are ya gonna call, kiddies?

- Dave

I need a bailout to pay for my Hummer

I heard the funniest thing while listening to the radio this morning. I was partaking in my usual custom of bellowing out "Burning Love" Elvis style in the shower, when a couple of talking heads began chatting about the national bailout plan and unveiled the most unbelievable story. I put down my Hannah Montana shower microphone right then and there and simply stared at the radio. I could not believe what I was hearing.

According to the talking heads, and keep in mind this is talk radio, a number of CEO's in the automobile industry traveled to Washington D.C. recently to claim poverty and beg for bailout funds from the federal government. Just how did these poor, destitute executives who so dearly need "a penny for your troubles, sir," travel to our nation's capitol? Apparently most of them flew on private corporate jets!

Seriously!

This is one of those stories where you don't know whether to laugh or cry. It reminds me of a situation a few years ago when multi-millionaire NBA players staged a holdout to get even more millions. One of these enlightened players justified the move by saying something to the effect of,"Yeah we make a lot of money. But we spend a lot too!"

Allow me an opportunity to channel my inner grumpy old man for a moment -- "What in tarnation is this world coming to!! In my day a man was responsible for his actions!! If he done screwed up and lost all his money, well too bad!! I used to walk 28 miles to school every day, in a driving snow storm, up glacial peaks, barefoot ...." Okay, I"ll cut him off right there.

But seriously folks! Has the world really come to this? Do we really live in a society where we fly on corporate jets to claim poverty and beg for money? Is there no sanity left?

I'd love to continue my string of rhetorical questions, but I've got to get back to the street corner. Michael and I have begun tap-dancing to entertain pedestrians. A five-dollar bill in the top hat will get you a full rendition of "Singing in the Rain," complete with a stirring solo from little Michael.

Hey, my new jet skis won't pay for themselves.

Stay sane kiddies! Stay sane.

- Dave

Bombs Ahoy

I have absolutely Earth-shattering news to share with you this afternoon. News so wonderful, so extremely mind-blowing, that all of us at the Ward castle are pinching ourselves in wonder. In fact I've avoided writing about this for nearly a week, in fear of jinxing the whole thing.

Little Michael is finally and assuredly a fully-functioning toilet user (if you catch my drift)! He no longer needs special padded devices around his tushy when nature comes a-callin' (if you know what I mean). He knows exactly "Who Number 2 works for!," as Austin Powers so eloquently stated (if you see where I'm going with this).

Those without children cannot possibly grasp the tear-inducing joy this particular accomplishment produces. "So what? You're kid can sit on the throne. Big deal!," you say to yourself in blissful ignorance.

Well, after three to four years of shelling out $17 every two weeks for the privilege of wiping bottoms and "cleaning up the mess," watching your little bundle of joy sit on the potty and tend to business ranks up there with wedding days, graduations and every Christmas gift you cherish from childhood.

Just trust me on this.

The Ward castle endured a rather lengthy battle with little Michael on this particular issue. Far past the time when he should have mastered the art of the toilet, Michael decided he would only make half the journey. He agreed to use the toilet for Number One. He steadfastly refused, however, to part with diapers when the time came for Number 2. He adopted a lawyer's grit, citing Supreme Court cases and several state laws to make his argument. April and I felt helpless against his stubborn refusals and witty banter.

We tried everything. Stickers. Praise. Mini-toilets. Free tickets to the Super Bowl. Nothing worked. He simply refused to sit on the toilet. Just when all hope seemed lost, and I was trying to figure out a way for Michael to obtain a college degree while taking "diaper breaks," little Michael nonchalantly strolled up and announced, "Daddy, I want to go poo-poo in the toilet."

More beautiful words were never uttered. I wiped the tears from my eyes and hooked up his "Go Diego Go" toilet seat with lightning speed. My hands shaking with suspense. Michael casually sat down, grabbed his toy laptop computer, and went to work. It was glorious!

So now I've got a drawer full of unneeded diapers and a heart filled with love and pride. Little Michael has done it! My boy has done it!!!!!

Count your blessings, no matter how trivial or how small, kiddies

- Dave

Why hello there gimme money

When last we left off, I was relaying the tale of my transformation from bored stay-at-homer, to completely overwhelmed aspiring-minister-er. My tale of woe included the upwards of 3,000 committees that I had joined in the span of a week. Nothing has changed on that front. Last week I attended four different committee meetings on four consecutive nights. I exited the last meeting convinced my name was Captain Stewardship hailing from the planet Hymnal and sworn to protect Religious Education Directors throughout the Pacific Northwest Region. Or something.

But the tale gets even better, kiddies. Oh much better indeed! A couple of weeks ago I attended a super high-falutin' meeting with our Board President and the Financial Consultant at a fittingly high-falutin' hotel. I was feeling rather high-falutin' myself as I passed through the plush lobby, with its fancy chairs and nap-inducing jazz music. Little did I know that I was walking directly into a trap.

My interpretation of the meeting was as follows - I would sit down with the President and Consultant and breathe in their wisdom as they heroically hashed out a plan lead our church into financial bliss. I would make witty comments like, "That is a brilliant idea!" and "Yes, I agree."

The actual meeting materialized quite differently. After exchanging pleasantries, the President and Consultant stared straight at me and said, "We would like you to chair the upcoming spring pledge drive." And they said it with a straight face. After I finished choking on my high-falutin' coffee, I managed to turn a shade of white usually reserved for bed sheets.

"Do you have any questions or concerns about this?," the Consultant asked in his best Dr. Phil tone.

"Well," I responded,"I don't know anything about fund raising, and I hate money."

"Oh that's fine. We'll be here to help you," was his response. At least I think that was his response. I couldn't hear very well over the ringing in my ears.

So that is how a stay-at-home Dad, who never made more than $12 an hour as a sports journalist, was put in charge of a spring pledge drive for a church boasting more than 350 members and friends. This should end well, don't you think?

Also, while I'm rushing to different meetings every night, and pulling my hair out trying to figure out what I'm doing, April has managed to land a new job. The GREAT news is that she will be working in a brand new office just five minutes from our house. This will eliminate the two hours of commuting each day at her current job. The BAD news is that she's currently trying to manage both her old office and her new one simultaneously. And her boss has been too busy taking rafting trips to offer any assistance.

You can imagine the fun times at our house each evening. Dad pacing the hallways and mumbling to himself about pledge forms, personal visits and brochures. Mom is a few steps behind uttering phrases like, "Why haven't the chairs come in yet?," and "Red? Why would they paint the walls red?!"

The worst part about all of this craziness is that poor little Michael has entered into a "What are we going to do today?" stage. He follows me around asking one question, "What are we going to do today?" This sounds fairly simple, right? Just answer his question and all will be well. If only it were that simple.

"We're going to color some pictures," I answer.

"What are we going to do after that?," Michael responds without missing a beat.

"Um, read some stories," I answer again.

"What are we going to do after that?"

And round and round it goes. Eventually Michael starts crying in dismay. Not because he doesn't want to color pictures. But because you can't think of what he is going to do after coloring pictures, reading stories, eating a snack, playing at the park, residing the house, painting a masterpiece, counting every jelly bean in a jar, sorting the counted jelly beans by color, memorizing Gone With the Wind, and establishing peace in the Middle East.

It's safe to say I am no longer bored. Which is a good thing, I guess. I'll leave you today with one final question -

Do ya got any money kiddies?

- Dave

Spin, spin. Spin the black circle!

You may have noticed my blog entries becoming somewhat few and far between lately. There is a perfectly logical explanation for this. I've been spending my evenings trapped in a room with several well-meaning, yet panicking, folks who rant and rave about deficits, consultants, funding, and pies for hours on end.

Several months ago the congregation at my church all got together and thought it would be really funny to nominate me to the Board of Directors. They extended the joke even further by voting me in and giving me a three-year sentence ... I mean term. Damn them! Damn them all!

Since that time I've received a crash course on life among the powerful. It's a strange existence filled with laptops, charts and panicking. Lots of panicking. You might have read somewhere that our national economy is, um, struggling. Well, the powerful ones on the board have decided to lift a giant middle finger at the fledgling economy and raise its budget to unheard of levels. I would love to mock this decision, but I actually agree. Our church has grown in recent years from a quaint little operation where volunteers take care of everything and everybody knows your name (like Cheers!), to a legitimate business that needs a professional staff. Right now we have one minister and one office worker trying to meet the needs of a congregation approaching 300. Our poor office worker is desperately trying to walk on water and part the Red Sea at the same time. So, yeah, she needs some help. And fast.

Anyhoo, to accomplish this ambitious budget the board has decided to bring in a consultant. Someone to leap tall buildings in a single bound and reveal the identity of the fifth cylon. This prodigal son held a workshop a couple of weeks ago where he espoused brilliant ponderings such as, "You guys need to raise more money," and, "No, seriously. You guys need to raise more money!"

So last night the powerful ones crowded into our panicking room to unleash some level 5 panic! It was a sight to behold. These meetings always leave me somewhat bewildered. You see, I don't exactly fit into our "Go Gadget Go!" culture. Picture everyone speeding in sports cars on the interstate while yacking on cell phones and texting with their spare foot. In this analogy you would find me chugging along on the side of the road in a rusty tractor, typing Morse code and sipping Coca Cola out of a glass bottle.

During the onslaught of panicking, I apparently fell into a trance where I either volunteered, or was volunteered, to fulfill about 3,000 different tasks. You might recall that I intend to pursue ministry in a couple of years. The good news? I have the full support of my minister, Elizabeth. She has agreed to take me under her wing. The bad news? I am now her minion, and completely at her mercy.

There was a point during the meeting when our President announced a few particularly powerful names to serve as co-chairs of our fundraising committee. These are all well-respected, wealthy and accomplished individuals. Elizabeth chimed in with, "I would also like to appoint David Ward, the unemployed former sports writer who has absolutely no clue about money to also serve as a co-chair on this committee." I have to give our President credit. She may have failed at concealing her shock, but she did hold back any mocking laughter. Good for her!

I also agreed to help call everyone at our church with the exciting news that, "We're meeting with a financial consultant again in a couple of weeks, and you have the exciting opportunity to help badger people for money. Lucky devil, you!"

I believe I am also the board liaison to a search committee seeking to hire a full-time director of religious education. I believe the fact that Michael is currently enrolled in the preschool class qualified me for this position. I've never been a liaison before. Sounds French.

I think I also agreed to wash everyone's car and clean the toilets. I can't remember. It's all a blur.

Anyway, I'm sitting here blabbing away on this blog and desperately trying to avoid the 30 or so emails I've received since last night's panic session. I know that eventually I'll run out of things to write about, and I'll have to plow through the old inbox. It wouldn't be so bad if every ... single ... email didn't contain 10-page attachments filled with numbers and charts and gobbledy-gook.

Oh wait! I have something else I can write about (phew!). After checking out my lounge act last month, Elizabeth has decided to punish other churches and force them to endure my "Starrr Warrrs" routine. Plans are in the works for a possible appearance in Pocatello. That would be a nice homecoming of sorts, since April and I graduated from Idaho State University during my former life. Elizabeth is also trying to punish other unsuspecting churches around the state. So stay tuned for that.

Now, I just need to decide between breaking out the diamond-studded Neal Diamond jumpsuit, or rocking the Axle Rose spandex shorts and ripped football jersey.

Which would you pick kiddies?

- Dave

Duck Hunting

I usually try to avoid the topic of sports in this space. In my previous life I was a sports writer spending nearly every waking moment either thinking or writing about sports. High school football, college basketball, professional rodeo, horseshoes. You name it. When I started this blog I made a pact that I would avoid the subject of sports at all costs. I wanted to broaden my horizons and seek out new life and new civilizations.

I must say I've been rather successful in this endeavor so far. Unfortunately all good things must come to an end. On that note, here goes nothing ......

MY BOISE STATE BRONCOS DEFEATED THE 17TH RANKED OREGON DUCKS LAST SATURDAY!!!!!!!!! IN EUGENE!!!!! THIS IS AWESOME BABY!!!

Head coach Chris Petersen (known simply as "Pete" in these parts) took a team filled with freshmen and sophomores into Autzen Stadium and pulled off a colossal upset. And the best part about it? I was there!!

My Dad and I piled into the Matrix last Friday and proceeded to invade the land of a thousand Dairy Queens for a weekend of good ole' college football. God bless America!! We endured an eight-hour drive and plenty of diner coffee, but it was worth it! I wish I could tell you that we withstood a barrage of attacks from evil Oregon Duck fans, but truth be told, the green and gold faithful were actually kind of nice. No scratch that. They were EXTREMELY nice. Apparently Oregonians spend their free time welcoming visitors. You know, when they're not enjoying delicious Dairy Queen meals.

My Dad and I had dinner Friday night at a local Outback Steakhouse. While waiting for a table, we sat down on a bench next to several Oregon fans. We were wearing our blue and orange Broncos gear and they didn't boo, throw stuff, or punch us. They actually started chatting with us about Eugene and the game. It was like a weird alternate universe where fans are friendly to each other and I'm suddenly really good at math.

We had the same experience standing in line for a shuttle to the game. An Oregon fan tapped me on the shoulder and I immediately braced for the "Boise sucks!!" insult. I got this instead .... "You know, the Fiesta Bowl has to be my all-time favorite game ever." What?!! (For those not from Boise, he was referring to the 2006 Fiesta Bowl where Boise State defeated Oklahoma in overtime on a trick play that nearly gave me a heart attack. In Boise all you have to say is "Fiesta Bowl," and complete strangers will immediately begin cheering).

We entered a pregame party at Oregon's indoor football facility and were immediately surrounded by hordes of green and gold. What did these fans do to the blue and orange out-of-towners in their midst? Why they came up and shook my hand, that's what! They said spiteful things like, "I really like Boise State, just not today," and "You guys have a great program." The nerve of these people!!

During the game my Dad and I cheered our lungs out for the Broncos and nobody threw tomatoes. Immediately following the game several Duck fans turned to me and said, "You've got a good football team. Good luck the rest of the way." Walking back to the hotel a driver rolled down his window and yelled, "Congratulations!"

The only negativity I encountered during the entire trip occurred when a group of Oregon students pointed to their shirts that read, "I farted ... and it smells like Boise State." I've got to admit that made me laugh, which says all you need to know about my level of sophistication. After enduring this onslaught of niceness for two entire days, I am at a complete loss for words.

One final thing. My Dad and I discovered quite the oddity while driving home. Apparently there are people in Oregon who feel compelled to pull their cars over, place their blizzards in the cup holder, walk out into the middle of the highway and throw their shoes over power lines. I can't explain it. I only know what I saw.

Go Broncos!!

- Dave

You've gotta believe

Hello friends. I figured I'd repeat some words of wisdom from Michael this morning. A couple of weeks ago the little guy noticed something was bothering his Grandma. He quickly walked up to her and delivered this wonderful advice --- "That's okay Grandma. You've just gotta believe yourself!!"

Genius!

Believe yourselves kiddies!

- Dave

What was I thinkin'?

Come over here a minute. Peek through this window into the stay-at-homer's world. Just don't tell anyone about what you see ---

Here's a story I heard recently from a friend of mine. Not me. A friend of mine. Definitely not me. Got it?!

So this friend of mine who is not me got himself into quite a pickle. Imagine this friend of mine who is not me trying to clean up junk out of the yard one fine afternoon. Everywhere he looks he sees dirt-covered toys that have not seen love and attention since the Reagan administration. Long forgotten mini footballs, plastic golf clubs, half-inflated inner tubes, and a few toys that have become somewhat unrecognizable. All remnants of a time before little Michael discovered computers (more on that topic in a future posting).

So this friend of mine who is not me began the arduous task of transporting this collection of misfit toys out of the yard and into some semblance of order on the patio. Most of the toys are hosed off and placed neatly in a pile, awaiting the moment little Michael discovers this orderly pile and immediately hauls the toys back out into the yard. (Michael and my friend who is not me have drastically different definitions of "order." My friend who is not me likes to label Michael's decorating style as "modern urban messy").

My friend who is not me, in one of his weaker moments, opts to throw away some of the more unrecognizable toys. In his defense, these are toys that little Michael has not even looked at for at least two years (he's 4, by the way). If he ever played with them at all.

One of the more tattered toys was a small stuffed bee covered in mud. Not an actual stuffed animal, mind you, but a remnant of a baby toy that I only remember as "the pad thingy that played classical music when baby Michael kicked it."

I'm guessing that all experienced parents of toddlers out there can fill in the rest of this sad tale of woe. Little Michael approached my friend who is not me early this morning as I, I mean my friend, stepped out of the shower. His little eyes were filled with tears and his voice quivered with stunning sadness as he exclaimed, "I ... sob, sob .... can't .... sob, sob ... find my ..... sooooobbbbb.... BEE!!!!!"

This particular sentence actually frightened my friend who is not me, as he pictured little Michael chasing an actual bee around the yard and finally discovering why Dad breaks out his patented "bee dance" each summer.

But thankfully Michael clarified himself before my friend who is not me suffered full cardiac arrest. "My PLAY bee .... sob, sob .... I can't find my PLAY bee .... sob!"

This is when my friend who is not me realized the sheer stupidity of his actions. Of course! Michael's play bee! The same "play bee" that Michael hasn't actually played with since he was a baby, and left out in the yard to rot! Why wouldn't Michael arbitrarily want to play with this forgotten toy the moment my friend who is not me threw it out? It makes perfect sense!

This parenting thing is hard!

Never throw away your toys kiddies!

- Dave

Stop fidgeting with the microphone!!!

That was exactly the sentence I was screaming in my head last Sunday while standing in front of a room full of people delivering my lounge act. People do all sorts of things when they are nervous. Some develop a twitch. Some burst out laughing uncontrollably. Others might go into a sneezing fit. I can now tell you with full confidence that my nervous habit involves relentlessly and compulsively tugging on a microphone. I realized I was doing this about halfway through my lounge act, but I still wasn't able to kick the habit. With every, "stop that you idiot!" thought that went through my brain, my left hand decided it would be funny to reach out and tug on the microphone yet again. Quite a cheeky monkey, that left hand of mine!!

I guess I should back up and explain a few things. I volunteered to unleash my lounge act on poor unsuspecting souls last Sunday at my church - The Boise Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. My friends Joe and Tom warmed up the crowd with a rousing session of drumming, and April followed with a stirring rendition of Brandi Carlile's "Have You Ever," while our friend Robb accompanied on guitar. With the crowd dutifully inspired and ready for a rousing speech, I proceeded to take the podium and do what I always do - let my "Starrrrr Warrrrssss!!!!!" lounge singer out of his cage. He was in rare form, I assure you. There were Rocky quotes, hockey references and the world's worst attempt at a British accent. He even unleashed the world premier of his "Riverdance." You can check out all of my lounge singer's shenanigans on-line by going to http://www.boiseuu.org/audio/ and clicking on the "Silencing Mr. Negativepants" speech.

I should warn you that a vast majority of the speech deals with my crazy plans for the future. You see, I have decided to embark on the path that all stay-at-home Dads eventually choose. That's right, I have decided to become a Unitarian Universalist Minister! This is the path I have chosen, and since I don't know any other stay-at-home Dads, I can only assume this is a common decision.

Now all I have to do is convince a certain graduate school of theology in California to let me and my lounge singer through the front door. I'm sure they'll be thrilled to accept an unemployed former sports writer who spends all day changing diapers and playing video games. Right? .....
Hello?

For those with really slow computers, fear not! Here is the cut-and-paste version of my speech:

And we may never meet again
So shed your skin let’s get started
And you will throw your arms around me
And you will throw your arms around me
- Mark Seymour

“SILENCING MR. NEGATIVEPANTS”

David M. Ward

Here’s a true story I’m sure you will enjoy. Several months ago I found myself sitting across a dinner table from Mr. Robert Fulghum. I was breaking bread with arguably the most famous Unitarian Universalist minister in the world. A man who just happens to have authored seven best-selling books, and according to his web site, “has more than 16 million copies of his books in print, published in 27 languages and 103 countries.” I might add that he’s a snappy dresser.

As a stay-at-home dad who counts trips to the doctor’s office and the grocery store as “social outings,” this was quite the event for yours truly. It was even more exciting for another, more personal, reason. You see, I was secretly harboring a desire to pursue ministry myself. That’s right boys and girls, we have breaking news. Dave wants to be a minister when he grows up! (Surprise!).

So there I was, eating dinner with the esteemed Robert Fulghum. Sitting across from “Mr. Kindergarten” himself, trying to act like I have dinner with world-renowned authors all the time and desperately trying to avoid spilling barbecue sauce all over myself. The conversation wafted between novels and camping and religious theology (we are UU’s after all!). There was a point in the conversation when the chatting hit upon the topic of ministry.

What happened next may have changed my life forever. (Hooked yet?).

My darling and beautiful wife, April, who could not keep a secret if the entire human race depended upon it, turned to the esteemed Rev. Fulghum and exclaimed, “My husband Dave wants to be a minister too!” You can imagine my reaction. Picture someone walking up to Andrea Bocelli and exclaiming, “My husband wants to be a singer, too!” I believe my cheeks displayed a nice shade of fire-engine red at that moment.

Thanks honey!

I say “thanks” in jest, but I really mean it. In actuality I need to wrap my arms around my wonderful wife and say “thank you” a thousand times with all of the sincerity I can muster. Her act of bravery, no matter how embarrassing at the time, brought forth a change in my life that may never have happened otherwise. From that moment forward I found the confidence to pursue my dream of ministry out in the open in front of friends and family. My “secret” ambition began taking shape and growing wings. For this I am forever grateful.

Those among us teeming with confidence may be asking, “If this is so important to you Dave, why didn’t you just tell Mr. Fulghum yourself?” That is a brilliant question requiring a very complex answer – Basically I’m chicken! I’m yellow! I’m a scaredy-cat!

I’ve spent the majority of my life battling a very powerful negative voice in my head. A voice putting me down whenever possible, and making me believe that I am not capable. I believe we all have a version of this negative voice, and some of us are better at silencing it than others. My own version of this negative voice is quite a character. I’ve christened him, “Mr. Ebenezer Negativepants.” He is a British butler, you see, and very strict. I like to picture him with a tuxedo and an eye glass. Mr. Negativepants actually has quite a flair for the dramatic, ending all of his snobby little comments with the phrase, “What, what!” A typical comment from old Negativepants goes something like this … “I do say, dear boy, that is a perfectly dreadful idea. What, what!”

In his mind, Mr. Negativepants has good intentions. His mission is to protect me from embarrassment and shield me from wants and desires he deems beyond my abilities. He sees himself as a grand protector. A guardian against pain and disappointment.

The problem is that by shielding me from potential pain and disappointment, he is also squeezing the nectar out of life. We all love a thrill every now and then. And some thrills are just as unpleasant as they are pleasant. I believe that raw emotion, no matter how blissfully breathtaking or painfully heartbreaking, ranks among life’s greatest gifts. To feel something is to be alive, and to feel truly alive is to live. Taking a “safe” and “painless” approach to life robs us of experiences and emotions that may lead us to our best selves.

I never fully realized this until I began attending services here at the Boise Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. I grew up basically without religion. I had no real notion of a higher power, and certainly no understanding of the transforming power within a loving and accepting community. I spent my formative years engulfed in our American society focused on individualism, negativity and fear. I have to say Mr. Negativepants thrived in this environment.

“Make sure you dress in the latest fashion, or the children will laugh at you!”

“Don’t say anything bloody stupid. You want to fit in, right?”

“Dear boy, do you honestly think these upstanding boys and girls deem you worthy of their presence. Don’t be silly! What, What!”

These pearls of wisdom arrived like clockwork from old Negativepants while I was growing up. My formative years were dominated by fear. Fear of looking stupid. Fear of saying something stupid. Fear of showing just who I really was. My only relief surfaced in theater class, where I felt free to cut loose and have some fun. I was only acting, you see.

My early adulthood featured more of the same. I developed tremendous shyness and crafted a wall between myself and others. Everything changed with my introduction to the Unitarian Universalist faith. I began attending services on Sunday mornings, and it wasn’t long before I realized the immense gift that life truly is. It’s hard to deny the fact that there is a special reverence with every breath we take. It’s simply beautiful. Watching people stand on this very podium each week and share their immense talents, without a hint of fear or shame, has liberated my thinking and allowed me to tear down the wall brick by brick. I discovered, as the saying goes, that life is too short for compromising. Life is too short for playing it “safe” and blindly following old Negativepants.

I believe our job is to take full advantage of this wonderful gift of life. Seek happiness at every possible avenue, no matter how scary the journey. If we fail to do this, out of some fear of failure, we don’t pay proper respect to the unnamable forces that put us on this grand Earth, under beautiful blue skies and here with this loving community.

How about you? Do you fight with your own version of Mr. Negativepants? Is there something you’ve always wanted to do, yet never summoned the confidence to pursue? It definitely doesn’t have to be as dramatic as a one-way ticket to seminary. (Not everyone is as crazy as I am). It could be a trip you’ve always wanted to take, or a hobby you’ve always wanted to try. Maybe you’ve always wanted to take a cruise to Alaska. Or sing in a choir. Or learn to river dance. The possibilities are endless. The point is, if you’ve struggled to reach out of your comfort zone and pursue your true passion, now is the time to do it! Tell that negative voice in your head to pipe down and listen to YOU for a change! Take charge of your life once and for all! Book that cruise. Dust off that old guitar. Write that novel. Become the Lord of the Dance. As Mickey so eloquently phrased it in the classic movie, Rocky II, “What are we waiting for? Tickets?”

Now that I’ve got you all revved up, please allow me the opportunity to throw in a disclaimer. There is definitely a right way and a wrong way to pursue your dreams. The wrong way involves little or no actual self analysis. It also goes without saying that hurting others at the expense of pursuing your own happiness is a very, very bad idea. Your family might miss you if you suddenly fly off to Hawaii chasing your long-lost dream of becoming a surfing champion.

Before you make any rash decisions, I implore you to reach deep within your soul and carefully analyze all of the factors involved. Is this something that would truly bring you happiness? Are you dedicated to following through? Do you have the blessing of your loved ones, and everyone this decision would affect the most? And finally, does this decision “feel” right? Take as much time as you need to carefully ponder all of these questions. If the answer is “no” to any of them, please don’t do it. Mr. Negativepants may be a practical chickenpants, but he is not stupid. That negative voice in your head does come from the “must protect you at all costs” portion of your brain. There are times when we should actually, gasp, listen.

As a stay-at-home dad, I am constantly bombarded with the same question. “What do you think you’ll do when you go back to work?” My snide answer until recently was, “I think I’m going to try professional hockey. I just need to learn to ice skate first!”

Obviously some dreams don’t make practical sense. However, if you have truly looked within yourself, analyzed all of the various factors, and discussed it thoroughly with your loved ones, then I don’t see any reason to wait for your dreams to come to you. It’s time to seize them outright.

I believe the hardest step in this entire process is that initial jump into the pool of uncertainty. Taking your innermost desires and making them public, without any clue how people will react. Will they laugh? Will they stand up and cheer? At this point it’s anybody’s guess what the reaction will be. Some of us need our better halves to give a little push. And some just need support. Someone to look them in the eye and say, “I believe in you.” For what it’s worth, you should know that I do believe in you. I may not know you, and I may not have any idea what your secret ambition is. It doesn’t matter. If you have truly looked within and emerged with the confidence to go forward, then that’s good enough for me. I believe in you. Period.

Now, if you just return the favor and believe in me, then we’ve got the ingredients for something special.

After you take your initial plunge and put the decision out there for all to see, the next greatest challenge emerges – Dealing with negative feedback. This is where Mr. Negativepants really shines. Any time you leave your comfort zone you can expect at least a few reactions that, shall we say, stray from the positive. The key here is to listen closely, acknowledging any potential truths, without letting the negativity fester.

This might be a good time to revisit my fateful dinner with Rev. Fulghum. As you can imagine, the moment April uttered the words I was too scared to say myself, Mr. Negativepants unleashed a tantrum for the ages. He immediately began jumping up and down on my slumping shoulders yelling, “Bloody bad! Bloody bad! Bloody bad!!” Compiling matters was a less-than-enthusiastic reaction from the esteemed Reverend.

In a perfect dream world, Fulghum would have jumped out his chair, thrown his arms up and exclaimed, “Yes! I see it! You are so charming, and handsome and undoubtedly brilliant! You are exactly what we’ve been looking for!”

Let’s just say it didn’t exactly happen that way. Fulghum’s actual response was more like, “Now what would you want to go and do a thing like that for?”

“Well,” I answered in what I hoped was my most sincere minister-like voice, “I’d love a chance to spread a positive message and help people in any way I can.”

“If you want to help people, then go be a fireman!,” was his final answer.

I must stress that Rev. Fulghum was suffering from an extremely painful case of Shingles at the time, and relying upon a steady diet of Codeine just to function. I am convinced that his reaction was more a product of pain and exhaustion than any slight toward me.

In any case, my secret ministry ambition is revealed to Robert Fulghum, and I am immediately told to, “Go be a fireman.” Not exactly the rave reviews I was craving, but I survived it. And I promise you the first time you get laughed at wearing your new Lord of the Dance leotard, you will survive as well. We humans are nothing if not resilient.

Several of my very close friends were also present at the dinner, and their reaction was extremely enthusiastic. These were the reactions I paid close attention to. By gaining the support of people who truly know and care about me, my confidence flourished.

Around this same time I was reading a wonderfully inspirational book by Cheryl Richardson entitled The Unmistakable Touch of Grace. Richardson writes about paying very close attention to your life, and watching for signs of “grace” that often come your way. Basically keeping your eyes and ears open for opportunities, and silencing old Negativepants when he tries to discourage you from pursuing them. One particularly moving chapter asks the reader to write down a motivational phrase that Richardson has penned in a journal or a notebook. I was game for anything at that time, so I slowly wrote out the phrase, “I am open to receiving the gift of grace. I ask to be shown exactly what I need to do to achieve this goal or something better.” I also added a second phrase, “Surrender and be patient. Grace is on the way.”

I stuffed this piece of paper in my wallet, and it still resides there today. I often pull it out and read it during occasions when I need a confidence boost, or just a little guidance. Whatever works, right?

Armed with the support of my friends, along with this motivational “can-do” in my wallet, I set out on a journey to find the “gift of grace.” I’m happy to report I found grace waiting for me at every turn. I sprung the, “Surprise, I want to be a UU minister!,” speech on my family and they responded with more love and support than I ever thought possible. I cornered several members of this congregation, relaying my crazy ambition, and they were equally encouraging. Finally, I took a deep breath and waltzed into our minister Elizabeth Greene’s office a couple of weeks ago for what ended up being one of the most honest and productive conversations I have ever had. Our loving minister was very supportive and has offered guidance as I embark on this strange new path. She did mention that I needed to work on my, you guessed it, confidence. So it appears old Negativepants and I have some unfinished business after all.

Today I stand before this fellowship asking each of you to join me in this remarkably liberating action of silencing Mr. Negativepants and chasing your dreams. Whatever they may be. Personally, I can attest that these last few months have been as scary, suspenseful, thrilling and rewarding as anything I have ever experienced. I feel liberated. I feel vindicated. Most of all, I feel utterly and truly alive.

Now it’s your turn …. What, what!!

------

Go get 'em kiddies!

- Dave

Oregonians love them some Dairy Queen ... and other brilliant ponderings from the road

Here I sit on this hotter-than-a-popcorn-fart Thursday afternoon attempting to do the unthinkable. That's right, I'm writing two blog postings on the same day. During the same afternoon, in fact. Why would I do such a crazy thing? Well, I'm glad you asked. It turns out I have to write a speech by the end of the month, and it can't suck. That's right ... Dave is getting his lounge act ready for a comeback. Diamond-studded Elvis suite, golden sunglasses and everything!

In order to write a speech that does not suck, I need to step back into the "write real good" portion of my brain and dust off the cobwebs. Kick the tires. Turn the engine. The old-car cliches are endless! About a month ago I did something drastic for a stay-at-home parent. I actually left the house! I went to a Fiddle Festival, a Hippie Festival, our family cabin, and the Oregon coast. No, I swear I actually got out and experienced something!

The only drawback to this newfound "life" of mine was a rather extensive absence from any form of writing. I neglected this blog, and left all of you poor readers desperately searching for a way to fill the void that was my brilliance. Right? Hello?

Anyway, I've discovered that the best way to gain reentry to the "write real good" portion of my brain is to mindlessly jot down whatever crap, I mean brilliance, comes into my head. So allow me to entertain you with a few witty (or not) observations I picked up while sweating profusely to bluegrass music and freezing to death on a cliff above the Pacific Ocean. Your welcome!

* If you have ever needed proof that the world isn't fair, then I've got a tale for you. A few weeks ago April, Michael and I chugged the Matrix down an old highway to the annual Fiddle Festival in Weiser, Idaho. This is a landmark event for lovers of old-time fiddle jams and small-town frolics. We made our way to a large stage in the middle of the town park, where a bluegrass band was in full swing. My eyes immediately gravitated toward a very elderly man sitting in a folding chair right in the middle of the stage. I was instantly mesmerized by this man. Not because of his age, but the way he was absolutely kicking you-know-what on the guitar. This guy calmly sat up in his chair and ripped into a blazing solo version of "The Flight of the Bumblebee" that Eddie Van Halen would have marveled at. He followed with an extensive harmonica solo with his band, and finished with a perfect rendition of "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" on the fiddle. It was the most amazing string of diverse performances I have ever seen. Something just isn't right with the world when a genuine talent like that languishes on a makeshift stage in Weiser, Idaho. I salute you, guitar/harmonica/fiddle hero guy! You rocked my world with that performance!

* Our small suburb of Eagle features a guy so recognizable, so visible, that people know him simply as the "Hippie guy." At least that's what I call him. He roams the streets with graying blond hair flowing, a bronze tan that began some time around 1967 shining, and most of the time nothing but bare feet. What I love about this guy is how much he stands out here. At one time Eagle was a sleepy farming community filled with horse pastures and open air. Today it has become overrun with Hummers, Starbucks, and a whole bunch of agitated people sporting those stupid-looking phone things you stick in your ear (why they do this I will never understand). Well, each day you can find Hippie Guy walking up and down the street next to the movahs and shakahs. The main difference I've noticed between Hippie Guy and his peers is how much happier he looks. Something to think about.

* Have you ever been driving in the middle of nowhere and suddenly realized that there wasn't a Dairy Queen around for miles? Did you panic when the cold reality that there was absolutely no way you could purchase a peanut buster parfait hit you? Did your longing for a chicken strip basket become too great for words? Well, the good citizens of Oregon have obviously faced this very dilemma, and vowed never to let this happen in their fine state. April and I recently drove from Eagle to Lincoln City along the coast of Oregon. We encountered numerous small towns, several mountain passes and even a slug as big as your fist. At each turn we were greeted by the familiar red Dairy Queen sign. This fast-food icon was everywhere. And I mean EVERYWHERE!! It didn't matter if we were in a large city like Portland, or a tiny one-horse town, Dairy Queen was there. In fact, there was a Dairy Queen just a few blocks from the house we stayed in. And we passed a Dairy Queen sitting next to an abandoned farm on the way home (I'm not exaggerating). So I salute you Oregonians! You and your freaky obsession with Dairy Queen and their soft-served goodness! You get your slushy on!

Be good kiddies!

- Dave

Tell me who are you? (I really wanna know!!)

Sooner or later we all have to face the big questions. Who am I? Why am I here? What is the meaning of life? Why won't the Packers take Brett Favre back?

The biggies that shake our very foundation and leave us grasping for answers. I wrestled with just such a quandary recently. I stood in front of the mirror, stared intently into my own eyes and asked the very question that had been troubling my soul for nearly three weeks.

"Mr. Incredibly handsome and smart man in the mirror," I began, "Do you think ... well is it possible ... Am I ... a Cylon?!!!!"

I know, I know. We all have to ask ourselves this very question at some point in our lives. And after watching about 300 straight hours of Battlestar Galactica DVD's that my buddy Dale lent me, I knew that it was my turn.

I simply had to find out if I was really an unemployed stay-at-home Dad who plays college football video games and drinks gallons of coffee, or if I was actually a Cylon robot superagent placed on this planet to unknowingly usher forth the Apocalypse and end all human existence. Thanks to my tireless viewing of Battlestar seasons 1 through 4 every fracking night during the past month (not that I was addicted or anything), I am now keenly aware that there are Cylon agents living among us.

They look like us. They act like us. They pilot Colonial Vipers through star nebulas like us. Some of them don't even know they are Cylons. They go through their entire lives in blissful ignorance, until the fateful day the Cylons turn on their radio, play a really creepy song, and bamo! They kick into gear and begin shooting Admiral Adama and holding secret meetings in the air lock.

So you can see my concern right? I have to admit that I often hear creepy songs in my head. Why just last week I was humming a tune, when to my own horror I realized it was the theme song to the Doodlebops!! Aaaaah!!

I haven't figured out the answer just yet, but I have come to one really embarrassing realization. If I am indeed a Cylon superagent, then the Cylons are going to be very disappointed with my model. I like to consider myself witty and charming and full of zest. My relatives often use another term to describe me. Namely useless. I can't fix anything, I can't shoot anything, and I sure wouldn't be very useful during an outright war on humanity. I can't chop wood, I have absolutely no knowledge of machines and my idea of repairs consists of placing broken objects in a corner and saying witty things like, "Man, it sucks this is broken."

Here's an example of my useless charm -- A few months ago our backyard fence began falling down. My solution: Hold it up with a lawn chair and various bags of leaves. My father-in-law took one look at the fence and returned a few days later with a stake. He then hammered the stake into the ground, and voila, the fence was fixed. I, um, wouldn't have thought of that.

So here's hoping that I'm not a defective Cylon superagent, and merely a screwup of the human variety. And here's a warning to everyone out there. There is still a member of the Final Five to be revealed, so watch your back! Whatever you do, avoid creepy songs and wait, what's that? ..... "Doo doo doo doo doo duu duu doo doo ... We're the Doodlebops oh yeah! ..."

OH MY GODS!! IT'S HAPPENING!!! SAVE YOURSELVES KIDDIES!!

- Dave

Shedding a tear for Tennessee

I'm sitting here at my computer this afternoon with a thousand different emotions flowing like rapids. Pain. Anger. Frustration. Confusion. Utter sadness. And thousands of emotions that I can't begin to define or recognize. I don't know whether to punch a hole in the wall, or cry in my hands.

The reason for these emotions is an event that took place thousands of miles away, to people that I have never met. Yet it might as well have occurred in my living room to my own family. Yesterday an armed gunman walked into a Unitarian Universalist church in Knoxville, Tennessee, and opened fire with a shotgun. An estimated 200 people hailing from two different UU congregations in the area were watching a performance by 25 children when the gunman entered, shouted obscenities, and opened fire. Two people were killed and five were critically injured. No children were harmed.

Let me write that again. A man entered a church filled with hundreds of people watching a kids play and opened fire. Two were killed. Five were critically injured and an entire community was left devastated and demoralized.

Why?

Why?

Why!!!!

This event strikes my very soul. I am a member of the Boise Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. I attend services each Sunday. I lead many of them. I serve on the Board of Directors. I dedicate my life to the Unitarian Universalist principles and practices ... chief among them is respecting the dignity and worth of every human being. THESE ARE MY PEOPLE!!

Each Sunday we gather together as a community to celebrate universal themes such as peace, love, and acceptance. We support each other in our individual questing for happiness and spiritual fulfillment. This is where we go to get away from the negativity, hopelessness and violence so prevalent in the "real world."

If you are not totally familiar with the Unitarian Universalist faith, you might have heard a few remarks regarding our zest for social action. You may have heard us called the "Gay Church," or the "Hippie Church," or other less flattering titles that I won't print here. Well, these titles are based in truth, and we're not ashamed of it. Yes, we are out pushing for social action whenever possible. We picket in front of city hall. We march in protests. We hound our civil leaders with phone calls and emails. We push for change whenever possible. Your damn right we do! But our means of protest are peaceful, civil and legal. If I could share one VITAL fact about the Unitarian Universalist faith, it would be this ... It is a faith completely and utterly against violence. We not only stand against the war in Iraq, we stand against war of any kind. We simply do not advocate violence. We are a peaceful faith.

This is why I can't make any sense out of this horrific act. It defies all explanation.

Please don't kid yourself. In the world we live in, this type of atrocity can occur at any time, or any place, for any reason. It could have been preschoolers celebrating "graduation" in front of proud parents at the local elementary school, or a dance recital. We all remember Columbine and Virginia Tech. I've pondered this reality all day while watching little Michael romp through his Monday, playing with his new "pool" table and excitedly pointing out letters and numbers he recognized while watching "Sesame Street." Parents all over the world, give your little ones a hug tonight and rejoice in the miracle they truly are. I know I will.

I've also pondered this reality while juggling it against the memories I hold of yesterday's service at BUUF. I was fortunate enough to participate in a moving service highlighting two men's rafting journey through the Grand Canyon. Through the magic of computers and slide projectors, these men took us along for the ride as they fought through rapids, gazed at Mother Nature's brilliant handiwork and bonded with several people that they did not know before the trip began. Every person in attendance left the service with a newfound appreciation for nature and an increased awareness of what a gift life truly is.

I'm juggling this message of hope and beauty against the horrific reality of what took place that same day in Tennessee. It's too much to fathom. I do believe, however, that trying times call for an outpouring of love. Not hate. We as a people must rise above mindless acts by misguided individuals. Harboring hate in your heart only allows it to fester and poison your entire being.

I believe we must come together in community and redouble our efforts to realize a world that focuses on love, not hate. Peace, not violence. Compassion, not division. This may be the impossible dream, but it sure beats the alternative. It beats wasting this gift of life on fear, anger and resentment.

For all of my fellow UU counterparts, let us begin a process of healing. Of finding our way through the murky darkness of anger and despair and back toward the healing light of love. On that note, I'd like to print here a Meditation that I read yesterday at BUUF. A stirring piece written by author Leaf Seligman entitled "Each Breath." May her wonderful message of hope give some comfort in this trying time ...

"Each Breath," by Leaf Seligman

Loving God,

We pause in the stillness to rest for a moment, to quiet ourselves so that we can feel what stirs within us. Each breath draws us closer to the pulse of life and with each exhalation we make room for something new. May we find in this gathering the comfort of those who care. May we encounter patience along our growing edges and compassion in our most tender spots. Here may we find the inspiration and encouragement we need to face our challenges and nurture ourselves. And in the presence of suffering across the globe, may we redouble our efforts to practice kindness where we are, with the hope that the light of our actions travels like the light of faraway stars. May our gestures of compassion and generosity seed possibility. May we walk humbly with one another, choosing reconciliation over resentment as we try to live right-sized. When life presses in and shifts us off balance, when pain assails us, when frustration mounts, may the rhythm of our breath steady us and bring us back to a place of gratitude.

- David

One pill makes you larger ... and one pill makes you small

I thought I'd share some remarkably disturbing events at the Ward castle this past week. Everything started out nice and normal, but unforeseen circumstances left me fearing for my life and questioning my sanity. Hooked yet? Well .... here goes:

Our tale begins during a routine visit to Michael's allergist. April and I spent several minutes explaining how Michael has endured a wee-bit of trouble with his allergies this spring. If you consider coughing all night and emptying entire stores of their kleenex supplies a "wee-bit" of trouble. Our allergist noted all the trouble in her chart and gave us samples of two different allergy drugs. We were instructed to try them out and report back.

The first drug, unfortunately, had exactly zero effect. Michael continued to sniffle, sneeze and wheeze his way through life. After four days of using the first drug known as "Clarinex," April and I made the fateful decision to switch to a drug that will forever be known among the Ward family as the "Evil Pills." A decision that will go down in parenting lore.

The actual name of the drug is "Singulair," and it comes in bright blue packages. Just an innocent looking box of pink chewable tablets that taste like candy ... AND UNLEASH THE POWER OF SATAN ON TODDLERS!!

The first couple of days Michael took his pill and went about the day in his normal fashion. A happy, if somewhat bored, toddler living the dream in the suburbs. By the third day, however, I began noticing subtle changes in his personality. These changes were so discreet, it took my highly-skilled detective expertise to snuff them out.

Michael's eyes locked into a hard, cold stare. His posture grew stiff and his hands clenched tightly into fists. He began throwing tantrums at EVERYTHING, spewing out diatribes of woe such as, "I hate you, I hate everyone, I hate this, I HATE EVERYTHING!!!!!" Whenever I asked him to do something, he would simply shout "NO!" and proceed to cry for an hour.

The final straw occurred when I scolded him for his latest jaunt toward trouble, and he proceeded to start punching me in the arm and chest. Keep in mind that Michael is approaching his fourth birthday and I've never really had to spank him. It's not that I've declared "I shall never spank my son," or anything of the sort. It's just that I haven't HAD to spank him. I've never really had a reason to. His "bad" behavior (before the Evil Pills) simply consisted of meltdowns and tantrums that halted after a five-minute "time-out" period in his room. He has always been a pleaser (thank goodness).

After my precious boy began wailing on me like Rocky in a prizefight, it suddenly dawned on me ... "Holy crap, this kid is a brat! I'm going to have to start spanking him." I began wondering what caused such a sudden change in his behavior. Why I was envisioning scenes from "Children of the Corn," while the theme music from "The Omen" was blasting through my head. One particularly terrifying thought followed when I wondered how long it would take little Michael to realize there were knives in the kitchen.

That's when I knew we had a problem.

As fate often works, April and I ran into some friends at a wedding later that evening. When we relayed our sad tale, they were not surprised at all. Their youngest child had the same reaction to the Evil Pills, and some friends of theirs also had a rather negative reaction. It appears this drug has a few side-effects that don't sit well with young children. Namely, anger, depression and impatience. I'm not saying this happens to all children who take it. Perhaps these three cases are entirely in contrast to what normally happens. But I do find it odd that we just happened to hear about kids that had the exact same reaction as Michael while taking the Evil Pills.

So the next day we took Michael off the medication, and it wasn't long before the future mass-murderer disappeared and our loving son returned. That gust of wind you felt last Monday evening was April and I sighing with relief!

I just wanted to relay this tale to any and all parents of small children. If your child is taking Singulair and he or she starts acting strangely, picking out Michael Myers masks and asking for chain saws, please know that they may be having an adverse reaction to this medication. If you take them off these pills, and they still hover in your bedroom doorway at night uttering "Sleep tight Daddy, heheheh!!," well, then you're on your own!

Be safe kiddies!

- Dave

It's Business Time

For some crazy reason the powerful ones at my church have decided to appoint me to the Board of Directors. Yeah me. As in, "the guy who once nearly set off a nuclear catastrophe at a football game by microwaving a hot dog completely wrapped in aluminum foil." Ah, the smoke ... the flames ... the screaming. Such memories.

Anyway, after taking in my lounge act and reviewing my astounding resume (5 BCS National Championships, 2 Super Bowl rings, an AL Central Championship on the playstation), the powerful ones saw fit to place me on the Board. I have as much business experience as your average preschooler. Scratch that. Michael has discovered a genuine flair for business with his new toy cash register. In just two weeks time the little guy has turned a non-existent business that produces exactly zero goods and services into $9 profit. Let's see Bill Gates do that!

I heard a rumor that my name was on the list of Board nominations last month, and I immediately deduced someone was having a great bit of fun with that joke. Then I received notice in the mail that I was indeed being appointed to the Board. It just goes to show that anybody, and I mean ANYBODY can accomplish something in this great nation of ours, kiddies.

So now instead of being "Stay-at-home-Dad puke," I can officially change my title to "Super important Board member Stay-at-home-Dad puke." Please hold your applause.

Unfortunately the story gets even better. Last night was my first official Board meeting with the powerful ones. I ventured out in the Green Machine and quickly found myself sitting in an actual conference room located inside the private office of a particularly powerful, powerful one. The office contained a gigantic wooden desk so essential to conference rooms. There were large, powerful looking black chairs and the obligatory patio door leading out to the fairway of a pristine golf course. Clearly I was in my element with my ripped jeans, two-day-old beard and Juicy Juice stains. But hey, I brought a notebook and a pen and everything!

Before the meeting started I promised myself that I would keep my eyes open and my mouth shut. I was going to play it cool, you see. Act like I attend board meetings all the time, and I definitely don't spend my days shopping at Winco and playing fantasy baseball.

Everything went well at first. The powerful ones pulled out their laptops, while I carefully removed the cap from my fountain pen. The incoming board president began the meeting with introductions, and before I knew it, we were knee deep in by-laws, strategic planning, organizational audits and several other terms I have no clue about.

Seeking a way to divert attention away from my "George Bush during a debate" face, I promptly offered the Board a sampling of my wisdom. I blurted out something I felt was quite brilliant at the time, but in retrospect probably sounded like, "I agree!." And that's when it happened. The Board members, obviously attempting to console the new guy, directed some positive responses my way. Little did they know that my lounge singer is always lurking just below the surface. All it takes is a few kudos and he's off and running.

You can guess the rest. My "Cantshutupitis" returned with a vengeance, and I proceeded to spend the next 2 hours and 59 minutes of our three hour meeting espousing my slightly controversial, occasionally horrific views on things that I really know nothing about. I opened my notebook and pounded my fist on the desk for emphasis. It wasn't until I broke out my box of Crayolas and my Etch-A-Sketch that I truly hit my stride. It was a sight to behold believe me!

When it was over the powerful ones picked their jaws up off the floor and exited the building in a rather hasty fashion. I boarded the Green Machine that evening with a rare sense of accomplishment. "This isn't so bad," I said to myself with a sly grin. "I think I might make a rather good Super important Board member stay-at-home Dad puke."

"Assuming I figure out what strategic planning is."

Stay beautiful kiddies! Call me, we'll do lunch!

- Dave

New Kitty on the Block

Occupants in our home must step softly these days. Great precautions are needed against sudden movements of any kind. Dangling of keys is ill-advised and woe unto him who dares roll a ball or attempt to read the newspaper. You see, our house has been overtaken by a wild animal. A crazy-eyed beast that thinks nothing of pouncing on an unsuspecting hand or scurrying from room-to-room at warp speed. This ferocious entity sleeps most of the day, but once the sun sets and the witching hour begins, it awakens with an appetite for destruction.

Or at least minor mayhem.

We've named her Meiko and she assures you she is as tough a little kitty as there ever was. If you don't believe her, just dangle some string and watch the carnage ensue!

I've chronicled in this blog the sad tale of losing our cat Smores just after Christmas. The loss came suddenly and left a void in our family. April spent the past few months pining for a new cat, and after restraining herself for an impressive amount of time, she finally broke down and brought little Meiko home from the pound last week. I was a little nervous at first. There are only a small number of cats on the planet that don't send my allergies into overdrive. Meiko, however, is among the proud few that I am not allergic to. So a minor crisis in my marriage was avoided. (phew!)

Meiko is nine months old and full of spunk. She has beautiful black and white fur and bright green eyes. I'd love to post a picture of her, but I am extremely and humiliatingly inept with computers. The mere fact that I can post on this blog at all is a tribute to how "idiot proof" it truly is. I have no Earthly idea how to use digital cameras, and I couldn't begin to wonder how people post pictures on blogs. I take solace in the fact that renowned author Robert Fulghum admits a similar ineptness with computers. Being a renowned author, however, Fulghum employs an "assistant" to handle such matters and his website is world-class. My only "assistant" at the moment is Meiko, and each time I hand her my brilliant notes to transcribe, she just sits on top of them and purrs.

So our family is back to a fearsome-foursome once again. We've got April, our shining beacon of light (beautiful, successful, currently pursuing a doctorate degree); Michael, our future Oscar winner (accurately portrays all emotions on cue, just proudly completed his first session of preschool, huge Speedracer fan); our husky dog Kiki (cancer survivor, family guardian angel); Meiko, our new bundle of joy (expert pouncer and weaver of exotic kitty stories); and then there's me (expert diaper changer, video game addict, occasionally horrifies audiences with long-winded lounge acts).

Smores remains ever-present in our hearts and souls. Gone but never forgotten.

I'll leave you today with some sound advice. If you ever find yourself entering the Ward castle, make sure you refrain from dropping on all fours and mimicking a spider with your fingers. The ensuing pouncing could get ugly.

Be good kiddies!

- Dave

Too Sexy for My Bike

I thought I would direct my rant today at a rather curious phenomenon occurring around my house. It appears the streets in my neighborhood have been overtaken by serious bike riders. And I mean SERIOUS! I'm sure most of you would acknowledge that bike riders take to the streets with gusto each spring. Lots of you surely partake in this wonderful pastime.

But the riders around my neighborhood have taken the practice to an entirely new level. You see, riders around here don't just slap on a helmet, jump on the bike and go. Oh no! These people spend what must take at least 30 minutes dressing up like they are ready to cross the finish line at the Tour de France! They slip on obscenely bright yellow spandex shirts covered in logos. They wear matching spandex shorts with equally matching logos. They have special bike-riding socks, shoes and gloves. Some of them shave their leg hair to become more "aerodynamic." All of this for a short jaunt through the neighborhood, mind you!

This practice fascinates me. Why do they go to such lengths to simply ride a bike? Are they living out some long-lost professional biking fantasy? Do they pretend to be Lance Armstrong while they whip past neighbors mowing lawns and cleaning out gutters? Do these same people slip on official Los Angeles Lakers jerseys, complete with top, shorts, warm-up suit, ankle tape, goggles, and arm bands, to shoot baskets in the driveway? Do they don shoulder pads, cleats, helmets and eye-black to play catch with a football in the back yard?

Bike-rider guy, if you're out there, please explain! I'm dying to know!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to throw on my official Dale Earnhardt Jr. racing uniform and drive to the store.

Race on kiddies!

- Dave