These first five come from sources worldwide. The next five are more personal:

1.

Amidst the riots and “occupations” around the world this year came this surreal Hollywood moment. A young guy kissing and comforting his girlfriend while the tension roils around them. Sadly the reason for this riot was a sporting event, but the emotional weight is the same. Mob mentality may be overwhelming, but the moment the person you love is injured… rage is replaced by the desire to comfort, cradle, and love.

2.

The President and his National Security Team watching Osama Bin Laden get killed via live Satellite link. The closest most of us will ever get to this is the film “Patriot Games”. From a nice, well-lit, and unremarkable office in DC, our country is overseeing a man getting tracked down and ended. Looking around the room… For some this is a moment of somber power. For others a realization of the importance of human life. And for a few, just another day at the office.

3.

Steve Jobs definitely lived up to his quote “put a dent in the Universe”. I write this blog on one of his computers. I use one of his phones. I work on one of his programs. But I’m most intrigued by his moments of humanity: He hired a biographer partially so his children would have a record and understanding of why he was so rarely home. And at his last Apple Keynote address, an obviously very frail man retreated backstage and laid his forehead against his wife. He was a visionary, yes… but I like that he was also human, flawed, loved, and loving.

4.

This is the funeral for Navy SEAL Jon Tumilson, who was one of 30 killed when their helicopter was shot down over Afghanistan. His dog, “Hawkeye” is laying close to his master for the last time. I realize I’m a softy dog owner, but this makes me cry. Hawkeye gets it, and yet, will never understand. Like all of us.

5.

The Egypt protests which gridlocked the country and eventually brought down President Mubarak had this surprising subplot. About 10% of the country are reportedly Christians. A suicide bombing attack at a Coptic Christian church had killed 23 Christians at the beginning of the year. And yet, during the protests, Christians encircled the praying and vulnerable Muslims to allow them to pray in peace and protection. How much would we change the world if these were the kind of actions Christians were known for? And how likely would it be for a potential bomber to blow up the same people who protected him while he prayed?

In 2006 this 19-year-old Israeli boy-soldier gets abducted by the Palestinian Hamas movement. He’s held in isolation and mystery for more than five years while his parents fight tirelessly for his release. Protests, demonstrations, and mentions of his captivity happened all over the world. Finally, in October of this year he’s released. Parents rejoice. Events are held. The press swarms.

Heartwarming. Yes.

But I can’t help the feeling that the difficulties of his life may be yet to come.

He lived in captivity, which I can’t even imagine. He was literally off the map for half a decade and he’ll never get those years back. But on the other hand there was a singularity of purpose in that time. Survive. Live to be released. His parents were living in a similar world of singular focus and laser guided love for their son.

But what now? Real life will have to invade for him and his parents. He’ll need a job and they will need something new to do with any free moment. And all the while I wonder about the elephant in the room:

He wasn’t just released, he was traded. Israel got one twenty-five year old, normal and unremarkable young man by giving up more than 1,000 prisoners of all kinds.

Elsewhere in the world more than 1,000 families celebrated the return of loved ones they thought they’d never see again. New lives were started. Old lives were returned. Because of one kid.

Gilad Shalit is worth 1,027 people. He can quantify his worth in human lives. His life for more than 1,000 others. And I’m left wondering if there’s anyone in the modern time who can say anything like that? Is there anyone else alive who will have to endure that reality?

Is there anyone on the planet who is worth 1,000 lives? Would 1,000 people give up their lives so Steve Jobs could have lived longer? What about Christ? He’s worth more than 1,000 lives and he did the opposite… He gave up His life so we could all live.

Gilad didn’t give up his life, he gained life in exchange for 1,000 others. He didn’t do anything but play bargaining chip for 1,000 other people. If Gilad had died so 1,000 people could live he’d be a hero. Instead he’s just going back to try and live like a normal guy. Years of political posturing and the result is Palestine going… “Okay, for 1,000 people… we’ll give you one guy.”

Now if Gilad goes on to cure cancer, or raise up Israel to newfound glory, or disciple thousands to be better than they were before… what a story that would be. But it’s more likely that he’ll just get an unremarkable job, get married, start a family, find himself out of shape and overweight and pissed at his kids about something. Just another guy.

What if some of those 1,027 released decide to cause more damage? I have no interest in getting into a Palestine vs. Israel discussion, I’m just acknowledging reports that some of those released were in prison for murder and/or terror attacks.

Yet I never saw this question in the Press. No one seemed to ask “Wait a minute…is this kid worth 1,000 lives?”. Does the family have a counselor prepared to talk to Gilad when the weight of this comes crashing down on him… cause I bet it will.

I’m reminded of the film “Saving Private Ryan” where Matt Damon is finally rescued but the entire squad that went to get him has now been killed. Tom Hanks, the last of the squad, is dying and he looks up at the kid and says “Earn this…”.  Then we return to present day and the kid is now an average grandfather who turns to his wife and says “Tell me I’m a good man….”. Cause how do you do enough to make your life worth the life of someone else?

As a father I ponder “Is my son worth 1,000 people?”. I don’t mean emotionally, as I’m sure Gilad’s parents would have (and did) anything to get him home. I mean intellectually, realistically. In one room, 1,000 people. In the other, my son. What’s the better call?

God chose the room full of people. Gilad’s parents chose their son.

What am I worth? What are you worth? And I’m not looking for a Sunday School answer here. If you were going to be traded for 1,027 other people… hell, 27 other people… would you feel worth the cost? Could I do anything over the course of my life to be worth 1 person? Or 27? Or 1,027?

Gilad Shalit will have to live with that question, and I bet it will be far harder than his time in isolation.

For the first time I’m in a place where the majority of people have a strong faith, but it’s a faith different than my own. Texas was a bubble of Christian insulation. Los Angeles believed in everything and nothing simultaneously. But Utah, as everyone knows, is predominately LDS/Mormon. So I’m in the minority.

And I think I like being in the minority. It causes me to examine my own faith. To challenge what I believe with big questions. I’ve always grown in those times, even when it hurt.

So here I am learning from the Mormon believers around me. And while there’s a lot of misconceptions about the LDS church, there are also plenty of things which have given them a strange reputation. Yet no matter what you think of Mormons there’s one thing you’re never going to hear…

“Those Mormons are Assholes.”

Never gonna happen. In fact, I may be the first person in history to put that sentence together. Because Mormons have a reputation for being nice.  And I’ve felt welcomed, helped, and even surprised by the selflessness of many people around us in Utah.

But that’s just not true of Christians. We are the Assholes. Here we have a belief system based on one core principle – Love – and yet we can’t even maintain a reputation of being nice. God loved us. That resulted in Grace, which by definition is something undeserved, and we’re charged to love others. Which means we’re going to have to share some grace.

Yet, we aren’t. We’re too busy circling our wagons and hurling out arrows of intolerance, anger, fear and hatred at anyone who doesn’t share our beliefs and dares come within a hundred yards. We’re consumed with categorizing everyone that isn’t in our little club and concluding that we know their motives and purposes all without even having a conversation.

And in the club it’s just as cutthroat. Christians in Hollywood do everything they can to not help each other and would be perfectly happy to stab you in the back and step over you in the process. Churches push people out during their lowest moments, condemning them for whatever sin or failing they’ve committed. Anyone is expendable – only one public screwup away from being shunned. And the more highly regarded they are the more intolerable their failings. Because we all know those in leadership never have struggles or problems.

When I look at the life of Christ I see a guy who loved even when it made no sense. The people who enraged him were always the folks with spiritual access and thought to be in the “in” crowd. The farther you get from Him, the softer he got. He called the religious leaders a brood of vipers but cried out to his father to forgive the very people killing Him. He lived something which rarely gets mentioned – He knew that those who didn’t know God needed love and acceptance first and foremost. And love can lead a person to grace.

I don’t see love coming out of the Christian world. Some individual Christians, yes, but the group as a whole is a frightened cornered animal clawing out at the world. Everyone is out to get us. Every belief different from our own is trying to systematically unravel our world. There’s a prideful belief that we are on everyone else’s mind all the time and are being targeted with forethought.

So there’s no room for discussion. There’s no chance to sit down with people different from ourselves and have a conversation. Because who knows what would happen if we discovered that the person we so fear, or judge, or ostracize is actually just a flawed human like we are – trying desperately to make sense of their life.

Peter was a poor hot-headed fisherman with a tendency to act before he thought.

Paul was a self-righteous murderer who believed he had all the answers.

I’m not sure they’d be welcomed in most Christian churches today. Certainly not in positions of leadership.

But look at Paul in Athens in Acts 17, talking with people of every belief other than his own. What’s he doing there? He’s discussing. He’s having a dialog.
Meanwhile our Religious Right is building barricades, pointing fingers, and making sure to label everyone as evil, bad, dangerous, and unwelcome in our little group.

It chills me as I realize something really sad. If I weren’t a Christian already I doubt I would become one. We’re not a group displaying anything worth joining. We aren’t present in the lives of those around us – we’re just pointing out all the things we don’t like about their existence.

We stand in a world drowning in despair, hatred and failure, while keeping the hope, love, and grace to ourselves. Instead of reaching out in love and acceptance to those who need it – which is every single person, by the way – we are focused on things we can’t control and don’t need to worry about.

It seems like everywhere I go Christians are talking about the news in concerned whispers. Shaking their heads in dismay and checking off boxes toward Armageddon. We’re supposed to be loving our neighbor. Being in the world, not of the world. Yet were too busy with intolerance and exclusion. All while looking skyward with a stopwatch as we brace for the world to burn.

I can think of no more hypocritical waste of time.

Why? Because if the world really is going to march through a one-night-only performance of Revelation then that means 1) there’s no stopping it, and 2) there’s nothing we can do about it. So worrying and preparing for it is a complete waste of time and energy. And… if God really is going to win in the end then there’s absolutely no reason for fear.

I believe that Jesus Christ was like no one else to ever live. And He died. And He rose. And there is nothing I can do to get to God… because by the sheer fact of calling Him God it means I am less than Him. So Christ is something vital.

I am nothing without Love. I am lost without Grace.

And so is every person I will come across in every day of my short life.

I know what I need to be worried about: I don’t love my wife enough. I don’t love my son enough. I don’t offer them a fraction of the grace I’ve been shown. Or the amount they show me. And the friends who fill my life. They build me up with love and grace over and over and I don’t return the favor… not nearly enough.

I want people to be surprised that I’m a Christian. I want to surpass what they expect of Christians. I want to be more accepting. More loving. More willing to help. I want to supplant that bad experience they had with a cold-shoulder church, or a legalistic friend, or the parent who modeled God as abusive and unreliable.

Of course… I’m going to fail at it… But it’s something to shoot for. Because I am no better than they are. In fact, I might be worse.

Jesus was a revolutionary because he defied expectations.

How amazing it would be to not associate Christians with “the end is near” talk show hosts or waving hateful banners at groups we don’t like.

What if people said “Christians are awesome. Christians are the most loving people I know…”

That would be a new revolution.

So amidst the packing, I’ve found another way I’m a lot like my dog.

Everything in the world she’s known is being uprooted. Items pulled out of their places. Boxes being filled. All her normal places to nap or hang out are being disrupted or removed systematically.

And each day she gets a bit more unsettled. This is a dog who truly hates suitcases, so I imagine our packing 100 boxes must seem like Chinese water torture. Her tail dips a bit more, creeping down between her legs. She follows closer, scared that things will turn for the worse. Then, she finds herself even more in the way, and more concerned.

This is the same dog who hates the heat. Loves the snow. Revels in the mountains. Finds wildlife of all sizes to be her obvious playmate and long-lost friend. Essentially, this short haired dog thinks she’s a forest raised husky. She’s up for a good adventure in the outdoors and she’d really like to be let off leash to go explore.

But in her mind this situation is all bad. She has no comprehension of what Park City, Utah has to offer a pup like her. In her mind, she’s being forced into a change. And any decision she didn’t make for herself is bound to be something she will hate.

And just before I really shake my head at her… I stop.

Cause I do that with God. Every time change comes I brace for the worst. If I didn’t choose it for myself, then I know I’ll hate whatever’s next. I never really believe that God would push me reluctantly into something I would actually enjoy.

Yet my dog doesn’t want to risk or step out of her comfort zone. She wants us to stay in Los Angeles. Never leave this rented condo. Never alter her schedule. Stay unchanged because change is bad.

While on the other side of the change is a world she can’t understand, but one her master knows will be so much better.

Ouch. I’m doubting God a lot. I don’t trust my Master’s plan any more than my dog trusts me to move somewhere she’ll like even better.

So my first thought is I should be back on leash. No more of this running around.

Then I have a better thought. Quieter. Stranger. Which means it probably didn’t come from me at all.

Maybe God has had a bunch of things to teach me: about my pride, my cynicism, my trust issues. But he couldn’t tell me directly because I wouldn’t listen. He needed to show me.

What I needed, was a dog. A needy, hyper, intelligent, suspicious furball to fear change so that I can learn that things beyond me can be better, and change can be good.

Makes me wonder what He has in store for me. For us. And what other lessons I’ll learn through my dog.

Read Part 1.       Read Part 2.

I struggle with Faith. “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen”.

That stuff.

My time in Los Angeles has made this even harder. This is a town built on faith, not facts. Any coffee shop, apartment, or random line of people contains conversations about how things are “about to happen”, or something which will explode into to reality “in a few weeks”. And the unspoken truth is this – it’s bullshit. The vast majority of it will never happen or get close to meeting expectations. But we carry on this way, big plans, big meetings, big talk.

Cause every once in a while it does “happen”. Every now and then a project or idea does explode from nothing into reality like a creative big-bang. And you hear about it, or it makes news because… well… it’s as rare as a lottery win.

Yet we play along. All of us. Smiling and pumping each other up like high school kids before a football game. Some people take this too literally and quickly leap headlong with full faith that it will all happen. They often wind up face down on the concrete. While people like me start digging for facts.

This leaves me with a two-fold problem. You see I know that breakthrough takes risk. In the parable of the talents, the guy that was cautious and buried things was the only one who lost. And I have things to show for charging out without a net… Everyday Driver for example.

Yet, I’ve really only taken two huge leaps of faith in my adult life:

1 – I asked my wife to marry me. There was no question I loved her and wanted to be with her. My struggle was not knowing if I could be a decent husband. And wondering if we would grow old and grow apart. I had no evidence to shore up my hope it would work out. Now, after 12 years of experience, I believe. Even when it’s hard.

2 – I left New Line. I had nowhere to go. No other job waiting. But I was miserable and angry. And getting worse. There was no evidence that our lives would be better if I quit the job. But we knew it would be awful if I stayed. A year later, the company closed, dragging the employees through more stress and heartbreak and leaving them without work. My time since then has been tough, but I’m much happier and healthier. And looking back on that situation… I believe.

My wife has faith. She balances me, which is a big factor in #1. And she hears from God and gets a strange peace about things, which contributed to #2.

Now here we are at a new enormous crossroads. Our time in LA draws quickly to a close and we’re looking out at the next chapter. With no clear direction. And it’s terrifying.

I believe I have talent. I believe it’s possible to live somewhere interesting and inspiring. But moving there with no solid job, no savings, and no safety net requires faith.

So you see the problem.

I’ve been talking to God about it. My wife has as well. And we’ve raised it together. But even she isn’t feeling a definitive peace. Our search for direction goes unanswered.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. I do feel like I’ve gotten an answer, but it is unlike any before. I feel like God is looking down and saying “You’re a big boy. You’ve done this before. I equipped you. So you make the call.”

It’s the parable of the talents in 2010. Bury. Or gamble.

I want to believe, but evidence is lacking. I’m forced to rely on faith.

Two Southern California Teenagers are in the news. One, a sixteen-year-old girl currently solo-sailing around the world… non-stop. The other, a thirteen-year-old boy trying to scale Mt. Everest.

They get press because their endeavors bring outrage. Shock. Calls to child protective services because their parents are clearly unfit. People whisper about how these kids are going to die and any proper parent would never support such aspirations.

Maybe that’s true. Or maybe… Just maybe…

We’re all scared alarmist chickens and these parents are doing it exactly right.

What about the fact that this 13 year old climber has already done 5 of the world’s 7 summits? (The Seven Summits refers to the highest peak on every continent…) Most climbers in the world will never do the seven summits. Nearly all the folks who’ve done Everest, including the sherpas, haven’t done all 7. And he’s climbing with his parents who happen to be hard-core adventure racers. The result is a 13 year old with goals and enough dedication to train harder than most adults. This is hardly a kid going from PS3 to Crampon boot.

Or how about the fact that the 16 year old sailor comes from a family of sailors and her brother did the trip a year ago? I’ve met this family. I worked with this boy who did the trip. I don’t agree with everything they’re doing, but I know that their daughter wanted to do this long before her older brother decided to pull up anchor.

Truth be told, I’m pondering all of this for one simple reason: I have dangerous pastimes. I was jumping my bike as soon as I could balance, and when I was a kid we weren’t wearing helmets and kneepads! I’m obsessed with performance driving. I love rock climbing. I enjoy solo trips deep into the backcountry. And my favorite kind of skiing is cutting fresh tracks through tight trees. Yet I still feel like I never really pushed the envelope enough. I’m not half as daring as I’d like to be, and yet my interests scare the hell out of a lot of people.

I know I’ll definitely introduce my son to these pastimes. And there’s a good chance he’ll like one or two of them and want to push the envelope himself. Which means… he’s going to get hurt. And it’s going to be on my watch.

Now before you start filling the comment section, know that I’m far from reckless. I’ve embraced the use of helmets, and I wouldn’t tree-ski without one. I don’t go out into the backcountry without leaving plenty of info on where I’ll be. And anyone who’s climbed with me will tell you they felt very safe.

But I hope I never embrace the growing fear that permeates our culture and is shouted through megaphones toward all parents. I stand astonished to find that everyone can tell you a horror story about everything from sleeping to vaccinations. Do not go onto the internet to see if something is bad for your child. I’ll save you the google time; yes, it’s terrible. Someone knows someone whose child died from it… Anything you can think of, no matter how innocuous, can kill your child.

Into this stupefying din I accept the fact that there will be blood: From skinned knees, and scraped palms, and probably some random headwound which will bleed like a broken damn but only leave a tiny scab on a big lump. That’s growing up.

Heck, that’s just life.

We could all die doing anything. Hanging a picture or hanging from a cliff-face. But I truly believe that taking risks and pushing yourself is the only way to stay young. And my son IS young… so hopefully I can push myself long enough to at least keep up for a while.

A part of me really hopes he ends up world-class at taking risks. I’ve accepted that I won’t be a cutting edge climber or F1 racing driver. But if that’s in his future then I’ll be on the sidelines grinning so much it hurts.

I’ll like it almost as much as doing it myself. Almost.

The real battle will be everyone else. Because now, suddenly, the tiny percentile chance of something going wrong is the only percentage we’re supposed to care about. It’s like believing you will definitely win the lottery every time… and the prize is pain and suffering. Best to not play at all!

Dream big. Take risks. Do something that scares you.

I say that for me. I need to remember. I need to hear it over the rumble of doom. And if I’m really blessed, I’ll raise a son who’ll hear it too.

Two men with deeply held religious beliefs illegally traveled into other countries to spread their messages. Neither succeeded, but both made news. And though the news coverage has been very different, I can’t shake the feeling that their stories are almost exactly the same.

First off we have the guy on the Northwest flight, Umar, who tried to blow up 300 fellow passengers as they landed in Detroit. A part of me thinks that some people would actually rather light their underwear on fire than land in Detroit, but I digress. His bomb failed, passengers tackled him for the chance to be on Larry King, and now he’s in a tiny cell while his picture is on every TV in the land.

This is an all too familiar story in the US news media. A Muslim extremist, an Al Qaeda plot, Presidential exclamations, and near constant news blathering about “What went wrong”. In short, be afraid, run for your life, cower under the stairs, but whatever you do… don’t turn off your 24hr news station!

Next we have the story of Robert Park, a Korean-American man who snuck into North Korea on Christmas Eve with “A letter” for Kim Jong Il. Frankly he’d be more likely to get a letter to Santa, but this reality did not deter him. He was promptly captured and imprisoned in a country where the US can’t talk you out.

On the surface, Park’s story is completely different because he’s a Christian missionary. His goal was to enter North Korea illegally and deliver a letter asking one of the craziest dictators in the world to open his borders in the name of Jesus Christ.

I read both stories the same day. And I found them equally sad.

Whatever you believe… forcing it on someone else doesn’t change hearts. No one ever got forced into changing their belief system. People have lied over and over to save their skins, but what you believe is a personal thing beyond the control of governments, laws, tortures, and killings.

Yet, somewhere along the way both these guys got convinced of the exact same thing: “If I sneak into this country and deliver this message then things will change. A difference will be made. I will get a reward in the next life and others will find the right path on earth.”

For one, the message was a bomb. For the other, a letter. But it doesn’t change the fact both are just pointless extreme actions which won’t do anything but entrench people further.

If the bomb had gone off would the US have pulled its military from Muslim nations?

If the letter got read by Kim Jong Il would he have wiped away a tear and repented from his ego-manacle ways?

Um. No.

So we’re left with extremist poster children for two different religions.

Another Muslim with so little self-worth and so much belief in a one man Jihad changing the world, that he’s willing to kill himself and others. And people can point and say “See, they all just want to kill us, women, children, everyone. Muslims are all waiting on their moment to be evil …”

Another Christian convinced that his belief is not only right, but so undeniable that if he could only be heard then change would come. And people can point and say “See, another Christian shoving their belief in our face like we’re all unthinking jungle folks rooting around in our filth until he came along. Christians aren’t loving, they’re naïve and offensive.”

And no one changes. Or grows. Or opens their minds. Or makes a new friend that isn’t just like them. With examples like this, why would they?

Which ultimately brings me to another thought.

We’re all just playground children pointing fingers to figure out who’s at fault. The security system. Al Qaeda. Kim Jong Il. The system. The West. The East. There’s no shortage of groups to blame these days. It’s us verses them, and “THEM” has become easy to find.

How different would things be if we were worrying about ourselves instead of everyone else. No keeping up with the Joneses , or staring at the neighbors through our binoculars. You do your thing. I’ll do mine.

And maybe… just maybe… we’ll have dinner together some time. Our kids will all play as a group so we can realize they are all just – kids. If things get really crazy we might become friends. Which is really better for everyone cause you’re less likely to force your beliefs or your bombing runs on your friends.

My parents, who told me stories of my birth with tears in their eyes.

Your mother, who endured the odd sensations of C-Section, pain, and fear.

And you… who got forced into a world you didn’t know and asked to breathe.

Leaving me mostly groundless and unaware of my own age or generation in this march of time. But now I remember, and we should talk about what it means.

I’m now 36 years and a few months. You’re now 36 hours and a few minutes. And this evening you opened your eyes and really tried to focus on me for the first time. I’m sure I’m just a big, blurry, hairy, giant to you, but you know my voice, so just listen.

I promise you we’ll do our best. And it won’t be good enough. We will screw you up in our own particular way. Cause we’re flawed people raising you, a flawed person.

And you’re not going to like us a lot of the time, and that’s fine. Truth is I’m not jumping up and down about you either, so we’re all going to have to learn to live together through this deal.

Many people have told me “Wait until Bodie’s born… “. Expecting me to see your little pink face and decide all my feelings up to that point were irrelevant and now I’m madly in love with my son.

But you may as well learn now I’m not a reactionary guy. Your Dad’s more of a slow burn. Those that know me will tell you it’s gonna take some time. That’s going to annoy you when I’m not nearly as excited about something as you need me to be. But you’re going to really appreciate it when I don’t get as mad as you expected either.

I won’t be cool enough or plugged in enough. I wasn’t even cool when it mattered so I certainly can’t maintain it now. But your mom is way out of my league, and she married me, so I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. Don’t take my word for it, though… ask some friends of mine, and get them to tell you the real truth.

I promise we’ll do stuff. It’ll probably involve mountains. And often include the dog. And we’ll talk about cars a lot so I hope you’ll find them interesting. But if you decide you’re rather learn ballet… that’s fine… just talk to your mom cause the stage is her world. I’ll clap from the audience.

Ultimately, little man… you’ll be an adult at 18, and I’m already twice that age. Which means I’m old enough to know I don’t have this figured out. I’ll do a lot of stuff wrong. But know that even my screw-ups will be with the best of intentions. That won’t help much – but it is true. We will try to make you the best man you can possibly become. And the scars from our mistakes will leave you fodder for some future spouse or therapist.

When you’re 36, come find me and tell me how I did. By that point I’ll be some crusty old guy in his 70s. Hopefully willing and eager to hear the truth.

Plus I’ll probably tell you the story of your birth with tears in my eyes. There will have been time for a slow burn by then. Years of time beyond this moment.

36 and Counting…

But I digress.

I’m still finding myself taught by my dog ownership. Seeing God’s view of me through new eyes. Sometimes I realize just how boneheaded I am by watching my great dog make a decision based on her limited knowledge and freedoms. I make all kinds of decisions based on my own understanding, and how God must shake his head like I do at Sierra. But that’s the thing about freedom, you can choose something terrible.

Which brings me to last week. Sierra and I are out for a walk in the neighborhood and I’m allowing her all the freedoms she has slowly earned. Namely, that she gets to walk with me while off leash. And she’s learned that she can’t cross the curb unless I’m standing beside her and say it’s okay.

But she did. I think she saw a cat, which causes a block in her brain of all other stimuli. Her little world gets summed up in two words: Chase. Cat.

Off the curb. Into the street. Right into the path of an Audi A4.

She got nailed. Hit square in the side by the car. And I got to watch.

Ever since I’ve been besieged by the not so beneficial side of my crisp visual memory. Because I’ve got a pristine screening of the accident playing on a loop in the back of my skull. And I never know when some other thought or action will ruffle the curtains and give me a clear replay of the horror.

She skidded across the pavement. Pin-wheeling as the concrete tore into her legs. Exhaling with a whimper-whine so terrible I truly can’t describe or mimic the sound.

It wasn’t like seeing someone punched or kicked. It was more like what happens when a tiny fleshy man gets blown off his feet by heavy artillery. There’s something extra horrifying about watching flesh and blood get blasted by a mechanical force many times its size.

I was sprinting before she even stopped. My voice in an octave of breathless terror so high I didn’t recognize myself. I thought she was dead.

I reached her as she lay on her side, rainwater running over her in the gutter. Her eyes open and a stunned look on her face. I began to check everything I could imagine to determine what the next few moments might mean. She quickly showed herself to be more shocked than mortally wounded. It took real effort to stay calm.

The next hour was a whirlwind of blood-loss, searching for an animal ER, and undue stress on my very pregnant wife. When I carried my injured pup back into our home hours later I looked like a war victim, covered in blood and exhausted.

Miraculously, nothing was broken. This Audi hit my brick-built dog right in the rib cage and she came away with only a bruised lung and a lot of road rash. The rare LA rain actually helped her horrific slide and though she’s nursing lots of abrasions, she can walk, and will heal normally.

Now I know what you’re thinking. Because I’ve thought the same thing.

Why on earth did I have her off-leash?

Quite simply, because she’s earned it. Over time she’s proven herself and I’ve granted her more freedom. Yet you’re saying “But she’s just a dog, she doesn’t really understand”.

And that’s when the lesson hits me full-force: I’m just a human. I don’t really understand.

My Almighty Father (the divine pack-leader if you prefer to stay in the dog world) hasn’t just given me a lot of leash. He burned the leash. I’m wandering down the sidewalk of my life under his watchful eye, but unrestricted.

If I decide to dart off into something that will harm me… He’ll endeavor to pick up the pieces. And I can’t imagine how much that hurts him. How much it replays in his head.

But that’s the true cost of Free-Will. I have the ability to play in traffic. And one day I might get hit. So here I am looking around at the decisions before me and wondering how to best utilize my freedom.

When Sierra gets concerned she comes over to me and touches her nose to my calf. It’s her way of checking she’s on the right path and seeing if the thing that just spooked her concerns me as well. I smile down and say “It’s okay, pup…” And she returns to her typical cadence of strolling along knowing all is right in her world. It always makes me smile, and she did it just yesterday which somehow told me she’s really going to be okay.

Maybe she even learned something.

I’d like to nuzzle God’s leg about now. Get him to tell me I’m doing okay. Cause it seems like all the decisions I could make involve a gauntlet through speeding traffic. And I’m not feeling free as much as running around off-leash.

And the iconic films of the 80s were mostly made by one man, John Hughes. He died suddenly today, and in the outpouring of news articles and facebook updates I find myself once again reflecting on how much I hate our response to those who have died.

Here’s a man who shaped a decade of comedy filmmaking. And he shaped a generation of filmgoers. Yet in recent years his work has been discounted as out of date, while gross-out work like Judd Apatow and Will Ferrell has been heralded as the way comedy should be done.

But now John Hughes dies and people come out of the woodwork discussing how great his films were. How iconic. How timeless. How many of those films are still on the top ten lists of folks from my generation. Twitter updates on John Hughes were happening by the hundreds per minute.  Most of my facebook friends included the obituary as their status.   I agree with the sentiment, but I wonder one key thing.

Did he know?

When John Hughes got up this morning, did he feel like someone who people loved? Did he know he made an impact on so many lives? Or did he feel like a has-been. Or never-was.

We do a terrible job of making people feel loved while they are alive. I don’t mean celebrities. I mean our friends. Our families. The people who taught us, or challenged us, or pushed us to be better than we were before.

So much of our lives get filled with people telling us no. Cutting us off. Yelling. Belittling. Pushing us out of the way so they can be next.

Then… in a moment, we lose someone. And suddenly we stop and stand up to say how great they were. How much we loved them. All our favorite things we felt but never shared about their impact on our lives.

This is why I hate funerals. And I’ve skipped some which seemed like obvious events to attend. Because I can’t bring myself to talk about how great someone was when they can’t hear it. If I couldn’t say it when they were alive, what’s the point.

Eulogies should be banned. Unless the deceased knew how much you loved them, don’t tell us now. People need to hear how much they matter while they’re still on earth… and mattering. It makes no difference what you believe of the after-life.

Look at those words: After. Life.

I say, more tributes and eulogies DURING life.

I hope the people who knew and worked with John Hughes told him how gifted he was. I hope his family and loved ones said he mattered.  I’d like to believe he knew.

I will endeavor to tell those in my life. And I challenge you to do the same.