Number three gets married

Driving to Michigan from Californian–our conversation slipped awkward.

Somewhere between playing a masculine game of I spy and singing Springsteen’s Born in the USA, the dry, dusty, Mid-western air suffocated our masculininity and turned Jamos, Eric and me soft.

“So who do you think is going to get married first?” I asked, sounding like a woman.

“What!?” Eric choked. If he had been drinking water he would have clearly spit it across the windshield. “You can’t ask that? Dude! Do you realize the harm one can cause with such words? It could put a lot of pressure on that person!”

“Shut up!” I respond pointedly. I have always had a way with words.

“I don’t know,” I continued. “I thought it would be a conversation starter… You know something to talk about since this Oklahoma landscape is such a water cooler stimulant. I think it is going to be Jamos!”

I snuck in my answer before more debate could be given.

A coma of silence overtook the car. Minutes went by. Eric started to speak, paused, contemplated, then finally spoke again.

“Yeah… You’re right. I think Jamos too.” Eric shot back.

I could feel Jamos’s stare. His body language said disinterested but his eyes spoke otherwise.

“It is true… it is going to be me.” Jamos gave in. His words revealed the obvious. Whether he wanted to admit it or not he would be the first one to get married.

On this day, Eric, Jamos and I were not dating anyone.

—

What most people don’t know is that Eric and my pilgrimage was initially designed for three. The original idea was for Jamos, Eric and me to travel the world together.

But as the planning became tangible and Eric and I started vigorously contacting ministries, Jamos dropped out due to personal reasons.

For a longtime I took this personal.

—

Jamos got married last weekend. He was the first of the three.

Eric and I drove up from Nashville. We were both in the wedding.

There is still apart of me that wishes Jamos had gone on the pilgrimage. I think of the insight he could have added, the humility he would have brought and the community we would have experienced.

But as I stood barefoot, toes covered in the sand, I couldn’t help but feel like Jamos made the right decision.

Emily, his new wife, cried joyfully–passionately. Jamos smiled tenderly. They held hands and whispered “I love you” as they exchanged vows.

The ten months Eric and I spent on the road were the most amazing days of my life. But as I continue to walk forward, I am valuing the beauty in others’ experiences.

I am learning love and grace is experienced in many different ways.

To your story,
Kent

A peep hole

So I have been writing on the trip– a lot.

I don’t know if anything will come of it.  But I thought I would put out a blurb.

I think I am hanging out with teens too much.  Cause I king of want to make a game of this.  It will be like writing your own ending.  I will put out the teaser and you tell me what happens next.

…

“I yelled at Eric as we walked home from a friend’s house.  I rarely ever yell but on this night I couldn’t stop blistering discontent.  My words raged.

I didn’t know what else to do.  I was desperate.  With each step my fingers gripped tighter, my hands shook faster.   My head ached with frustration and I wanted to hit something, anything–if given the opportunity I would have kicked a pigeon–possibly even a duck.

I screamed everything I could think.  Stupid stuff.  Random stuff.  I told him he was a horrible driver, he took too long eating breakfast and I hated when he talked about himself. I was a third grader calling Eric the fat, smelly kid. My words were spiteful as I picked apart his deep, natural tendencies and called them growing edges.

Eric and I had been squatting in Washington DC for two weeks and we were no longer connecting.

For over a year we had been fantasizing about this trip.  It was our American Adventure–two bro’s packing their lives up, taking only what is required, driving the countryside and helping strangers along the way. It was a beautiful, wonderful fantasy.  But after less than a month, it already felt dreadfully wrong.

Eric and I have been best friends since high school.  We spent holidays backpacking Europe, New Zealand and Australia. But at this moment, as we are working, sleeping, eating, drinking, walking, driving, packing lunches, watching reruns, play gin rummy…being together–it didn’t feel right.  We were no longer working. I felt alone and Eric was always at my side.  “

So there you go.  Tell me what think should happen next.  Maybe your ideas will be better than our life.

Rocketown=work: two thoughts

People often ask me what I do for a living.

Sometimes I tell them I work at a youth center. Other times I say I run an after-school program. But lately I have been thinking my job is to make people believe in themselves.

As surprising as it sounds, I do not actually teach breakdancing, urban rhyme, espresso, art, guitar, film editing, drums, photography or song writing.

No.

I wish I did. I really, really wish I did. But I do not know how to do any of those things–or at least very well.

Instead, my job is to encourage quasi-young people who have these gifts and abilities to share them with even younger kids who would like to learn how.

And then once the younger kids, too, become more skilled than me, I tell them over and over again how beautifully talented they are.

At Rocketown I am a freak’n male cheerleader, pom poms and all, and I love my job.

…

My e-mail broke today.

All morning, my lungs felt empty. I was drowning, suffocating, freak’n living in 1992.

Everything I needed was on my e-mail account. Blast bloody technology.

So what did I do?

I played Ping Pong with Joey.

Then I hung out with Chris, Triple G and Chappy, spoke to a news reporter regarding our fall classes and interviewed two students who wanted to become Rocketown Reps.

Don’t worry—that wasn’t all. I did more important things. After all of that work, Chris and I watched Seinfeld, I sang happy birthday to Casey and Natalie and I chatted about dancing in church.

Oh, and to end the day, Joey and I played another three games of Ping Pong.

All in all it was a beautiful day. I guess e-mail isn’t so ”God” dang important.

Now, how do I post this online?

Runaway Rhymers

“Inside!” I yelled, glaring at the backs of four rhyme lab kids jolting down the back staircase– their bodies jagging, their feet scuffling as they tried desperately to make a break from the penitentiary known as Rocketown Summer Sessions.

For the last week I screamed campers were not allowed outside. I posted signs on every door, hired a lunchtime “door” supervisor and announced the rule routinely, consistently–painfully repetitively. I had all but duck taped it to their shirts. Yet, despite all of that, here they stood feet beneath the sun, shadow cast toward the sidewalk.

Their heads whipped and their eyes jumped up at the sound of my voice. “Busted!” seemed to ring gloriously through the air. Their fate was blistering uncertain and now I had to deal with them.

Walking inside they did not make things easier on themselves.

“I didn’t know we weren’t allowed outside.” One yelled quickly, his voice whimpering, unsure of whether or not he was stating a fact or asking a question.

“Yeah!” another one yelled, trying to ground the previous statement into factual territory.

“I am 18,” announced the third. “I am an adult. You can’t tell me what to do. I was going outside to smoke a cigarette.”

The fourth remained silent.
…

My first day working at a homeless shelter in Birmingham, Alabama I saw a homeless man in the bathroom with a beer. Unsure of what to say I asked him how he was doing.

“I am doing great!” he said, eyes glazed and red-faced. “I feel just great. You know I am filled with the joy of the Holy Spirit. I can feel God in my heart.”
…

Earlier in the week I had caught a camper sneaking off into the offices to play on the computers.
When asked what he was doing he said he missed his sister. His brother and him had recently been taken into foster care due to their parents’ personal struggles. His sister was currently living with her boyfriend. Myspace was the only way he had to stay in touch.

“You saw her yesterday—at five o’clock!” announced another staff member, peaking his head outside his door. “We had ice cream with her less than 24 hours ago.”

“Oh yeah…” the child said. His story was sweet but slightly untrue. Once again the collective Rocketown staff had proven far superior to the mind of a 12 year old.
…

I am sucker for a good story. I admit it. Even when I know punishment must be administered, the mere whispering of Jesus, grace or personal circumstances notoriously foils me. I know the stories told are often not true. But I like to believe that they are. I prefer to forgive not convict. I love to witness grace lived out.
…

Shortly after the recapture of the runaway rhymers, they took the stage for their final showcase performance. The entire week they had been working on a song based on a topic of their own choosing. In weeks past they rapped on girls, parties and their neighborhoods but this week they chose to write about God.

What I loved most about their seven-minute rap was its transparency. Unlike the stories above, the kids did not paint themselves with a rose colored faith or a saint like devotion. Instead, they spoke to how they saw God– they were honest and raw. They said they did not go to church or read the Bible, they had real, deep doubts and they often wondered where God was in their inner-city neighborhood. But despite all their wonders, fears and struggles– despite everything that stood against them–they still believed.
…

I never punished the kids. Instead, I asked them to follow their own words. I said I wanted them to be an example to the other kids. I told I wanted them to be leaders.

I know I am a sucker for a good story. But when that story is about a kid looking, searching, seeking for God I can’t help but listen.

I often tell parents that Rocketown Summer Sessions is where kids can find their artistic voice. But lately I am learning they are finding much, much more.

-Kent-

Libraries, Africa and Porn

I met a librarian yesterday who asked me about my trip with Eric. When I was done telling a few stories she told me the year had clearly changed my world view and because of that I should write a book.

I laughed and tried to play it off but in truth I love hearing those words. It strokes my ego—fat and thick, plump and wide. I know I shouldn’t let it. But I love having strangers tell me my life is novel worthy.

…

I spoke with a girl the other night who told me she loved to travel.

I asked her where she had been and her voice got quiet. Almost ashamed, she said she hadn’t traveled very far or long.

“Nonsense,” I declared feeling like the morale authority. “We all have stories to tell. Where have you gone?”

“Well I just finished an eight month trip in Africa and Eastern Europe,” She whispered sweetly, humbly.

“Oh, wow!” I mouthed shocked. What do you mean you haven’t traveled very long or far? That is amazing.”

“Well it felt like a short time. There was just so much to learn.”

“So what did you learn?”

“Well I am still working on it… but it taught me to listen. It showed me how to love people.”

…

Trying to act grounded with the librarian I changed the subject. “So what in your life has changed your world view?”

“Oh, defiantly my job,” she declared. “The library is so diverse. Everyday between our walls and stacks we have lawyers demanding legal cases, plumbers researching how to open a business and homeless individuals surfing the net to looking at porn.”

“Really?” I said, surprised by the latter.

“Oh yeah! The other day we had to kick a man out for 90 days because he was masturbating at the computer.”

…

I am learning for every story I have there is always someone with one better.

-Kent-