B-log

What do people call you?

My name is Bryan, but the list of names I answer to include:

• Bryan
• Bry
• Byran
• B
• Euge (rhymes with ‘huge’)
• Mac
• Manac
• McAnally
• Manalacally
• Big Mac
• Mac Attack
• Guido
• Toes

When I was young, I wanted to be named “Bill.” I wouldn’t answer to Bryan. I named a favorite stuffed animal “Bill” and told everyone that we were twin brothers named Bill. I watched the Mickey Rooney movie endlessly (okay, maybe not). I thought it was the coolest name ever, perhaps because one of my dad’s good friends, a bear of a man, was named Bill. Or perhaps because Bill Bixby played Bruce Banner, who became the Incredible Hulk, who (as I’ve mentioned previously), I thought my brother and I had invented.

What I’ve come to understand is that my name is important in that it represents the essential me. For people who really know me, mentioning my name brings up a defined set of understanding. For those who barely know me, my name maybe just conjures a general impression. For those who don’t know me at all, my name means nothing. It’s a blank canvas, until meeting me and building a relationship begins to paint a picture.

In biblical history, names are both seemingly incredibly important and also incredibly trivial.

Read More

“Through the observation of scars, it is possible to know the darkest and deepest hideaways of the human soul. Every time we look at a scar we tend to wonder how they got them. I am attracted to the idea of surrounding myself with those stories.”
Sebastian Utreras

Is there such a thing as a non-fascinating scar story?

Even a story that would be otherwise mundane becomes interesting if a scar is involved.

Exhibit A:  

Regular story - Dude, I got a hangnail.

Scar story - Dude, I got a hangnail…and it ripped all the way down into my finger, leaving this nasty little scar.

See, more interesting because of the scar.

A few years back, I was on a flight where the man in the emergency door row wore an eye patch. As I passed him, I noticed a zigging scar peek from the bottom of the patch. As I made my way back to my cramped spot in 36D, right in front of the air toilet (meaning I’d have a flight full of awkward eye-contact with bladder-issue people waiting in line to do their business), I found myself inventing stories for the heroic pirate up in the emergency row. If anyone on my flight was an air marshall, it had to be this guy. And he was going for the “over the top” approach to throw off potential terrorists. He looked seasoned, battle-tested, and emotionless. This guy could make Jason Bourne look like a girl scout. He probably lost his eye liberating hostages from an obscure terrorist stronghold. With my own private Rambo on board, I wouldn’t have to devise my own way to save the plane (and, yes, I have actually done that — it involves a fire extinguisher, the phone provided in the back of the middle seat, and my Bible — don’t worry. I’m watching for the bad guys).

Anyway, I’d probably be disappointed to learn this guy is a sympathy card writer for Hallmark who’s wearing a patch to heal from a genetically-induced detached retina, and the scar was actually just a well-developed wrinkle.

My own scar stories are my “war tales” of life’s grand adventures. Here’s a sampling:

Exhibit B: A small cashew-shaped scar on my upper right hip. At five years old, I was at the park with friends as part of a day-care program. I was on the merry-go-round, hanging off the side. somehow, some vortex sucked me under, and proceed to treat me like a pebble in a blender. Amidst my screams for deliverance, I can still remember my friend Angel’s chilling peals of laughter, hollering “Faster teacher, go faster!” (I’m not bitter).

Exhibit C: A 1/3 inch (not that I’ve measured) downward-pointing triangle scar on the left side of my right pectoralis (near my sternum). At 12 years old, while swimming at a local pool, a younger boy approached me, and with an attitude that I now identify with demoniacal possession, stabbed me with his thumb nail. I bled profusely. They emptied the pool. The boy was never charged with assault.

Exhibit D: A 1 inch-by 2 inch oval scar on my right top of the wrist. Also obtained at 12 years. On a day of snow-mobiling, I mounted an innertube being pulled by my dad’s Arctic Cat (you have to say those words in a fast whisper to really appreciate they dynamic quality of the snow mobile). As I was being pulled, my hand slipped under the tube, and the flap of the glove folded up. As I was being pulled on a snowy county road, the dirt, snow and gravel chewed up my wrist. At the end of the ride, I saw the wound in painless fascination, as it was frozen. A nurse friend who was there, took me in and scrubbed it with a toothbrush to clean it. Rapid thawing occured during the procedure, bringing both the noise and the pain.

Exhibit E: On my left outer elbow, a cartoonish excamation point-shaped scar, obtained at 16 in football practice. A teammate, Benjie Berg, in between plays, in the spirit of frivolity, attempted to drive his helmet through my arm. The attempt failed. But I carry this life-long reminder of young Benjie’s industrious and never-give-up attitude.

Exhibit F: A series of small unusually shaped scars on the underside of the same wrist, and also at irregular locations on various fingers and knuckles of the right hand. Obtained at 19 years old. In my BC life, at a fraternity party, I punched through a double-paned window compelled by the dysfunctional logic that beating up a harmless window would make my point more vividly. Probably some essential display of the presence of testosterone in my system. Well, those crazy laws of physics held true and blood was spilled. I went to the emergency room to get cleaned up and stitched up. While there, I (very maturely) decided I was tired of waiting, so decided to go back home. I confidently walked out through the in door, and soon discovered I had no idea whatsoever where I was or how to get home. I had enough sense to elevate my hand above my heart, and was found about 30 minutes later wandering the streets of Denver looking at street signs with my hand raised above my head. I returned the next day to receive treatment, this time without a local anesthesia. The administering nurse took undue pleasure in my stupidity.

For every scar story I have, my brother has 5, and each one is better (sic) than mine. He’s got scars from bullet wounds, car wrecks, motorcycle vs. barbed-wired encounters, knife wounds, man vs. St. Patrick Day Parade Float encounter (guess who won), and so on. I don’t know that he’s any more proud of his than I am of mine, especially when extenuating factors are implicated.

The truth is, I bear no ‘scars of honor.’ I’ve never been wounded for sharing the gospel. I’ve never lost a limb for believing in Christ. I’ve never been attacked for telling the truth. All my scars do is testify to my flesh.

To get spiritual for just a moment, I believe that scars will be the only man-made thing in heaven. I believe Jesus will bear His scars for eternity. The Bible says (Revelation 5) declares that the one worthy to open the judgment scroll of God looks like a lamb as though slain. In the Old Testament, Isaiah speaks graphically on the wounds sustained by the Christ. Jesus, in His resurrected form, bears the wounds of the cross on his wrists before the apostles. I DO believe Jesus will be resurrected and glorious in heaven, but I believe His scars will be the eternal reminder of the depth and breadth of His love for us. And there will be no shame in His scar stories.

The other day, the family loaded up to go to church. We drove on a busy, six-lane road where traffic never stops.  We approached a bridge that arches over a parkway with a large, marshy pond. There is a collection of shade trees overhanging the pond, and thick, leafy grass covers the ground, all the way to the pond’s edge. Even from our vantage, the parkway is a panacea of tranquility that offers an escape from the bustling stresses of life. 

Even as we hustled to church, the irony of being part of the traffic was not lost to me.

As we approached ever nearer, we noticed that off to the right in the gutter of the road, lay a turtle. At first it appeared as though the tortoise was merely basking, but…alas, twas not. It was dead (it wasn’t the turtle in the picture), shell-side up.  So close to its destination, but with no hope to ever get there.

This chelonian tragedy got me thinking about what a picture it was that so many people live out over the course of their own lives.

When looking at life, though few people would want to do so, most would have to identify with the turtle. While everyone would like to think they race through life like the hare from one adventure to another, this really is no the common experience. Every person is bound by time…24 hours in a day, 365 days in a year, however many years make up a lifetime. Accordingly, we all make the tortoise-like trudge toward eternity.

Like the roadside turtle, we’re all slowly moving toward the desired destination….a place of comfort, cool water, and plenty of food. It’s a place of shady rest, of peaceful co-existence, and not a worry in the world. Oh, how sweet it will be to get to that wonderful place.

To get there, you have cross a treacherous path. It is big, barren, and busy. The landscape is littered with carcasses of those who have attempted to cross the path, only to get lost along the way, get squashed trying to cross, or simply died from exhaustion unable to arrive home.  

The turtle we saw made it all the way across the road, only to die in the gutter on the edge of the park. So very close, yet for naught. Does it make its journey more noble because it accomplished such a proximity to its objective, or is its story all the more tragic. In the end, there is only success or failure, not relative degrees of either.

You are the turtle.

Where ever you are on your journey, your prospects are bleak. Even if you’ve made it safe thus far and are resting comfortably in the median, you have no hope of getting to your destination on your own. Whether you get crushed as soon as you step into the oncoming traffic of life, or simply die from exhaustion on the far precipice of your destination, you just can’t get there on your own. No body makes it through this journey to the paradisiacal garden on the other side of the freeway.

It may seem incomprehensible that you cannot physically arrive there on your own. You may feel vigorous enough, intelligent enough, clever enough, powerful enough, resourceful enough, or even persistent enough to do what nobody else has done. Sadly, there is not enough “enough” to see your ambition become reality. Billions have endeavored, not one has succeeded. On your own, you will be no different.

The only hope you have is for the you that transcends the body. The “you” that lives once this body dies. And because you…physically and otherwise…don’t have what it takes to safely transport yourself to the place of rest, your only hope is to trust upon the mercy of someone greater than yourself.

The One who made the turtle is the one who made you. This One has provided the way for the transcendent you to experience the lush reality that awaits after your physical life’s journey ends. This One has revealed his provision with signs visible to everyone, communicated in language understandable to everyone, and most importantly, incarnated in One who is like every one in form, but is altogether the One himself. He has done this so no one would would have to needlessly die, but so that all could experience the fullness of the garden that is available to the transcendent you.

If you are reading this, you are on the freeway. Recognize the hopelessness of trying to complete the journey on your own. See the signs, hear the message, and believe.