"We are saved, finally."

As testimonial to the positive impact of the Internet, and its invaluable re-shaping of many behaviors that (heretofore unknown to us due to our unconnected existence) will undoubtedly improve the human condition and extend our life span, I offer for your consideration (NOTE: sent to me by email today):

As we move into the last quarter of this year - I want to thank all of you for your educational e-mails over the past year. I am totally screwed up now and have little chance of recovery.

• I no longer open a bathroom door without using a paper towel, or have the waitress put lemon slices in my ice water without worrying about the bacteria on the lemon peel.
• Eating a little snack sends me on a guilt trip because I can only imagine how many gallons of trans fats I have consumed over the years.
• I can’t touch any woman’s purse for fear she has placed it on the floor of a public bathroom.
• I must also send my special thanks to whomever sent me the one about rat crap in the glue on envelopes because I now have to use a wet sponge with every envelope that needs sealing.
• ALSO, now I have to scrub the top of every can I open for the same reason.
• I no longer have any savings because I gave it to a sick girl (Penny Brown) who is about to die for the 1,387,258th time.
• I no longer have any money, but that will change once I receive the $15,000 that Bill Gates/Microsoft and AOL are sending me for participating in their special e-mail program.
• I can’t have a drink in a bar because I’ll wake up in a bathtub full of ice with my kidneys gone.
• I can’t eat at KFC because their chickens are actually horrible mutant freaks with no eyes, feet or feathers.
• I can’t use cancer-causing deodorants even though I smell like a water buffalo on a hot day.
• Thanks to all of you have learned that my prayers only get answered if I forward an e-mail to seven of my friends and make a wish within five minutes.
• Because of your genuine concern, I no longer drink Coca Cola because it can remove toilet stains.
• I no longer buy gas without taking someone along to watch the car so a serial killer doesn’t crawl in my back seat when I’m filling up.
  
• I no longer drink Pepsi or Fanta since the people who make these products are atheists who refuse to put ‘Under God’ on their cans.
• I no longer use Cling Wrap in the microwave because it causes seven different types of cancer.
• Thanks to you I can’t use anyone’s toilet but mine because a big black snake could be lurking under the seat and cause me instant death when it bites me.
• And thanks to your great advice, I can’t ever pick up a Penny dropped in the parking lot because it probably was placed there by a molester waiting to grab me as I bend down to pick it up.
• I no longer drive my car because buying gas from some companies supports Al Qaeda, and buying gas from all the others supports South American dictators.
• I can’t do any gardening because I’m afraid I’ll get bitten by the Violin Spider and my hand will fall off.
• If you don’t send this e-mail to at least 144,000 people in the next 70 minutes, a large dove with diarrhea will land on your head at 5:00 p.m. tomorrow afternoon, and the fleas from 120 camels will infest your back, causing you to grow a hairy hump. I know this will occur because it actually happened to a friend of my next door neighbor’s ex-mother-in-law’s second husband’s cousin's best friend’s beautician . . .
  

Oh, by the way.....

A German scientist from Argentina , after a lengthy study, has discovered that people with insufficient brain activity read their e-mail with their hand on the mouse.

Don’t bother taking it off now, it’s too late.

In the embrace of the (sterilized) brackets - (b)

PS: I now keep my toothbrush in the living room, because I was told by e-mail that water splashes over 6 ft. out of the toilet.

“I have depression.”

My father died ten years ago in Dallas at eighty-two-years old. He passed from this life after three months in the hospital, triggered by congenital heart failure. He suffered from a septic coma for the last few weeks, kept alive on a cacophony of machines. Even with his eyes open, he did not react to any sort of visual or vocal stimulation. When his eyes followed your movement, they were like a camera lens without film; vacant, expressionless. The doctors said that any of his mild movements were “likely” neurological responses only. After a lot of council, reflection and prayer, we agreed to move him into hospice and removed all the connections. I received the call from my brother two days later around two o’clock in the morning that he had passed. He said that his heart failed.

My father suffered from depression. His heart failed.

Two years after my father’s death, during a session with my counselor Jim, there I am ranting about an incident involving a client and their lack of appreciating the value I brought to their organization. “I am so damn frustrated with having to constantly explain what I do and why my process is essential to achieving their stated goals. And it always seems to happen just about the time when they are on the verge of breakthrough momentum.” Characteristically (and tremendously annoying), Jim sat there in his comfy tobacco leather chair nodding in rhythm with my staccato complaints.

“And the major thing is that I’m beginning to think that I am becoming my father; that everything I try turns to shit.”

Having stated my carefully rehearsed case, I caught my breath and eased back into the couch. I eagerly awaited some nugget of reassurance that I was fine and that, in fact, they were the ones not taking the time to fully embrace my special gifting and selfless commitment to their success. Their loss. Their stupidity.

After a long pause, sans nodding, Jim responded. “So Brian, am I right that you recently committed your life to faith; that you have broadened your Hebraic roots and are embracing Christianity?”

“Well, umm, yes I have. Why do you ask?”

Without further clarification, he continued. “And would you say that you are a blessed man?”

“Absolutely. Yes, I am.”

Jim nodded like a relief pitcher acknowledging the catcher’s signal for the “3 and 2” pitch to close out the game, and sent the hardball screaming across home plate. “So, how does a bless man behave?”

I responded elegantly with, “Huh?”

Expressionless, and with increased emphasis he repeated the question, “How does a blessed man behave?”

STRIKE THREE; YOU’RE OUT!

If you have ever wondered what it must feel like to be a deer caught in the headlights of an approaching car, wonder no more. Not only now paralyzed from his comment, Jim actually aimed the car directly towards me, sped up and sent me into orbit upon impact.

“If you were really a blessed man you would likely find another way to deal with this situation other than whining, complaining and acting like a spoiled teenager who just got teased by some other kids.”

Nice, huh? But, he was only getting warmed up.

“Here’s the deal. Your father had depression. He wasn’t depression. It’s one of the many ambiguities in life. Like diabetes, you have it; you have the choice whether to “partner” with it and treat it, or you can let it devastate you. Your father chose to let his depression define him, it ultimately destroyed him. Does that make sense to you?”

“Yes.”

Leaning forward slightly he continued. “You are not your father. God gave you a gift of depression. Given this ambiguity, you now have the choice to partner with it or you can let it define you. What do you choose?”

My mind swirled and I suddenly pictured myself as a shabby horse on a carousel; chipped paint, nicked and scarred from countless riders but going round and round nonetheless.

“Brian, one of the challenges being a man of faith is surrendering to God’s will for your life, or choosing to believe that you are victim to the circumstances that are laid in your path…and that somehow if you’ll just complain enough you can have power over the outcome. Your behavior does not sound like that of a blessed man. So, I ask you again, what do you choose?”

________________________________________

It is now eight years since my meeting with Jim. I chose to partner with my depression that day, and that decision characterizes how my life is playing out; serving others by giving away my gifts, so that I can give my gifts a way to really matter. All it took was a little shock therapy from Jim, and a lot of faith in God.

Given the choice of being upbeat or depressed, I’ll choose depression every time.

In the embrace of the brackets - (b)

"I just learned that farting at the dinner table is OK."

I attended a men's retreat last weekend and came away gaining some new truths about manhood. The weekend involved:

• 86 guys gorging on 24/7 snacks;
• 86 guys bundled as roommates in an inharmonious symphony of snoring;
  
• 86 guys playing selected guy games: dodge ball, sumo suit wrestling, human Foosball and a variety of fantasy role playing board games;
• 86 guys singing together praising God;
• 86 guys grappling with the concept of Grace;
  
• 86 guys sharing stories of life, faith and what it means to me a man.

During the closing session we were invited to stand up and share important takeaways from the weekend and, transparently and vulnerably, to ask for personal support and prayer from the fellow warriors. That's when one guy shared the following:

"I was glad to learn from one of my fellow sojourners that it is acceptable for men to fart at the table during meals."

So, whether this is a fact endorsed by the Society of Social Etiquette and Good Manners it gave me pause. What's the deal with guys' obsessive expressions about odoriferous gas, toilet moments and other body parts? Granted, I admit that the famous campfire fart tournament scene in Mel Brooks' Blazing Saddles is an all-time favorite and that I can't resist sharing a good burst of tasteless humor with the guys. Still, there must be something more with this natural event than meets the senses. Some research into the gaseous matter reveals accepted cultural uses in language, such as:

• "I was just farting around." (nothing serious)
  
• "Oops, I just had a brain fart." (forgot something)
  
• "Hey soldier, roll up your fart sack and move out." (sleeping bag)
  

So, if it is such a common and seemingly nontoxic expression, why then do we avoid it with responses like:

• "Timmy, did you just have a fluff?" (why a pillow reference?)
  
• "Wow, that guy just let loose a raspberry." (come on, fruit?)
  
• "OK, who let fluffy off the chain?" (animal bondage?)

Farts have been elegantly used in literature by such greats as Chaucer, Ernest Hemingway and Jonathan Swift...and DID NOT even make the cut for the late, great comedian George Carlin's famous list of Seven Dirty Words.

In summary: Language is rich with meaning, expression and emotion. Language uses words to create dialogue and enhance human interaction. God created man. He gave us a sense of humor to help cope with all the serious stuff life puts in our path. I take being a man, life and my path of faith seriously... and I have a gas any time I get to poke fun at how we tend to make too much about things that are really nothing more than a lot of hot air. So, go ahead, let it rip.

But what do I know; I'm just an old fart.

In the embrace of the brackets - (b)

*If you'd like to read more of my personal expressions... visit www.HImpact.me.