Because I Can… the random thoughts of Marc Scott

As a self diagnosed over-thinker, I often find myself asking myself a lot of questions that I’ll probably never get the answers to.  Sometimes, I’m not entirely sure if there even are answers to them.  One of these days, perhaps, I’ll just accept that some things simply are, and that is really all the explanation necessary.

I started my day today by asking why in the world morning has to come so early.  More specifically, I was asking why in the world I agreed to participate in an event that would see me getting out of bed at 8a on a Saturday, my day off.  I know what you’re thinking, I’m a whiner.  Everybody gets out of bed at 8a.  OK.  Fair enough.  Give me this much though, I’m an insomniac.  I need to take sleep when I can get it.  I can’t get it, if I’m setting alarm clocks and waking myself up!

It took me nearly an hour to feel like I was even in my body.  After a long shower, face contact with a door frame, a cracked shin on the sharp corner of my bed, and a stubbed toe on my weight bench, which is actually more of a clothes hanging device than it is a weight bench, I was somewhat coherent.

I drove to work and listened to a few of my favorite songs, and tried to get myself pumped.  Well, I tried to get myself awake anyway.  Baby steps, you know.  During the drive, I started asking another question.  Why does it have to rain?

I was on my way to a car wash.  It was a big deal too.  A national event raising money for Cystic Fibrosis research and treatment.  The sponsor, CarStar, was also hoping to set a Guinness World Record by washing 4000 cars, nationally, in 8 hours.  I was going with the radio station to host a 4 hour remote from the location in Brantford.  We were hoping to really hype it up and get lots of people out.  I’m all about raising money for great causes, but as I watched the rain fall from the dark skies above, I wasn’t feeling very good about the event.

When I pulled into the radio station parking lot, I asked another question.  Why did my pager have to go off!  Not 10 seconds after I got into the parking lot, I got a fire call for a possible structure fire.  Any other Saturday and I would have been home for it.  Because I was doing this car wash in the rain, I was missing it!  That is always depressing for me, because I love being a firefighter.  The thing is, it’s kind of hard to be one when you’re missing the call.

So here it was, 9:30 in the morning, and my obsessive question asking, over-thinking habit, had already given me a bad attitude without even realizing it.  Early morning, little sleep, rain – with no end in sight, and now I’m missing a possible structure fire.  I was convincing myself, unintentionally, that today was going to suck.

When I arrived at the event I was introduced to the owners of the location, and met a couple of the people responsible for helping with the event.  A group of students from St. John’s College, and a group of people from Participation House, were giving up their Saturday to volunteer for this event.  They were the ones that would be washing cars in the rain, while I watched from inside.  Suddenly, I was feeling a little convicted about my bad attitude.

As the morning progressed, I witnessed something amazing.  I watched a group of probably 30 people, standing outside in non stop rain, washing cars with smiles on their faces, and genuinely having a great time!  If you can’t beat it, join it, I said during one of my cut-ins on the air.  That’s what these people were doing.  The rain was soaking them anyway, so why not have some fun?  Water fights were happening everywhere.  Water balloons were being tossed, covert attacks were being launched, and the garden hose become a tool for battle domination!

The volunteers were laughing, dancing and singing in the rain.  Not just one or two of them either.  All of them.  They were just having fun!  While I was thinking the event was going to tank because people wouldn’t come and get their car washed in the rain, and as a result, very little money would be raised, they were out there living in the moment.  They were taking control of their circumstances instead of letting their circumstances take control of them.  It was a humbling sight, and a beautiful sight!

I tried as hard as I have ever tried on air today.  I wanted to be great for them.  Because of them!  I wanted to have flawless breaks.  I wanted to paint an accurate picture of this incredible experience that was unfolding before my eyes.  I wanted everybody listening to the radio today to come and see it for themselves, and maybe, just maybe, catch some of the joy that I did.  And you know what?  People did come!  Lots of people.  They honked their horns as they drove by.  They got their cars washed in the rain.  And they ate hamburgers… glorious hamburgers!

When the sun came out 15 minutes before the end of the event, after raining non stop since the morning, most of us just laughed.  When I got in my truck to drive home, I started thinking.  Maybe that sunshine was a smile from God.  Nobody questioned Him for the rain.  Nobody even complained.  They just washed cars, and sang and danced in the rain.  I bet that made Him happy, and I think that’s why He smiled.

I watched a news video tonight on the fabulous interweb; which is filled with many things to see and do and click and download.  The video was about Kate Gosselin.  I feel like a rubbernecker.  You know the type I’m talking about.  The one that steers his car into oncoming traffic while looking at an accident and fire trucks and people standing on the side of the road.  You don’t mean to look.  You don’t even really want to look, if you’re being honest.  Yet, somehow, for some unexplainable reason, you feel compelled to look.  I’m compelled.

The video was about a spank.  Hardly newsworthy.  In fact, if you have  child, go for it.  Give them a little love tap on the butt right now.  Then count to five, and see if any paparazzi show up.  I bet they won’t.  Unless of course your name is Kate Gosselin and you’re reading this blog right now.  In that case, no love taps, you can’t get away with it!

Poor Kate is now being labeled as a bad mother.  A child abuser.  “She’s gone over the edge,” they say.  I can neither confirm, nor deny, Kate’s status on the edge.  If she is a bad mother, I suspect that the spanking of a disobedient child is the least of the causes of such a title.  I actually feel for her, and the scrutiny she is under.  Life under the media microscope, I believe, must taste a little like how hell is going to be.

I was spanked as a child.  Frequently.  I know you all believe I was an angel child.  I do too.  It would seem, however, that my parents may have felt differently about that.  Something to do with a smart mouth.  I don’t get it.  You’d think, or I would think anyway, that if my mouth was smart, it wouldn’t be getting me into trouble.  That must be one of those oxymoron’s, like nicknaming a fat guy Tiny, or sending people pictures of your pretty ugly dog or something.

If I had applied myself as a child, there isn’t a doubt in my mind that I would be an NFL All Star.  I had some serious skills when it came to dodging mom, furniture, the family pet, my sister, and whatever else may have got in the way as I was trying to escape a spank.  My footwork was something to marvel.  If I was successful, I’d get through the house, into the laundry room, out the back door, and then bolt free across the backyard to my friends place who lived on the next street over.  Sometimes, I made it.  Other times, I wasn’t so lucky.

I had wooden spoons broken over my butt.  I had spatulas, big wide ones, broken over my butt.  I believe, once, there was even a hairbrush broken over my butt.  You know how after your hands have become callused enough, they eventually become tough, leathery, near impenetrable?  Like croc skin or something?  I sometimes wonder if that’s what happened to my butt.  I eventually did develop an immunity to it.  I recall a time or two where I even laughed after the spank, because it didn’t hurt anymore.  Note to small children reading this blog… never laugh!  That’s just not a good idea!!!

I sound abused.  I assure you I wasn’t.  Like a 5 Star General earns each of his uniform decorations, I earned each of my spanks.  Chalk it up to crossed wires between the mouth and brain.  I’m not saying that God messed up on me or anything.  I know He doesn’t do that.  But I can’t help but wonder if, during a flying elbow off the top bunk onto one of my sisters stuffed animals, maybe a bad landing didn’t shake things up in there.  I just never knew when to shut up.  Either that or, I knew when to shut up, I just forgot to shut up!

“Spank experts”, and I admit to you, I had no idea there was such a thing, have a lot of interesting theories on the long term effects of a spank.  I learned this during the news report.  I actually watched the video about 6 times to make sure I was hearing it right.  According to the “Spank Experts”, it’s child abuse, it affects brain development, it causes aggression, social disorders, sexual problems in adult life, and delinquent and at risk behavior.  Wow.  I must be profoundly screwed up.  Oh yeah, and if you get spanked as a child, it will also cause you to coerce your dating partners into having sex.

For the record, I have no criminal record.  I’ve not so much as stolen a candy bar from the corner store.  My brain development seems to be OK, though I suppose some could debate that, depending on who they are and when they knew me.  I’m not aggressive.  I’ve been in one fist fight in my life, and it was in grade 6.  I felt bad, took myself to the principal, and became best friends with the guy the next day.  I’m even an upstanding young gentleman in the sexual department, having never once coerced a date into having sex with me.

The reason, I like to believe, why I am such an fine young man (stop laughing) is because my parents loved me enough to lay the smack down on me when I got out of line.  Did I earn a spank for every error in judgment?  Certainly not.  There is a long list of punishments and disciplinary actions in the parents arsenal.  Trust me, I could write the book now, having experienced them all.  However, when the moment called for it, a swift whoop on the butt was all I needed to know that I’d better think twice about doing, or saying, whatever I had done, or said, again!

I’m well adjusted.  I turned out alright!  I learned my lessons.  Either that, I still fear the kitchen utensils.  That’s just what the crazy “Spank Experts” want to hear!

When it comes to words, specifically, the written word, there are two kinds of people, as I see it.  There are writers, and then there are those who write.

Writers are important people, special people, gifted people.  They use their craft to earn or living and bring about change.  They write books and songs and magazine articles and report the news.  They’re published.  They’re famous, the scale of which isn’t so important because fame is entirely subjective.  Writers encourage us to read and make us want to read.  A writer can make you laugh, make you cry, make you smile, or make you vote for a political party.  Perhaps, for me anyway, most importantly, writers make you think.  They make you ask questions.  Maybe of yourself, or maybe of others.  Good writing generates good dialogue, or I think it should.

Then there are people who write.  These people don’t expect to be read, and don’t really care if they’re read because they probably don’t think they’re good enough to be read.  Some of them write journals, some of them write blogs, some of them write girls phone numbers on napkins in coffee shops.  Some write for fun, some write to hone their craft with aspirations of being published, some write because.  That’s it.  Just because.  And you know what?  That’s OK.

I am just someone who writes.  My dear friend Carrie will argue this.  But she also invited me over to punch me in the face once.  She says she was joking.  She probably won’t be after she reads this. We debate the writer vs someone who writes deal often.  I get to win because it’s my blog.  I digress.  Since I don’t very often find myself writing down girls phone numbers on napkins at coffee shops; something I like to think has more to do with the fact that I don’t drink coffee than it does with the fact that no girl would ever give me her phone number, I write for therapy.

I assure you I am not mental.  Not yet.  Or, not entirely.  I suppose that could be considered subjective as well.  For the sake of argument though, lets assume my mental faculties or mostly in tact.  When I say I write for therapy, I just mean that it’s a good way for me to get stuff out there.  Sometimes I just need to get stuff out there.  If 300 people read it, if 3 people read it, if nobody ever reads it, is of little consequence.

My friends whom are closest to me have a small insight into how my mind works.  I tell them I’ll never let them fully understand because once they are in there, there is no turning back.  Basically though, they know that sometimes, I’ve got to vent.  It could take 5 minutes.  It could take 50 minutes.  Their job, and God bless each one of them for doing it so well, is to sit and listen.  Sometimes I’ve just got to throw everything out there from the completely probable to the utterly ridiculous.  It’s not that I believe it all, it’s just that I need to get it out in the open so I can begin the process of sifting through it and making sense of it.

My friends that I chat with online are the lucky ones.  Especially on the 50 minute sessions.  For all I know they’ve long since left the computer.  They could be outside mowing the lawn, or eating a banana split or going for a swim.  All the while, I’m just typing away, blabbing away, venting away.  As long as they come back before I’m finished, I’d never know they left.  Even in their absence, the session is just as effective because I got everything out in the open.  Of course, having just said this, for those that hadn’t got the bright idea to go for a banana split during one of my venting episodes, they’ll now likely do it.  This means I’ll have to start asking random questions in the midst of everything, just to be sure they are still there!

After I’m done, after I’ve let it all out, and when I’ve completed the process of sifting through it and finding sense, if any sense is to be found, I write.  That’s what you see.  That’s what you read.  My therapy.  Dr Phil it is not, but it’s real.

It can be an intimidating thing, I admit this.  Once it’s out there, on this world wide web, I’m exposed.  Vulnerable.  Open.  One day, I suppose, that could come back to haunt me.  Thus far it hasn’t.  I like to tell myself – though I promise not out loud –  that maybe I’m not as crazy as I think I am.  Maybe we’re all just a bunch of people taking up space in the cosmos, dealing with the same stuff, thinking about the same things, sorting through the same chaos caused by same problems.  Brothers and sisters.  Like God intended it.

If my blood sister needed my help, I’d give it.  I’d likely tease her for a while, or make her beg for it a little, but eventually I’d help her.  So maybe some of the things I write, and some of the things you read will help you too.

Michael Buble – You Don’t Know Me

I fear women.  There.  I said it.  Sadly, I don’t feel any better.  I was sure that getting such a revelation off my chest would lift the burden of fright that I’ve been shouldering for so long.  It didn’t work.  Perhaps I must go deeper?

I’m not afraid of all women.  I love my grandma.  I think she is great.  She taught me about Hamburger Helper spread over a bed of mashed potatoes!  How can you not have a deep and profound love for a woman that teaches you that?  I love my mom too.  I used to fear my mom.  But that’s because she chased me with wooden spoons and spatulas.  That might have something to do with a disorder I had as a child that caused conflicts and errors in judgment between my mouth and my brain, but I’m not sure.  Now my mom and I get along great.  She doesn’t chase me with kitchen utensils anymore.  That’s not to say that she wouldn’t if I had one of those accidental verbal slips, but I think I’m mostly healed of that.

There are a lot of other woman that I’m not afraid too, I suppose.  I’m not afraid of the lady that cuts my hair.  And lets be honest, if there is any woman to be afraid of, it’s one holding a sharp object the thickness of your skull away from your brain.  She could damage me, no doubt.  But she seems sweet enough.  Quite friendly, somewhat conversational. I like her quite well.

I don’t fear a lot of the women on TV or in the movies either.  That’s because they’re all not real.  They’re figments of my imagination.  Or their imagination.  Or some writer or producers imagination.  I’m not exactly sure which, but they’re definitely not real.  I mostly don’t fear things that aren’t real.

The women I fear are very real.  They are typically about my age.  I’d say, overall, they fall in the age range of 25 – 32, give or take a year or two depending on the circumstances.  There is nothing that would be traditionally frightful about them either.  They have warm, inviting smiles.  The kind that asks for you to notice them and say hello.  Their hair shines, and waves and captivates me.  As it flutters in the breeze, I follow it to the brink of hypnosis.  They have eyes of sky blue or fairway green or earthy brown.  When you look into them, it’s like a window into their thoughts, their soul, their dreams.  I get lost.  I forget who I am, and what I want to say.  In the same moment, I’m grateful to be a man, and yet, embarrassed by myself entirely.

It’s easy to stand at a safe distance and appreciate a woman.  I don’t mean this in a vulgar, sexual way either.  Sadly, that is the general practice of much of my gender, and it hurts my heart to witness it.  I, on the other hand, mean it more in the way you appreciate a rose for it’s bold color, sweet scent and graceful beauty.  Woman is, in my opinion, God’s finest creation.  Like that rose, they catch my attention.

My life would be, in some ways, much easier, if I could collect my thoughts, construct intelligent, complete sentences, and generally not fall all over myself in the presence of a lady.  I am awed by the beauty of a rose.  Yet, I don’t need to speak to it to truly enjoy it.  Therein lies the biggest difference between the lady and the rose.  This also explains why I spend my free time taking pictures of flowers!

I suppose it’s not really as complicated as I make it out to be in my head.  It’s not good for me to be alone.  It’s in these times of solitude and reflection that I begin to over-think it all.  In the midst of that, I think myself right out of the ability to be comfortable and confident in the presence of a lady.  I’d like to believe that it’s not a confidence issue, though, if I’m being honest, it may be.  Mostly, it’s just about standing before this elegant creature and wanting to do the moment justice.

I didn’t date much before I got married.  I wasn’t overly big on the whole concept.  As a gentleman, I believe it’s my God given duty to protect the heart of a lady, and I didn’t feel I could do that by randomly taking pieces of the hearts of whichever girls grabbed my fancy at the time.  As a divorcee, a piece of my own heart was taken, and I’ve spent nearly two years healing.

The idea of dating in this new post divorce existence of mine is, unquestionably, the most terrifying thing I’ve ever faced.  I know it doesn’t need to be.  I know if I’d just relax, it would likely be a lot easier.  I feel so clueless though.  A lot has changed since I last dated.  A lot!  Women have evolved.  Men have evolved.  The “rules” of relationships have evolved.  I’m not sure how an old fashioned, hopeless romantic kind of guy fits into the equation now.

It’s a strange and mysterious place I find myself in.  A place where I appreciate and respect the creation that is woman, and yet, fear it, while at the same time, I journey towards, what I hope will one day be, a wife, a family, a second chance a love.  I have to remind myself, over and over it seems, that it really all comes down to boys talking to girls, and I started doing that in kindergarten.  It’s funny to me though, that 25 years later, I’m still struggling to piece together intelligent, complete sentences!

Signature Sound & Gaither Vocal Band – Heaven’s Joy Awaits

I was asked an interesting question the other day.  “If you could have 3 wishes what would they be?”  It’s not an uncommon question I suppose.  No doubt it’s something we’ve all pondered a time or two.  I mean, Aladdin is one of my favorite Disney movies.  It just seemed an odd question at the time.  Far more reaching than an impersonal discussion about the weather or the Blue Jays or the Stanley Cup Finals.

I couldn’t offer an immediate answer.  I decided such a question was too important to simply respond to off the cuff.  Although such an occurrence is unlikely to ever happen, truth be told, I own no lamp for a genie to even inhabit, I wanted to make sure I was prepared with a solid answer.  You know.  Just in case.

After a great deal of thought, and there may or may not have been a list written on paper – I’ll never tell – I decided I had come up with my 3 wishes and 1 solid alternate.  I give them to you now.

I was so excited about getting married.  A wife.  A house.  A dog.  Eventually some kids.  I wanted it all.  I was ready for it all.  I nearly got there.  Then one day a delivery came, and inside the envelope was a notice of divorce.  The dream died that day.  In that moment.  It took a long time before I ever even questioned if it could be possible again.  Some days, I still question it.

My first wish would be for a second chance at love.  I’d wish for a woman that I’d be crazy about today, tomorrow, and everyday we had together until all our days were behind and no more lied ahead.  Together we’d have a house and I’d fix it.  I’d probably yell at it from time to time, and I may even throw things at it on occasion, though when nobody was watching, but it would be our house.  Our home.  We’d fill it with a dog and children, and possibly some fish.  I dare not say how many children though.  God has a funny way about these things.  Tell Him you want 1 and the next thing you know you’re expecting triplets.  I just want kids.  I’ll take however many He’s willing to give.

A wish, or one day a reality?  Either way, I hold onto this one with great hope.

Since I was about 10 years old, or at least, somewhere in the general vicinity of that age, I’ve dreamed about being on the radio.  The soft glow of the digital display on my Sanyo stereo was a constant companion to me.  It sat on a shelf hung right at the head of my bed.  The speakers were tucked away neatly inside the headboard, and played all my favorite songs right into the back of my pillow as I lay dreaming.

I remember making my own “radio station” with an old tape recorder.  I’d mix the songs together, and record intros and weather forecasts for them in between.  Even at that young age I seemingly understood that half my future career in radio would be giving weather reports!  I bet if I looked hard enough, one or two of those tapes may still exist somewhere.

Since those days of my childhood, creating my own radio stations, I’ve had a dream that one day I’d do it for real.  I had visions of programming a great Christian radio station.  I still have those same visions, although they’ve morphed over the years as my skill and knowledge has developed.  My dream now involves creating a station like no other, and using it as a model to build a network of stations right across the country.  That, however, is another blog for another day.

My second wish, would be for this dream to come true.  It would be that somehow, God would bring me the resources I needed to make this dream a reality.  That would be an incredible wish!

Firefighters only save people in the movies.  OK, so that’s not really true.  It seems it though.  I’ve watched Backdraft and Ladder 49 hundreds of times probably.  I’ve just never done anything like they do in those movies.  10 years on the fire department.  No saves.  Sure I’ve gone into burning buildings, and I’ve extricated people from the wreckage of an M.V.C. but I’ve never had a save.

Truth be told, I’ve mostly experienced loss.  I don’t know a worse or more helpless feeling than watching the final grains of sand trickle through the hourglass of life while your hands are doing compressions on a persons chest.  It’s an awful feeling.

I keep answering the call though.  No matter the loss.  No matter the emotional stress.  I will keep answering the call.  The next one might be the one, I tell myself.  Not because I have a hero complex.  You just do it because you know you might be able to help someone.  That is motivation enough.  That is why I joined the fire department in the first place.

My third wish would be to make a save.  One save.  To race through a house, flames licking at my heels, heat wrapping around my body and squeezing the life out it, seeing the safe exit, a whole different world just on the other side of that door.  When I rush through it, into a different kind of light, the inviting light of sun versus the threatening light of flame, I emerge with a child pulled tighly to my body, protected by my arms, safe in my hands.

I wish for the chance to replace all the memories of the ones I couldn’t save, with just one that I did.

Finally, an alternate.  In the event that any of my 3 above wishes should come true before I am extended the chance to make 3 wishes, I thought it prudent to have a contingency wish.  The proverbial back-up plan.  This one, I shall spare detail as it will only cause embarrasment and ridicule.  Not that I’m ashamed of it mind you.  Just that I know others will find it amusing.  Simply put… I’d wish for the chance to be a bass singer in a Southern Gospel Quartet and share the stage with the likes of Ernie Haase and Signature Sound or the Gaither Vocal Band.  An unusual desire perhaps, but one that is shared with sincerity equal to the rest!

Naomi Striemer – Cars

When I was younger I had more money than brains.  Or maybe I just had no brains?  I suppose an argument could be made either way.  In my frivilous and carefree days of living at home I bought cars.  A different one every 6 months, or so it seemed!

In about a 3 year span I owned a 1985 Pontiac Fiero (still my favorite), a 1989 Pontiac Formula Firebird (which I miss terribly), a 1999 Pontiac Grand Am (which I was glad to part with), a 2000 Monte Carlo SS (which was a dream car), a 2002 Pontiac Grand Prix GT (which could corner like no other car I’ve driven), another 2000 Monte Carlo SS (which never lived up the standards set by the first one) and finally, a 2001 Ford Explorer Sport Trac.

Clearly, I had issues.  That, however, is another blog for another day.  When I got my truck, I seemed to put my vehicular indecisiveness behind me.  I had one to keep.  I got my truck in 2003 or 2004 I think.  I forget exactly.  I’ve been driving it ever since.

My truck has been a faithful companion.  Loyal to a fault.  In fact, my relationship with my truck outlasted my marriage.  I suppose that shouldn’t be funny.  But, it kind of is just a little.  I’ve had 2 years to get over the brokenness of a divorce I never desired.  I think it’s OK for me to see a lighter side of it now.  My truck has also nearly lasted longer than my last 4 jobs!  It’s seen me through 2 radio stations, 1 radio show, 1 TV show, and a stint in patient transfer.  It’s been there through it all.

In all those years, across all those miles, my truck has run like a dream.  It’s never left me stranded.  It’s never stuck me with a huge repair bill.  It’s been a perfect truck.  A perfect friend.  When I think back on it now, I have a little guilt.  Like maybe I should have waxed it more or something?

Yesterday on my way to work, my brakes fell off.  All of them.  Front and rear.  Drivers side and passenger side.  They fell off.  If I’m being perfectly honest, I am mostly ignorant in the ways of all things mechanical.  I confess, I had no idea such a feat was even possible.  That said, if you’re looking for the improbable, unthinkable, unheard of to happen, take my mug shot and slap me on the poster.  You’ve got yourself a spokesman!

Thankfully, though I was not thinking this at the time, it happened less than half a block from Canadian Tire.  I managed to limp my truck down the street and find a parking spot right in front of the service centre.  Then I started preparing for the worst.  I knew my brakes were bad.  There are a lot of things on my truck that are bad.  That’s why I’m looking for a new truck, and have been for 2 months.  I was just hoping the new one would come before the old one packed it in.

I dropped off my keys and walked to the radio station which is, thank the Lord, not far away.  The trek across town gave me some time to decompress and prepare myself for the phone call with the mechanics assessment.  I have already spoke with God about this, I needed forgiveness for some of the thoughts in my head during that walk!  They were less than stellar thoughts.

When the mechanic called me and told me the cost, I think I might have almost wept a little.  Keep in mind, this is taking place while I’m live on the air.  I actually had to put the mechanic on hold at one point during the conversation so I could do a break.  When you’re doing a live radio show and you’re driving people home on a sunny Friday afternoon, it’s not a great time to be told your truck repair bill is going to hit $700!

I, of course, talked about my adventures on my show.  That’s what I do.  I talk about life, about my life.  People seem to enjoy it.  I honestly didn’t think my existence was overly thrilling, but I guess it makes me a real.  People can relate to real.  I also shared some of my adventures on Twitter.

I won’t lie to you and tell you I was entirely positive about the experience.  In fact, despite my best efforts, I was mostly having a bit of a pity party thinking about the $700 repair bill.  Leave it to my listeners, and my tweeps, to help me check myself though!  What a blessing they are.  I’m grateful for the way God can tap you on the shoulder on bring about a change of perspective through the most unexpected ways.

The overwhelming response to my cries of brakes falling off and $700 repair bills was, “I’m glad you’re OK” or “Thank God it didn’t happen on the 403″ (which I drive to work) or “Thankfully nobody was hurt.”

I was convicted big time as I read those responses, and took some listener calls.  I’m normally a pretty upbeat kind of guy, but I was definitely looking out the wrong coloured glasses on this one.  While I was questioning God, in my mind, about why this had to happen when He knows I’m trying to get rid of the truck, or where am I supposed to get $700 from, I needed a reality check.  I got it.  I’m grateful for it.

Dear brothers and sisters, when troubles come your way, consider it an opportunity for great joy. For you know that when your faith is tested, your endurance has a chance to grow. So let it grow, for when your endurance is fully developed, you will be perfect and complete, needing nothing. James 1:2-4 NLT

That passage from James is a favorite of mine.  It’s a reminder that nobody said life is going to be easy.  We are going to have bad days, and bad things are going to happen.  I don’t think this passage is about rejoicing over $700 repair bills as much as it’s about finding something in the midst of difficult circumstances to rejoice in!

If my brakes had fallen off 10 minutes earlier, I would have been going 100km/h down the 403 westbound heading to Brantford.  Instead, my brakes fell off in the parking lot of the Petro Canada Gas Station.  I am blessed!  So blessed.  In that, I find I can find joy, even though my brakes did fall off.