21 years ago this week, I traveled up to the St. Louis area from my summer job to hang out with Sarah and her family for the Fourth of July. At that point, Sarah and I had only been on one date at the start of the summer… then she promptly left town for four weeks. (She actually went to the Emerald Coast, which felt a bit personal. I didn’t think our date went that badly—but apparently, she needed a month and a coastline to recover.)
Thirteen years ago, Sarah was nine months pregnant in a high-risk pregnancy with our son, Foster. We didn’t know the gender and hadn’t picked a name yet, so we just referred to the baby as… well, “Baby.”
Our friends were convinced we should name him “Steven Danger Beard.” (We did not.)
We had been trying to have a child for over five years, and only later discovered that Sarah had some health issues that made pregnancy especially difficult. Doctors told us the baby would undoubtedly come early. So, we were on high alert—weekly appointments, bags packed, life in a holding pattern, anxiously waiting.
21 years ago, I was helping out this college girl everyone called “Welker” with a music event. She sang. I played guitar and sang badly. After rehearsal, we decided to check out this musician on campus for the May Day celebration.
We wandered over and listened to Howie Day sing Collide. Less than a month later, I awkwardly asked Welker if she wanted to grab coffee. I said, “I’ll pay”—which I figured was obviously code for this is a date…but apparently, she didn’t get the memo.
I love a good story. I love great film and television. I’m a terrible reader when it comes to fiction, but I love the beautiful narrative of biographies and non-fiction. Try to imagine something…and I struggle, but real people in real history, I’m hooked.
Most of us find that we love a good story. We always have. This is why people sat around fires sharing stories of the past, why we love when older family members tell the tales of when they were young, why we are often drawn to incredible stories based on actual events, why we love to get together with old friends and retell that time that one thing happened.
We love a good story.
Sometime over the past year or so, I’ve spoken about a bird ending up in The Chapel and me desperately trying to capture said bird and release it back into the “wild.”
Also, over the past year or so, I’ve talked about my pizza oven and making a foolish error where I singed some of my eyebrows and eyelashes.
I’m not sure what my deep theological point was in either of those stories… but I’m sure they were meaningful. Likely life-changing.
You won’t believe it…
Last week I was using my pizza oven to roast some carrots. I was flambéing them to get a nice finishing char with a delightful caramelized sauce. And lo and behold, flames shot out of the oven—and I singed my eyebrows and eyelashes again.
I didn’t want to let Sarah know… because I figured she would determine I’m not “responsible enough to play with fire…” So I did the mature thing and didn’t tell her.
Turns out, the fire also singed the hair on my head. I know. My luscious locks.
She immediately noticed.
Then, just this past week—a bird wandered into The Chapel, and I had to catch and release it. Two days in a row.
I don’t know if this bird is trying to draw closer to God, or wants to see the beauty of the space, or if he’s just foolish—but he keeps wandering in, getting caught, and being carried back out.
I’ve now done this three times. Twice this week alone.
And every time—I still get this wild rush trying to catch the bird.
My heart races. I get unusually hot and sweaty. The adrenaline pumps.
I feel like Steve Irwin or Dog the Bounty Hunter…
But instead of crocodiles or criminals on the run… it’s a tiny bird.