This past weekend, I had the opportunity to go back to Camp Sumatanga (a place I have talked about before: see here). As I have said before, I can’t imagine a place on this Earth that is more bathed in prayer or has a more consistent and palpable presence of God.

This time, I had the great privilege of attending a once a lifetime experience called “Walk to Emmaus”. The walk is based on Luke 24:13-35 where Jesus appears to two disciples on the first Easter afternoon. First let me say this: I was a little freaked out by the idea of this experience. I mean, I know that everyone says it is a positive and wonderful experience. The thing is, no one will tell you much about it. I didn’t understand why, but now I know. To try to explain my experience would be meaningless to you. I can tell you some of the things I got from it, but if you went through the whole thing sitting next to me, you’re experience would be different. Of the men I talked to, no two people got the same message.

What I will say is this: My life will never be the same. I will never look at the world quite the same again. I know i’m going to fall, I know I’ll probably have days where I am cynical and the mountain top I’m on right now is bound to lead to a valley. Any journey must move forward and this one is no exception.

I learned about and experienced God’s Grace, love and his forgiveness in a way that I had never before felt. The whole weekend was full of new friends, new perspectives and a new appreciation for God’s call on my life.

For now, I will just say this: Christ is counting on you to be his hands and feet in this world. Go out there and share his love!

De Colores!

Just like Video killed the Radio Star, the world of Twitter has killed my blog. This is a documented phenomenon, but I’m paying for this space and I should be using it.

The truth is (I wonder how many times I use that phrase on my blog), I don’t write because there’s nothing going through my brain worth writing a long post about and I hate fluff.

Today has been a good, albeit abnormal, day. The fun of home ownership just keeps getting better. I’ve been fighting various roof leaks for the last year or so, and after getting up this morning I found a new one in a completely different leak on the other end of the house. I fixed the one in the bathroom a while back, but this one has sprung up in the living room.

I have a theory that no project is complete until a blood sacrifice has been made, and today I hope I ended the project.

That is road rash. Well, more accurately that is roof rash. I was trying to caulk a space underneath an overhang when my arm got caught between two sections of the roof. So the result is a caulk-coated, pellet filled scrape that burns like I’m on fire. The best part is, its right on the part of my arm that rubs against my shirt. Great fun.

In this home ownership fun saga, we’ve had this leaky outside faucet for about 20 years. Seriously, we bought the house I grew up in, and I don’t remember this faucet NOT leaking. It had gotten to the point that some attention is required, so Dad and I decide to undertake the project.

For a little background, I have never in my life heard my father actually say we needed to call someone else to fix something. Ever. Mom has worn him down a few times, and he has agreed to let someone else fix things but I can’t recall it ever being his idea. This has come at some expense, mostly hilarity, as everything that could possibly go wrong inevitably does.

As Dad looks under the house, he actually utters the words “We’re gonna have to call the man” (A reference to The Andy Griffith Show episode “Bargain Day”). Just so happens, a plumber is working at the next house over, so we go up to see if we can hire him when he gets done. After some discussion  he tells us that we can fix this problem ourselves with very little problem – just replace the washer.

Now, never in the history of the Plunkett Farm have we ever fixed something by “Just replacing the washer”. This almost always devolves into strewn tools, blood sacrifice (see above), at least 4 people giving their input on how they would fix it and their quick departure followed by a success well over time and over budget.(My wife adds that this also usually involves near death experiences and “Don’t try this at home” moments)

We proceed back to my yard and grab the tools, shut off the water and give it a whirl. Whattya know? The faucet came right apart and sure enough the 30-some-odd-year-old washer was right there on the end of the shaft just begging to be replaced. You might be tempted at this point of the story to assume that our success is assured and no project as described above could ever start on a good note, but you would be wrong. More than once a cheer of assured success has been given at the first stage of a project only to later devolve into the death-defying bloodbath as usual.

As we walk into the hardware store, faucet shaft in hand, we are admittedly feeling pretty good about ourselves. With some assistance from Coach Calloway (my high school economics teacher who works there on the weekends) we find a washer to replace the 30-some-odd-year-old one and pay the high price of…. 25 cents.

Twenty. Five. Cents.

“Too easy”, I think. There has been no blood.

Fast forward 20 minutes and some talk of unbelief in the truck, and we’re now turning the water back on.

And the faucet didn’t drip.

Not one single drop.

Twenty. Five. Cents.

How many gallons of water have we paid for over the last 20 years?

Fixed in a half hour. With 25 cents.No blood, no threats by my wife of calling 911 and no risk of electrocution.

Just 2 wrenches, a washer and 25 cents.

After 20 years I expected, and almost wanted, a fight.

The logical progression was the roof rash above. The house had to have her revenge, after all.