The Chicago Cubs have reached the playoffs for the fourth time (I don't count '84) in my 23 year life. 4 times! In my lifetime, there have been more Summer Olympics, Saturday night live character deaths, and Mountain Park Youth Pastors than Cubs playoff appearances.

When this season began I did not anticipate that the team with the NL’s worst record in 2006 would be atop their division. The additions of Soriano and Theodore Lilly have proven to be worth the money shed by GM Jim Hendry and there have been surprising performances from the baby cubs (would they just be cub cubs?). Let’s hope that their inspired performances continue into the post season.

The question that I continue to receive is, “do you think they are going to win it all?” My response, “I think they are going to win it all every year, and they usually don’t get close to the playoffs.” So you can imagine the hope that I feel as the Cubs make their way to the desert for their opening series against the Diamondbacks. I am stupid enough to believe that this could be the year that ends 99 years of billy goats and bartmans.

With all of the said, I am off to Phoenix, Arizona for my first Cubs playoff games. If you think about it, offer a prayer to the baseball gods (perhaps no different than God himself) in the name of Harry, Ronny, and Ryne.

EAMUS CATULI!

Having never shaved my head prior to this summer, I had never encountered the paramount question...

Should it stay or should it go?



I must make a decision quicikly because I am being told that I look like the Lego Man or one of those Weeple things that you got during school wide magazine sales. Has anyone figured out why those things actually motivated us to nag our families to buy another years worth of Sports Illustrated?





If Taryn had her way I may be bald forever. But I think I am on my way back to the faux hawk.

I can't get the links to work. Therefore, I will just post one link that will lead you into the sewers of MySpace.

I need to switch to Wordpress.

http://blog.myspace.com/jsrock23

My wife got lost in the Sistine chapel.

This is not a fictional tale. Its true. With her neck stuck in the upright and locked position she lost site of the group. As she gazed at the Hand of God, the Last Judgment or perhaps colorful scenes from the Great Flood she wandered further and further away from the Shappell brigade.

As I exited the chapel I casually asked my grandma if she had seen Taryn exit. My grandma replied by saying that she was sure Taryn had exited in front of us and that she must be getting a head start on the next section of the museum. In retrospect, I never should have listened to my grandma. We had been dragging Taryn out of every museum we visited, so much so that Taryn had begun begging to tour the museums on her own so she could use the guided, senior citizen, headphone tours…why on earth would she have hurried through the climax of our artistic journey?

Standing at the funneled Sistine Chapel exit, I waited patiently. Minutes passed. My patience turned to concern. Concern to worry. Worry to panic. I had lost my wife in Vatican City.

There was no doubt that my feelings were shared by Taryn. I could just picture her pouty little lip beginning to cascade over her chin as she explained her situation to a security guard. I can imagine the panic that set in as the minutes ticked off the clock. I could imagine her standing on her tippy toes just trying to get a glance of a familiar head.

Finally, after ninety long minutes, she caught a glimpse of my dad, and collapsed into my his arms.

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For many years I allowed feelings of worry and panic to overwhelm me. I found my futuristic frame of mind doing more harm than good. Today, I find myself in the midst of similar concerns. What is next after Seattle? Am I going to get a good job? Should I create my own position? Was moving to Seattle the right decision? Will God continue to provide life-giving relationships? What will community look like in our next urban adventure?

Lately I find myself in the Sistine Chapel, looking for a familiar head. Looking for something familiar. Lost in a sea of people, options, vocations, and ideas. Just looking. Looking for something I can know. Looking for a sign of God’s provision. Something to erase the worry, ease the doubt, or to fast forward through life's difficult decisions.

I may not find that something familiar, the worry may linger, but I hope that when I run into my Dad, he can help me figure it out.

As I was sprinting my way through the Uffizi, the illustrious Florentine art gallery, I was stopped dead in my tracks by this image.

There were three wood panels on the wall painted in acrylic by the Italian Piero Del Pollaiuolo. Faith. Charity. Hope. While they were all marvelously done, I was only interested in one. Just like the child that enters the pet store and stops at the first dog…I was not budging. This is where my eyes wanted to rest, where my mind wanted to wander.

I noticed three things in contrast to the other panels.

• Her gaze upward: She was the one with a directive stare. She was the only one looking up. She was the only one who appeared mesmerized.
• Her tense posture: The others look at ease. Their hands are resting at their sides or are holding objects. Hope is sitting, with pristine posture, her hands flexed and pushing firmly against one another.
• Her glassy eyes: Her eyes are tearful. As we stood looking at the image, there was debate. “Is she crying?” asked one young mother. I answered, “If she isn’t, she definitely wants to.”

While some would argue that the imagery in Renaissance art is purely speculation and that the viewer gives too much meaning to fabric colors, hand formations, and the number of birds perched on a tree, there is no doubt in my mind that the artist of this piece understands hope…and has portrayed its beauty well.

Hope is often used so happily. “I hope you have a nice day,” “I hope to see you again,” “I hope your date goes well this evening.” We use these lines to bring comfort or support to others. We hope that by offering hope we will bring rest, peace, or joy to someone. But is that really what hope looks like?

There is no denying that hope, just as expressed in the kind wishes above, is a looking towards the future. Hope is seeking the manifestation of our current desires in the future. Our desires are in fact the engine for our hopes. Where there is desire there will be hope. Hope moves us forward. But does hope bring comfort and support? Or is it perhaps a more dangerous and sacrificial endeavor?

Back to this image. Obviously the gaze upward could be defined as a looking toward heaven. It could in fact be a representation of the eschatological hope that Christian possess today. But if she is gazing towards God, or a future in heaven, why the tears? Why the tension?

I cannot project the thoughts of the Italian artist, but I can take a stab at it. My opinion…Because hope drives you mad. Hope rarely brings comfort, hope unveils your foolishness. Hope is not easy. Hope is not the bow for the pretty package. Hope is maddening. Hope brings tears, clinched fists, and sweat. Hope is exhausting.

It is said that where your tears fall, there you find your hopes and dreams.

This painting reflects that and causes me to think about my own hopes. I hope for love not based on what I can do for others. I hope for a future without divorce. I hope to be a man that Taryn can be proud of. I hope to be a part of a community that can redeem much of the created world that is now used for violence. I hope, hope, hope. I hope for something greater than me. I hope for a new world. I hope for eternity.

And the hoping hurts sometimes.

I hope it never stops.

“You don’t need reservations to see the David, I heard there isn’t even a line” said my grandma.
“I heard, if you get reservations the Italians just laugh and ridicule you until you hate yourself so much you don’t even want to see the David.,” adds my father.

“Venice is the nastiest city in the world. I read that they are the number one city for asbestos,” muttered my grandpa. “Oh ya, I heard that too. And I heard that if you touch the water in the water streets you will catch cancer and your soul will whither,” remarked my dad.

“Well I have friends, who have been to Italy 41 times, and they say that going to Rome is a waste of time. Its just filled with old stuff that has all been restored,” said my grandma. “I agree,” interjected my step mom, “in fact, I read in a Rick Steve’s book that the Coliseum is actually just 10 years old and was the original location of the smash hit children’s show The Wiggles.”

“Isn’t the Coliseum where the Titanic sunk?” asked Jordan.
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If you ever go to Europe, you are going to have conversations such as these. Everyone is going to give you an opinion on what to do, where to go, and what to eat. While the above conversations are slightly exaggerated, there is no doubt that this is much of what I heard prior to my 13 day trip to Italy.

Thankfully Jordan, Taryn, and I did not heed the advice issued by many of our fellow travelers. We saw Michelangelo’s masterful work, we scooted through the Grand Canal, and we were overwhelmed by the history of martyrdom at the Coliseum.

During one of our many car rides back to Barga (NO ONE ever recommended staying there, by the way), I began to think about all of the advice that had been given to us prior to our trip. I listened to some, ignored others, and googled the questionable. But at the end of the day, there were still decisions to made, risks to take, and salami pizza to eat. It had me thinking…

How often do we live our lives based on the suggestions of others?

How often do the negative words of a third grade teacher, the vocational suggestion of our parents, or the criticisms of our superiors keep us from doing the things our souls desire? I am not foolishly suggesting that we ignore the wise words of others, but that we simply step out and .... try.

It has been said that we are supposed to “walk through open doors” and “listen to the wisdom of our elders”, but have we been paralyzed by these modern clichés? Could it be that we are missing out on the living out of our dreams because we refuse to knock on that “locked door”. Could we be missing the life God has called us to live as we allow the degrading words of others to burrow into our idea of self? Have we allowed American consumerism’s message of safety and security to keep us from simply…trying?

So today, go to Venice. Take a risk. Don’t allow the expectations of “experts” to keep you from…trying.

And oh ya… if you ever go to Italy, don’t stay in Barga and men, always wear a Speedo.

Just got back from 11 days in Italia.



This was our ride…”THE PARTY”. It held us tightly as we drove over 3300km in 6 days.

There will be a couple Italian themed blogs in the coming week. You can smell them can’t you? They smell like salami, pizza dough, unshowered body hair, and trash.