November 4: Live blogging...sort of

Election night is why I started drinking. Since I have no wine in the house, I'm just guzzling water straight from the hose.

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McConnell takes Kentucky. Maybe Grimes will tell us who she voted for now.

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Cotton takes Arkansas from the Democrats. But he's an Iraq War Veteran. Never bet against a veteran. They've got skills.

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Brown falling to Shaheen in New Hampshire. I'm sure she's a lovely person, even if she did coordinate with the IRS to target Conservative groups, like the memo released yesterday shows. Still, lovely I'm sure. If you can get past that whole nasty, illegal stuff.

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Republicans pick up three! Bwahahahahaha

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And then there were four. Colorado Senate goes red. I guess pot really is good for you.

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The fifth goes in Montana. We need six for the win, people. SIX.

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And the Senate goes red. Six have been taken, ladies and gentlemen.

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Joni takes her sassy haircut and her skills in pig castration (you read that right) to Iowa. Perdue takes Georgia. Walker stays in Wisconsin. Roberts remains in Kansas. And Florida rejected Repubican-turned-Independent-turned-Democrat Crist for Scott. Republicans didn't just win the Senate, they possessed it. Now, I'm exhausted. And my neighbors would probably appreciate it if I tuned out the returns and stopped my shouting so they could get some rest. Thanks for tuning in to my unprompted, not requested, political live blogging.    

Mork from Ork and the Terrific, Hilarious, All Good, Very Funny Life

 

Originally posted at LightQuestMedia.com/blog

 

Robin Williams said something funny once.  Who knows who heard it, but it must have been a zinger.  It compelled him to try for a laugh again, and once the first domino fell we’ve been laughing ever since.

He had a knack about him to exhaust even the listener.  How could he think that fast?  Talk that fast?  And exactly how many voices were in his head, anyway?  Because they could all come out in one smooth, mildly coherent monologue.
He was genius in motion.  He flung words like wet noodles against the wall and every one of them stuck.  He left too soon, but, in comparison, his talent lasted so very long.
Robin Williams gave us the dance of our lives before the music stopped.

“Oh Captain, my Captain.  Who knows where that comes from?  Anybody?  Not a clue?  It’s from a poem by Walt Whitman about Mr. Abraham Lincoln.  Now in this class you can either call me Mr. Keating, or if you’re slightly more daring, O Captain my Captain.” – John Keating, Dead Poets Society

Oh Captain

 

Of all the quirky, off-kilter, zany yet relatable lines Robin Williams spoke, one quote had more weight.  In fact, it sunk to the sandy ocean floor.  And there it sits.
Robin (his relationship with his audience was too personal to call him “Williams”) saw things few do.  And, during an interview with Diane Sawyer in 2006, he gave us a momentary glimpse inside the mind that baffled us.
It came after a two-year relapse into alcoholism following 20 years of sobriety.  It came two months after rehab, where he had admitted himself.  It came days before “Man of the Year” premiered and, once again, audiences would flock to the unexpected dialogue of a man who couldn’t be held down by a mere script.
It came after Sawyer asked if the last two years brought him sadness.
“Yeah, there’s a sadness…and then there’s also hope. In sadness, it’s almost like…you wish they hadn’t happened, but they did.  And the purpose is to make you different. It’s what they call a Buddhist gift.  I would call it the ultimate Christian gift. It’s that idea of, you’re back and you realize that the thing that matters are others – way beyond yourself.  Self goes away.  Ego, bye-bye.  You realize there are a lot of amazing people out there to be grateful for.  And a loving God.  And…other than that, good luck.  That’s what life is about.”
Link to Robin Williams Interview on GMA

“My first day as a woman and I’m getting hot flashes.” – Mrs. Doubtfire

Knock, Knock

 

Everyone loves the sound of laughter.  But maybe Robin didn’t hear it like we do.  Maybe he heard something different.  Maybe when he delivered a line so crisp it could be snapped in half and loudly crunched, he heard a sound with a more angelic quality.  Maybe, for him, all laughter was infused with a tinkle of glass and the gurgle of water.  Maybe it boomed like thunder or rushed like wind.  Maybe flutes and violins played in the background and, because he was Robin Williams, there was a tuba thrown in there, too.  Maybe as much as laughter can lift our spirits, for Robin it lifted his feet off the ground.
He was so entranced with laughter he dedicated his life to it.  He brought it to hospitals and sick beds, to soldiers far from home and the homeless far from everything.  He would take his talent to the darkest places in life and then open it up like a box of sunlight.
Everywhere Robin went, he went for the laugh.  And the laugh came running to meet him.  This was his gift.  It was how he gave to others.  That is where the quote and the life collided.

“We’ll try to be more quiet.  We’ll only play ‘spin the sock’, we’ll replace our stereo needle with a Q-tip, and we’ll all play charades wearing gloves.” – Mork

Come In Orson

 

There’s a lot we don’t know about Robin.  We do not know the struggle happening inside his mind or the pain of his battle.  He kept that to himself.
But we know he got one very important thing right: He knew life was about giving all of himself, even as quirky as he was, to serve others in only the way he could.  That, and a loving God, was life.  He knew it.  And now we do, too.
Thanks Robin for all your glory and humanity, your mistakes and stumbles, your humility and noise, and that one time when life was just too heavy that you made us laugh in spite of ourselves.
Until next month, nanu-nanu.

“You treat a disease, you win, you lose.  You treat a person, I guarantee you, you’ll win, no matter what the outcome.” – Hunter Patch Adams

You Win Some, You Lose Some First

 

Originally posted at LightQuestMedia.com/blog

 

Bob Newhart lost the first time in 1962.  Carl Reiner won the Emmy that year for his work on “The Dick Van Dyke Show.”  And the Emmy moved on.

It moved on during the entire six seasons of the “Bob Newhart Show.”  It paid attention in 1985, 1986, and 1987, but he still lost.  In 2004, he lost again.  Once more in 2007.
When it came to the Emmy, Bob Newhart knew how to lose.  And that’s what he did for 51 years. Until last year when he won.
When asked backstage how he had never received an Emmy, Newhart said, “The best answer to that really is whenever I was nominated, there were better people in the category than me.  That’s the truth.  The best person wins.  That’s the way it is.”
In Hollywood, maybe.  In life, not so much.  If you’re having trouble winning, it may not be because you’re not the best person.  It may be because losing is your destiny.

Putting up a fight

 

Jacob wrestled with God until daybreak.  He wouldn’t stop.  He wouldn’t relent.  He wouldn’t let go. He also wouldn’t win.
As the sun crested the horizon, the angel of God ended the battle.  With a simple touch, Jacob’s hip dislocated and remained so for the rest of his life.  Jacob was destined to lose.  And no matter how hard he fought (and fight he must), he was never going to win.

How’s the hip? A little achy? 

 

Culturally, losing is associated with lack of focus.  Or skill.  A refusal to actively pursue a goal.  Or laziness.  Losers see themselves as losers, winners see themselves as winners.  Isn’t that how it goes?
Winners are the exact opposite of losers.  They visualize winning.  And set goals.  They try harder than everyone else and never, never, never quit.
But here’s the question no one wants to talk about: What if you give your dream everything you’ve got and you still fail?  What then?

Losing is for winners

 

Jacob didn’t want to lose.  But he did.  Initially.  Yet somehow he still ended up with a fortune, a forgiving brother, and a name permanently associated with God.  He would father a nation and, eventually, be the bloodline for the savior of the world.
That Jacob.  The loser.  The guy with a limp.
But for Jacob to fulfill his destiny, he first had to lose.  It was imperative.  There were lessons in the loss that he couldn’t do without.  He wouldn’t lean on God without a loss.  He wouldn’t trust God to protect him unless he couldn’t physically fight for himself.  He wouldn’t understand humility without first understanding pain.
Jacob would be a winner.  But only after losing.

Learn your lesson

 

We’re not hardwired to enjoy losing.  We yearn for the win.  We dream of it.  Even when we don’t deserve it, we want grace over fairness.  Losing, however, may be necessary for the big win.  Here’s why:

1.  Me, meet self.
You never know yourself quite like you’ll know yourself when you lose.  When the win doesn’t come, you suddenly see faults and weaknesses that were invisible before. Now that you see them, you can correct them.  And, when you do, you just helped you be better.

  2.  Perseverance counts for more than you think.
In the KJV, it’s called “patience.”  In NLT, it’s “endurance.”  In NIV, it’s “perseverance.”  James 1:4 tells us to let patience/endurance/perseverance finish what it started.  When we do, we’ll be “perfect and entire, wanting nothing.”

3.  Sweeten the pot.
When you lose, the wins are that much sweeter.  Newhart stopped submitting himself for an Emmy to “spare myself the agony of defeat.”  When he finally won at the age of 84, the entire room stood to its feet.  That win was far bigger and greater than any that could have come sooner.

4.  Losing is work.
Jacob would not let go of the angel until he finally…lost.   But in doing so, he  prevailed.  Perhaps it was Jacob who first said, “Winning isn’t everything?”

Chipotle Marketing: A lesson in increasing Qdoba sales

Marketing isn't rocket science, but it does require some thought and basic rules, such as:


1. Know your audience.
In this takeout bag, one of many to highlight quotes as part of their new campaign, Chipotle told their paying customers they should hope for the day when they no longer pay Chipotle.

2. Never devalue your product.
Money is how we value our products and services. Until we start using Gummy Bears, we're stuck with money. By saying you want your product to be free, you are telling everyone you don't value your product and neither should they.

3. Support your mission.
If you're in the mood to publicly espouse personal philosophies, write a manifesto. Your products should promote your mission. For Chipotle, that's selling food. Don't talk about how much you hate working to provide that product or service, i.e. food. At least not on your takeout bags.

4. Live in the real world.
Chipotle wants Communism. That's their prerogative. But, until they decide to close up shop in a democratic republic, money is required for their company to exist.

5. Focus on your purpose.
In this quote, Chipotle has not only forgotten their own purpose, they want everyone else to live without one, too.


And here's my last point, but this is exclusively for Chipotle:
6. Get a better marketing person. I'm available, but I'm very, very expensive.

Video: Kids reimagine shopping

Life was meant to be lived by children. We adults just get in the way.

The Island Syndrome: Not A Good Place to Get Stranded

The thing that's funny when a single person gets sick, and I say "funny" but mean "dangerous," is that we can be quite ill, even delusional, and think we're fine.

Who's to tell us differently?

Fevers, for instance, can go unnoticed until a curb jumps out at you in a Walgreens parking lot when you've gone to restock your Kleenex supply. That's when you finally realize: 1) Curbs are harder to avoid than previously thought. 2) I'm quite feverish.

When I got home, instead of calling someone, instead of asking for help, I stared into space for awhile and then decided sleep could be the answer to all of life's biggest problems, including why my eyeballs were on fire.

An object in isolation will stay in isolation unless an external force acts upon it.

The oddesh thing about this whole scenario was that a coworker had just warned me about my tendency to go it alone only days earlier. A warning he's given me before. This time, however, he wasn't talking about an illness, he was talking about my scheduled move in a week and his offer to help.

"Don't be an Island Tara," he said.

For the record, there isn't an Island Tara. There is the Hill of Tara in Ireland, which is an island, and now we've come full circle. My guess? He meant that with a lower case "i" and a comma after.

The point, of course, is that I tend to do things on my own. Mostly it's because my life requires it. Sometimes it's because I prefer it. All the time it's because I fear dependence. Relying on anyone but myself usually ends in disappointment and me doing it myself anyway. So, who needs that? Not me. I'll take care of everything. I'll handle my responsibilities. I'll solve my problems. I'll move my belongings, right after I've purchased more tissues and nursed myself back to lucidity.

Except when I can't. And that, Houston, is when we have a problem.

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. ¹⁰ That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

II Corinthians 12:9-11 

Delight in weakness? Other than the fact I can currently hit Karen Carpenter's low D in "A Song for You," I'm not feeling all that delighted. Weakness does not thrill me. It doesn't send tingles up, or down, my leg. It does not draw me toward it like the proverbial moth always panting for that proverbial flame. It is what I wish to shed like a thick orange peel so I can get to the juicy pulp inside. 

Weakness is my enemy. Or so I would have me believe. 

The thing I keep being surprised about by God, and I often wonder if He's ever surprised by me still being surprised, is how often knowing Him better means being the opposite of me, doing the opposite of my instincts. 

Survival tells me to handle things on my own. Survival tells me this is the wise choice. Survival says to pay better attention when driving in a Walgreens parking lot. 

God, however, tells me to unclench my fists, to ungrit my teeth, to ease myself right into the midst of pain, defeat, weakness, and failure and rest there. Without fighting it. Without struggling to the surface. To simply be there. Floating to the bottom. And trust Him to bring me out of the mire, to the shore, with fresh clothes and a hearty meal of grilled fish with a slice of lemon.

He says to be weak. And to delight in it. To be where I am when where I am has failed, and joy in it. To see the insurmountable and to acknowledge it as such. And then, in childlike trust, to ask for help. Specifically, to ask Him. 

My dad recently reminded me of a story from his youth, one where he very nearly drowned. He was age 13 or thereabouts, splashing about in a river with other friends, diving in with gusto, and only then realizing he was over his head and unable to swim. So he went down. Once. Then again. And again. The third time he succumbed, sucking in water and gasping for breath, he knew he could not reverse the inevitable. With the only thing he had left within him, he threw up one arm in a desperate plea for someone to grasp it. 

Like a child. Reaching out his hand in complete need. That caught the attention of an adult nearby who dove in and pulled him to shore. 

He could have kept fighting it himself. He could have decided he would overcome his circumstances on his own. He could have continued with the misguided belief he could handle it, but that's the moment he would have drowned. 

Instead, he reached for help and help reached back. My friends, whether we believe it or not, whether our circumstances appear that way or not, anytime we reach toward God for help, He will always reach back. 

In fact, God dives in to come to us because, I can assure you, our arms are never long enough. 

So about that weakness? As much as it pains me, my throat, my sinuses, and my feverish eyeballs to say, delight in it. Be grateful for it. Joy in the opportunity to be that dependent child. Even sing that weakness a song.

I know a Carpenter tune that would work great here.

I Want It Now: When You're That Bratty Willy Wonka Character

Satan rushes. God leads.

That's how the email started, which made me want to shut it. Instead, I read the entire thing because my first urges are rarely right.

It was a newsletter from Dave Jewitt, founder of Your One Degree, an incredible life coaching program that I have yet to finish. Your One Degree takes you step by micro step through a process, supported by your personal life coach, to discover why the bloody blue blazes you exist.

That's not exactly how their marketing materials read, but I'm close.

Jewitt, who I've had the privilege to meet on several occasions, designed his scripturally-based program to help people discover what God uniquely created them to do, who God uniquely created them to be.

When you can go in any of the 360-degrees around you, Jewitt's program helps you discover that one degree you were uniquely crafted to go.

And I really need to finish it.

When I opened the email, the first words caught me off guard. You see, in the last week, around 2ish in the afternoonish last Thursday, in fact, I decided to move. Literally and figuratively. I began mentally packing up my things. I had decided to forget this whole waiting business, I'm changing things and I'm changing them now.

And, don't misunderstand me, I'm not exactly changing my mind here. In fact, my mind already ordered a U-Haul.

But Jewitt's words reminded me of something that, in my haste, I had really wanted to ignore: I'm not the one ordering my steps.

Here's what he went on to say, "It is essential to 'give God space to work' in your life. In other words, take time to pray, listen, seek wise counsel, get in the Word, and evaluate the opportunity in light of your DESIGN."

My first thought was, "crap."
My second thought was, "I'll think about it."

photo courtesy of DaveDrury.com

When I want something, I generally want it now, much like Veruca Salt in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Any patience I show following the moment I want whatever I want feels like righteous bonus points.

Hello. I waited.

And if I have to wait a long time, as in YEARS, or even DECADES, well, heck, I imagine Job himself is up in heaven nodding and applauding my effort.

Ah, shucks. Thanks Job.

I want movement. I want things to change. And I want it now. Is that so wrong? And maybe "wrong" is one of those words subject to interpretation. Yes?

Patience isn't one of my better virtues. In fact, growing up my girlfriends and I often used the phrase "patience has ceased to be a virtue" whenever what we wanted didn't happen when we wanted it. Or in the days, weeks, months, or years following.

Not that what we wanted was bad. It was usually good things: health, direction, a job, a husband, a family, all things God imprinted in our DNA to want. But how we want them is where the journey gets stuck to the bottom of our shoe.

Like gum. Like really annoying gum.

What I want right now isn't bad, either. It's purpose. It's direction. It's settling the upheaval of my life into a neatly organized, alphabetically filed, corners folded in precise 90-degree angled structure. (I also want my name on an encyclopedic-like series of hardback fiction books lining every shelf in America.) In other words, the "what" of what I want isn't bad, but the "how" of what I want might be a twinge murky.

I'm not going to tell you to stop wanting what you want. If you've prayed about it, if you've sought direction, if you've wholeheartedly committed your life to glorifying God, then God Himself probably imbedded that "want" into your very marrow.

So want it. Don't ever stop wanting it, in fact. Don't let anything or anyone convince you that wanting isn't exactly what God wants.

But want it right.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to cancel a certain U-Haul truck. Or, at the very least, reschedule.