Row, Row, Row Your Sculling Boat

When I was 15 or 16 my family went on a vacation to my Aunt's lake house in Colorado. One morning, I was outside looking down at the lake and saw a figure moving across in what looked like a long skinny canoe. On closer inspection, I realized that it wasn't a canoe, but a one man sculling boat. In that moment, a love was born in me that is difficult to describe. My heart yearned to be out on that boat in that person's place. Later that week, at a bookshop, I stumbled across a coffee table-style book on rowing. From that time on, I longed to glide across the water like the men and women in the book, with the sun about to rise and little droplets of water hitting my legs as the oars came up, swung forward and dipped back down into the glassy surface.

I made it my mission to find a way into the sport, despite the fact that I am from middle Tennessee where rowing is not exactly popular.  I could only imagine what it was like to actually row, but I was sure that I would be able to do it flawlessly if given the chance. I bought a used rowing machine and rowed in my bedroom to simulate the feeling....until the machine leaked oil all over the carpet and had to be put away.

My senior year of high school, I got my chance to finally see the sport up close. My English class was assigned the task of writing a research paper on the subject of our choice. I chose, not surprisingly, sculling. Since we had to have primary sources for the paper, I interviewed the coach for the Vanderbilt Rowing Club and attended one of their early morning practices out on Percy Priest lake. I was getting closer to my dream.

My choice of college was also somewhat influenced by rowing. My top picks had to have a rowing team or club; When I chose Pepperdine University, I promptly joined the rowing club. Our team was comprised of mostly non-athletes and frankly we weren't very good because most of us were freshman who had already put on the freshman 15...or 20, if I'm honest. We had to meet at 4 am to drive from Malibu to the marina at Venice. Those were the most exhausting mornings of my life. But in exchange, I was finally out on real water.....goodbye carpet rowing....and getting full-handed bloody blisters, with every muscle moaning, in the fishy smelling marina, the coach yelling, and truly loving it. It really was magical to be gliding, the water at lap level breezing by, and the sun on the low horizon.

I didn't rejoin the rowing team after that first year of college, despite my love for it. I spent my sophomore year in Germany and when I came back to campus in my third year, my workload was too busy to consider sports.

This morning, I went to the gym and watched a couple of people work out on the rowing machine. I try to keep from watching them to prevent myself from getting off my elliptical machine to let them know that their form is all wrong. How snobby would that sound coming from a non-gym employee. But I had rarely ever gotten on the machine myself. Today I spent 10 minutes reliving the feeling and reviving an old dream. Perhaps I can still buy my own sculling boat one of these days, drive down to the lake in early morning and get a quality workout doing the only sport I ever really felt a passion for.

tribute to the family artists

I have some incredibly talented friends and family. Today, I would like to feature the art works of my sister, Amanda and her husband, Seth. These two individuals are a couple (and a cute one to boot) of the best artists I know of.

Amanda Conley is an incredible jewelry designer and metal smith. Her company, Bijougirl, is featured on Etsy.com where you can also purchase her work or request a custom order.

Seth Conley, my brother-in-law, is a painter with an exceptional creative eye. His paintings are full of emotion and message. You can view a more works here.

He's Half the Dog He Used To Be

Before haircut

After haircut

Yum

As much as I would like to think that I am impervious to the influence of advertisements, after watching a commercial for Dark Chocolate Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, I was faced with the perplexing truth...

Yum!

Fireworks and Cannons

Last night, Jacob and I went to a little spot on top of a hill in Inglewood, about 5 miles northeast of downtown Nashville, where we watched the Nashville fireworks show. It was, as always, a very extravagant performance with fireworks blasting in time with the live orchestra. Because we were 5 miles away, the booming sounds from the fireworks did not reach our ears for some 8-9 seconds after the show started. But once it did, it was instantly reminiscent of the sounds that we might have heard had we been transported to the scene of the war for our independence...cannons and gun shots sounding in the near distance, fire lighting up the sky. Of course you and I only have a concept of this audible drama from movies. Nonetheless it was a bit eerie to close my eyes and imagine that we were really in the middle of a hand-to-hand combat war.

Just as prominent on my mind was the thought that we have no idea how costly our freedom is. You and I have always had the freedom to worship however and whenever we want to, to say anything we feel like saying, to elect our own law makers and officials, and to pursue our own dreams and aspirations. We take our freedom for granted to the extent that we complain when we can't find "anything" to wear on Sunday to church, forgetting that many have died (then and now) to give us the freedom to go to church. Ouch! I seriously doubt that any American living in the late 18th century took those things for granted. They had the graves of their fathers, husbands, and brothers to remind them of the cost of their freedom.

And I am mindful of many people in this world, outside of America, who are living with chains around their ankles, literally and figuratively, because they dare to declare that Jesus Christ is the living God, the savior of the world. Ironically, while Christ followers are tortured and murdered for their declarations, the same God that their torturers abhor, paid the ultimate price for their own freedom. He gave His life to reconcile them to himself, to forgive and love them.

Perhaps that is why these Christians are so strong in the face of persecution. They are constantly reminded, with each blow, of the price that was paid on their behalf. They don't have the luxury of taking their faith for granted.

The good news is that this story doesn't end with a dead God, dead Christians and dead freedom fighters. The unfathomable hope of the oppressed Christian rests in the resurrection of the dead, a risen Christ who beat death, allowing the dead in Christ to rise at the trumpet call of God to be with him forever.

How's that for fireworks!