Evil thoughts always lurk in my mind. At the place we were vacationing, there was a community pool that families would gather around and enjoy the beautiful North Carolina sun. Most of the guys represented a cross section of male figures. There was the group of guys who should never ever be shirtless or in speedo but were. There were the middle aged guys who were at one time in shape but the years of hard work and late nights comforted by long meals and quick desserts (This was my tribe I hope) rendered them round.  Then there were the guys who were either Navy Seals or former professional athletes. Buff and tan. Now I usually don’t hate the “playa” just the game but this one guy broke a rule. He was a show off. The diving board was the focus of much attention and fun. Most of the middle aged guys that went off the board were having fun. The usual cannon balls or can opener with the sufficient splash of a middle aged man. This one dude gets up on the board and has his wife take pictures of him. I hated him right there. Never have your wife take pictures of you. Worse than that, he had great blond hair and was athletically trim and tan. Another reason to hate this guy. Worse than that he approaches the diving board with an air of Greg Luganis. What did he think he was doing trying out for the Bejing Games in Nags Head North Carolina - Hey buddy there is a code of conduct when you are in the presence of middle aged fat people.  Testing the board he gathers the drama and  I think to myself I might doggie paddle over to him when he enters and get on his back so that he sinks to the bottom of the pool never to be seen again. He dives,  he performs a perfect twisting gainer without the required fat man splash caused by the other guys. Some people actually clapped. That was it. I took off swimming ferociously to try and piggy back him to death when I looked up and he was gone. He swam past me with the speed of a shark. I caught some of his wake and lonely bobbed in the water. Catching the shaking of some of the spectators heads at my feeble attempts of retribution, humiliated, I went back to my tribe of unpopulars  where judgment did not exist. Maybe next year I will accidentally cannonball into him and teach him a lesson. His wife can get a picture of that for her vacation memory.AH

My friend Richard will say to me sometimes that it is good to get out and do some physical labor. He is right. Contrary to my current physical condition, I was taught to be a physical worker. My dad made sure that I could use a shovel, broom, and wheelbarrow with the best of them. Saturday morning I was cleaning out my cars. As I work, my mind will meditate on a variety of things. My dad used to do this also. As a kid, my dad would not speak or listen to music when he worked. I thought that he was ignoring everyone and thinking very little but now I know that my dad was communing with Jesus. He was always a hulk of a worker, throwing every piece of energy into the task in front of him. I think his best prayer time came when he was physically engaged and his mind can fly over the things of life to soar into a private conversation with his Savior. Like father like son, I will engage in physical labor with intense concentration. My mind is somewhere else. Saturday morning, I was vacumming the cars and sweating profusely when I spontaneously began thanking Jesus for things in my life. My wife was on the top of the list but the trance deepened and meditatively, I silently thanked the Lord for my kids, my mom and dad, my firm, my house, my friends, my friends kids, my family, my problems, my dreams, my trials, and so on. A memory of traveling to Guatemala with my dad was brought forth to the desk of my mind and then a series of memories tucked in manila folders labeled high school football was set on the same desk.  Another file came forward labeled trip my college roommate and I took to see the Allman Brothers in Richmond. Randomly, I remembered the numerous Hardee’s biscuits Richard and I would get on the way to cut yards when I was in college. The list went on on. I stopped because I started to get emotional. A single word dominated my thoughts - blessed. Just as randomly my mind started listing the sins and wrongs I committed during the week. That list was almost as long as the other one.  After about 10 minutes, I became emotional again and the word that came to mind was unworthy. When I am at my office, my mind does not soar into lists of thanksgiving or confession because I am using it. Saturday morning, I prayed that the Lord would accept my thanksgivings and remove my wrongs. As the sun blazed above me and the music mixed with the dog barking and the neighbor’s lawnmower sputtering, I said out loud, Thank you. That is the biggest sentence I could get out under the emotional weight of the blessings which I take for granted. Just as quickly as my mind was floating in space, I returned Windexing the passenger window trying to remove some mysterious sticky substance in the form of a hand print of one of my daughters.  I think it was Evan’s. AH 

I suffer from self-imposed ennui. Most people would accept a full life as indication of a life well lead but I sit listless wanting something that I don’t have the power to obtain - contentment. Tuesday I was getting a tank of $3.89 regular gas and the person behind the counter seemed content. She had decorated her booth with family photos and one of those small plastic fans labeled “Mabel.” My assumption was that Mabel had been at this location a very long time because as I was leaving she gave a hearty “Hey Baby” to a young guy bouncing in with hip hop grace. A polite thank you and I returned to my truck. Sitting there with the key in the ignition, I was overwhelmed with irritation for Mabel. Her high and mighty labeled fan and her convenient store memorabilia seemed oddly permanent for a convenience store clerk. I asked myself why I was so irritated with Mabel. She was nice, polite, efficient and important somehow. She provided a ray of sunshine in a drab location. I should be happy that Mabel works at the BP MiniMart. The problem was, I wasn’t happy for Mabel’s existence. With all honesty, I started feeling disgust. She had a achieved something that all of my education, training and reading had failed to produce - contentment. Not to be too condescending, but I assumed Mabel was not college educated. That might be a horrible assumption but for argument sake lets assume that she worked there in high school then graduated and had worked at “her” store ever since. She might have worked at that mini-mart location for 30 years without a watch or token acknowledgment. She probably survived more uniform changes and corporate “buyouts” to the point she catches herself telling a teenager getting money out of the ATM machine on a slow Friday night, ”hey baby, I remember when BP replaced the Citgo people’s slushy machine with that ATM bank be careful about those fees.” Mabel is the convenient store historian,  a glassed in chronicler of the military industrial demise of a once mighty and profitable convenience story economy. After my irritation subsides, I recognize something else that I envy about Mabel, her noblility and simplicity. These qualities are stark contrasts to my legal wrangling on the daily sinking ship called the American  legal system. Before I leave the gas pump, I take a quick look around and notice a sea of contentment. A mother and child, a group of city workers parked next to two male and two female teenagers with black sunglasses looking very content. My reaction is the same.  That is a selfish and immature reaction isn’t it? If I was a good person my first reaction might be calm envy but irritation reflects a character flaw. But the verdict is in, if good people are content then I am not a good person. A burning desire sets aflame that assures me that I am not going to ever get a fan and label it. I declare that I can’t become content with anything in my life or the future that I perceive in front of me so I better not get too comfortable with my surroundings. I am pulling out of the parking lot determined to never come back to that BP MiniMart forever avoiding Mabel’s haunting contentment. I hit the gas pedal trying to push the ennui through the floor and out of my life.  

AH 

I woke up on July 4 2008 with a sense of expectation. My goal/plan for the morning was to make waffles for my family (a Hartley family tradition started by my father). As a way to commemorate this sacred day in world history I thought I would do something cool for the family. Mind you, I am not cool but I think I am. In a sort of academic James Dean delusion of myself, I hatched the idea that my family could read the Declaration of Independence around the breakfast table. My heart fluttered with my revived patriotism and my self-confident revelation. In a painful unaware moment of dorkiness, I declared to my wife, “Hey, I am cooking waffles and I have something cool we are going to do.” Unfortunately for me, I missed the mark. These consistent declarations are usually off the mark. My idea of cool and my family’s idea of cool are not the same. 21 years have not taught me to do anything different because my delusion of  myself is so strong. I am not cool, good looking or smooth but I have the idea of myself that I am James Bond, Brad Pitt and Einstien rolled up into one. Is that sick or what? As waffles come hot off the animal shape waffle maker and the family is seated around the table, I serve my crew. As the syrup pours out, I remove my “cool” thing for July 4th breakfast. A copy of the Declaration of Independence. I state, “Ok Evan start reading and we will each read a portion as a family.” Any normal father would not have anticipated an excited reception but I am abnormal. As their faces dropped and my realization burrows through my delusion, I am grateful that their love for me motivates them to patronizingly participate in this “activity.” After about 10 minutes of reading this archaic yet powerful document with the same excitement they would have if Santa brought them socks on Christmas morning, I snatch the document from the glum reader and declare, “Ok that’s it. Let me just read it for you.” What is really sad is that I get emotional every time I read that document. Is that mega-dorky or what? But I do, tears in my eyes. These are not the activities or the emotions of a James Dean intellectual. I am not cool but this document moves me to tears because of the fact that the men who declared their independence accepted financial ruin, family suffering and physical peril for principle. These wealthy men risked it all and we benefit in 2008. We should never forget that but I am afraid we have. Maybe my kids will get something out of my dorky July 4th activity. Next year I am going to listen to my wife and stick a sparkler in the waffle. Happy July 4thAH    

Sanctums are defined as a place of inviolable privacy  or  sacred. My truck is my sanctum. In my sanctum I can sing as loud and out of tune in my best impression of American Idol as possible. What is the best thing about my sanctum? Eating in my truck. What inescapable joy exists when I sit in my truck and engage in unfettered ravenous gorging without the judgment of others. Sometimes I will put napkins in a make shift bib on a 35 yr old plump infant so if I am eating a juicy burger and the collateral damage of the ketchup or other food juices fly around the car I don’t have to worry about getting outed when I arrive at my destination. There is no end to my love of eating in the car. Unbridled multi-tasking - driving, blackberry, jelly doughnut, coffee and singing a mobile carnival rivaling the Vegas strip. If you drive up next to me and viewed this spectacle it would remind you of a stocky valaceraptor ripping and tearing into the flesh of a new kill. His mouth drenched with the blood of the new kill eyes tight and focused. My mouth at times dripping with my new kill of Whopper, Krispy Kreme jelly doughnut or a the latest candy bar victim all of them unable to flee from my jurassic quickness their screams drowned out by the excessive Dave Mathews Band blaring through the speakers. I have thought long and hard of quietly slipping out of my suburban home to embark on ”hunting trips” wearing nothing but a loin cloth. Driving around bare chested and shoeless on a primal safari seeking the next place to pounce and drag an unsuspecting food victim back to my sanctum. Please do not ask any questions if you drive up next to me and I am shirtless. Look away and make sure that you don’t have food in your car or you could be next.

AH

During my morning devotion, Alistair Begg was teaching about Caleb. In the book of Joshua the book recounts that Caleb waited 45 years for something promised to him but lived honorably under someone else’s punishment. At the end of his life he claims his inheritance. The leader of the Jews gave Caleb his inheritance because “he wholly followed God” (Joshua 14:14) The phrase wholly followed God struck me.  ”Wholly” - the word means completely, fully or totally. Caleb was completely sold out to God. I am not sure that someone would give me anything but if they did I am not sure that it would be because I wholly did something. The lesson for me was that life must be lived every minute every second wholly. For true purpose, we must be wholly following God because without that we start keeping score according to worthless possessions and successes. Wholly following God requires a constant attention to remain focus against the distractions of life. I think I should commit myself to my inheritance the Lord has for me on the basis of seeking out a wholly lived life. Tearing off the fear of rejections, the criticism of others and the doubt of partial living are the first steps to being whole. A lesson I need to learn - live wholly.AH 

Forty Dollars a visit. That is what it costs me to obtain “physical therapy”. The only thing missing from this “therapy” is a star chamber and the torches because for all of the semantics these visits are “voluntary torture.” Everyone there is very sweet and appropriately genteel but the reality is yesterday I saw one of the physical therapist enjoying the torture. This is what happened. The “patient” or what I call “victim” was laying on the table face down. Now this position is extremely vulnerable in a Ned Beatty sort of way so I thought I should watch the “therapist” ie “enforcer.” The enforcer placed her 5′ foot body on the victims leg and began pushing her leg toward her buttocks. This so called therapy was intended to “stretch it out.” The “it” was something I could not ascertain but what I did see was the “therapist” check to see if the “patient” was looking back at her.  Finding the “patient” face down in the pillow wincing in pain, the “therapist” craned her neck back in an almost rapturous stretch look into the mirror and say to herself “nice, nice hurt so good.” Shivers ran down my spine because I was next. The “patient” whimpered a little bit and the “therapist” said “are you ok?” knowing full well that the “patient” could not answer because she was face down in the pillow screaming her lungs out. I also think I saw the “therapist” hold this poor defenseless 85 year old lady’s head into the pillow while she added another “good stretch.” The scary part of all of his is the normalcy and sanitized feeling the “therapy” room has. I am telling you in a different era or with different outfits these “therapists” could be placed in any medieval dungeon or an interrogation roon in Guatanomo.  I am sitting there thinking, “am I the only one who realizes that these ‘therapists’ are sadistic masocists employed by the health care profession for the sole purpose of extending pain and suffering so that the health care executives can count the co-pays on a daily basis.” I imagine the “therapists” at the end of the day sitting around the credit card receipts wringing their hands eating favre beans and drinking chianti.  They tell stories of people who they get to do the most ridiculous activities in the name of “therapy” but in reality the “therapists” joke about how simple minded and lemming like the “patients” are all knowing that none of this “therapy” works or has medicinal value whatsoever. All of this occurs after hours in their khaki pants and tennis shoes. All of this for a $40.00 co-pay, the never ending co-pay. Ironically there is a sign at this location that states “If it hurts don’t do it.” I think there is another sign in the back office that says, “Patients can’t be trusted.” AH 

Here is a confession. I am a big fat wimp when it comes to dark places that I am not familiar with. Some guys are the Dirty Harry types, you know the ones that act like they can handle everything and nothing scares them. My Dad is that type of guy. I always knew that my Dad would never buckle under anything thrown at him. His consistency has always provided me a hope that I can achieve what is set before me or what I want to accomplish. As I have obtained adulthood, he is still a benchmark of masculinity for me yet he is a little more human. He has expressed his fears about things and failings which helps me see him more realistically. When I was a kid, he would wake me up for work at some evil hour when animals are still asleep. I can still remember a bear head in the glow of the hallway light coming through the crack in the door speaking into the darkness of my room as an overweight angel bearing the message “Albert your burning daylight.” That hyperbolic phrase always made me laugh since it was a ludicrous statement because when my Dad got up there was never any daylight to burn. A hallway light pierced the darkness. That light became significant to me. It represented my father’s unconditional love, commitment to my family and his consistency of purpose. I get scared in the dark.  I hate horror movies and thrill rides that have tunnels. So I am not afraid to admit that the absence of light describes my spiritual condition at times. Light is critical. I believe that when Jesus says that he is the light of the world He proves his existence and deity. Other religions claim to lead you to a light but Jesus declares that He is the light. As light, He pierces the darkness of the deepest depression, the hopelessness of circumstances and the confusion of events to illuminate our path to Him as salvation, hope and joy. He is the father that opens the door to our isolated place and through a small crack in our world His hope pierces our dark corners and sightless condition by telling us that we are “burning daylight.” So roll out of bed, wipe your eyes and  walk in the light no matter what darkness surrounds you. AH

Asking for help is the hardest thing for a human being to do. For some people, they are helpless because they are on the other end of the spectrum. They never learn to do anything for themselves. What I am focusing on is the person who pridefully says, I can do this on my own. I don’t need to ask anyone because I should be able to do this without help. They continue to argue with themselves and say, “Hey if I ask for help then I am less of a person and I am not as good as someone else.” News flash - there are people better than you. I have come to accept my own moderate level of mediocrity. There are things on the bell curve of my life that I am on the high achieving end but for the most part these are flashes of brilliance amongst the dullness of waning bulbs. Yet, I have learned to ask for help. A myth about asking for help is that the asker is really suggesting that the helper become a surrogate. In East Asian cultures people work together because they do not expect people to know everything. They infuse the culture with a teacher student master cycle which allows for mistakes and instruction. Western culture infuses a unyielding pride in the idea that only ask for help to fix a problem but never ever submit to a relationship that might require subservience. This is an interesting paradox in a nation of Christians. I thank God that I can ask help from my mentor. He is my teacher and I am incredible grateful for his time, patience and attention when I ask for help. I need to ask for help more often so that I can be at the high end of the bell curve. AH 

A distinguishing characteristic between living and life is passion. Merging passion and vocation should be the goal of every young person. If you are not excited about starting the day then you lack passion. Men are not passionate anymore unless it is sexual. Society has reduced men to feminized eunochs lacking the burning desire to win, conquer and lead. I want to “suck the marrow out of life” by attacking every task or obstacle with reckless abandonment. I want to be passionate about the tasks in front of me and the hope of building something lasting for those coming behind me. Kill me if I am just going through the motions in the hopes of getting ahead even though I have no desire or fire in my belly. Maybe that is when God takes us home. In Genesis, Moses records that God breathed life into Adam. I think God breathed on a spark implanted in Adam to ignite the flames of passion in every subsequent human being. When that flame flickers and wanes in the winds of life, we have to be careful not to quench the oxygen feeding that flame by cutting off the supply due to complacency and mediocrity. Kaizen!!! Men should be crying out for the flames in our souls to burn so intensely that the people around us catch fire too or burn up. BE PASSIONATE!!!! You only have one life to live. AH 

On June 14 at 7:00pm I will be attending my 21st dance recital at the Mary Ann Wood School of Dance. My daughters and I will be performing a dance together. I do not dance well, I dance in the shower and in my house when no one is around. The music of choice for me is usually Robert Cray or a Keb Mo tune fully clothed and lacking rythm but no passion, enough of that. Dance recitals are painful. Most of them could be used to extract information from the most hardened AlQueda terrorist. After the tune Lollipop is played four times in a row and the 25th little girl cries on stage Jihad is over. Now, let me qualify that statement by saying that I have attended 21 years of them so I am an authority. My kids are great and my wife spectacular. I love to watch them enjoy the crowd and music. I also attend because the most important thing happened to me at my first dance recital -  I fell in love with my wife. You know it was one of those awkward situations where the new boyfriend has to attend with the smothering family and the overbearing intimidating dad.  I showed up trying to figure out the legal size front and back quadruple folded program would take for an ADD hyperactive guy proned to sweating out of his clothes. My girlfriend’s dad fell asleep and prior to snoring somewhat inconsiderately tasked me with waking him up one number before my girlfriend came on. I marked each number and diligently went to work. Most of the night is a boring blur but my girlfriend (now wife) had a private number where she was performing ballet. I knew she could dance because she attended a special school for gifted kids so nothing new there but I had never seen her dance. As the lights went down and the stage was dark except a lone spotlight, she stepped into the light wearing a beautiful white flowing dress. She was more than beautiful. She was radiant and I was sold. I knew that she was the person for me because where I had to fill every moment of silence with useless mind numbing blather she spoke volumes to the world without saying a single word. After the recital, I stayed out until 1:00 am with her family at a Denny’s eating pancakes and two pieces of bacon with a coke. Her grandmother asked the family, “Who is the Oriental boy eating with us?” My girlfriend’s brother answered and said, “Nana that is the lawn boy, you know Albert Amy’s new friend, the boy who cuts the grass.” Thus was my introduction into the family. Everyone laughed at my expense but I knew something they didn’t. The best part of that family would be my wife someday and then my brother in law could introduce me with something like, ” This is Albert the lawn boy who looks somewhat Oriental to old people, uh, Amy’s husband.” On the evening of June 14th 2008, the lawnboy will watch his beautiful graceful wife take the stage again. He will also trip the light fantastic much to everyone’s mockery with his two beautiful daughters. I am looking forward to June 14th not because I enjoy 4 hours of buttock numbing endlessness but the opportunity to bask in warmth of my family whom I love very much. Warning to all parents, watch out for lawn boys. They work awfully hard and sometimes they want more out of you than a tip. I know I did. AH  

There is a concept entitled allowing that I am struggling to get my head around. Basically allowing is the idea that we do not receive things into our life because we erect barriers to these items. I am so guilty of this that I have retreated into status quo over the last few years. From 2005, I have been clearing my barriers to things which I want to receive in my life. The issue for me is that I don’t know what I want so I have just been working. If I knew what I wanted in my life, I could then identify the barriers. I am so screwed up that I can’t even identify what I want so how can I allow it if I don’t know what it is. Most of what I know is old and useless now. Einstein said that you can’t use the same level of thinking to get you out of a problem which old thinking got you into. I need some new thinking to allow the things I want.AH 

I have agreed to speak at an academic awards banquet on May 19th at my high school. At 5:05am, I was struck with what I would like to say to these young achievers. I want to tell them that most of the information that they have learned is useless. All the studying they have endured of math, English, dates, concepts and history is useless in and of itself. Have you actually learned from it? That is the question I want to throw in their face. Have they learned that their parents are probably right or have they learned that their parents are completely wrong?In other words, if you have read Shakespeare’s Hamlet and you know “What a piece of work is man” as a quote but you don’t know what Shakespeare was really talking about then you have missed the point of learning. Studying for a perfect SOL test or a 5 on the AP does not prove that you have learned anything. Shakespeare, Galileo and the other masters of the past explored uncharted territory trying to give us a map to answers that although feeble yet brilliant are merely suggestions to questions only God answers.  If the student has learned the old answers but is too scared to come up with new answers then the student has achieved conformity and nothing else.I would also like to tell them that they should be careful not to consider high school the peak. It is really just the start. It is up to them to formulate a new dream because the sand in this hour glass has emptied. Learning something about yourself and the world around you every day is the best remedy for taking your life too seriously. At 5:07am I realized that talk would be too existential.  I should just read a Dr. Seuss Poem and eat my chicken slyly holding inside my head the irony of life.  ”What a piece of work is man.”AH 

Kids love to build forts. Tree forts or sheet forts in their rooms. It does not matter if it is inside or outside kids love to build enclosures where they can feel safe and secure. This innate desire comes from the need to build something that stands the test of time. Divorce and absentee fathers eliminate forts because they destroy foundations for kids to naturally gravitate to building forts. Some of you are reading this are thinking, No my divorce worked out great. WRONG!  Divorce is the worst thing that can happen for a child.  Some times it is inevitable realistically the ripping and tearing of a critical foundational structure of family destroys kids desire to build forts, family and futures. I think a study should be done if kids from divorced families build forts. I bet they don’t because they don’t know how. This lack of desire might come from the thought that it will get torn down anyway so why build. Challenge to you. Build a fort in your life. Fort is defined as a permanent army post. A fortress is a strengthened fort where troops can go out and come in for safety provisions and refreshment. If enemies attacked a fort the building withstood arrows, flames and intruders. Huge gates locked the right people in and kept the wrong people out. Usually a benevolent ruler or commander decided who came in and who was ready to go out. Think about your fort. Is it fortified?