My endeavor to speak suddenly or sharply, as from surprise or emotion.
Here are two videos that will air for the Vote Yes for Measure 11. I, as well as other MD’s were filmed for the first ad. I guess the biker gang look wasn’t in this year so I didn’t make it into the ad, probably better that way. My guitar playing friend Dr Gordon looks good. Hopefully this year the voters will decide to make abortion as a form of birth control obsolete and save hundreds of innocent lives in the process.
Recently I have been exploring the world of outlaw biker gangs. Whacked I know, but I don’t think it is because I am having a midlife crisis and desire to be patched into the Hells Angels or ride my hog wide open down the interstate with the Bandido’s. I doubt I would survive the “hang around” process, and would certainly turn into a blubbering bowl of jello, if not room temperature if you know what I mean, undergoing the “prospect” phase of becoming patched into an outlaw biker gang. But, I think the “one percenters” have something that the church of today could take a lesson from, and that is the concept of brotherhood. The concept that if you mess with one, you mess with all and if you mess with a member of our group you will pay a price. I recently finished a book called Under and Alone by an ATF agent named William Queen. The book describes an ATF agent who infiltrated an outlaw biker gang called the Mongols. I was struck by two things: 1) an ATF agent who had very big, let just say male reproductive organs responsible for the secretion of testosterone, and 2) the bond the agent formed with the very people he was investigating and the brotherhood bond that was formed. In the book, Agent Queen describes when his mother passed away and how his “friends” basically blew him off, but the outlaws in the Mongol biker gang he was investigating took him in and comforted him causing him to be torn between two world. How often does that happen in churches today? Christians who are hurting, looking to their church “gang” actually finding comfort in the world. I know in my life I am tired of the “same old same old,” and long for this kind of unity.
I recently read a great blog from Brad Ruggles (www.bradruggles.com) where he was blogging live at the Catalyst Convention (note to myself: attend this next year!).
At http://www.bradruggles.com/2008/10/10/catalyst-live-blogging-dave-ramsey/#comment-3768
he writes:
“Unity is a spiritual happening. You have to be very intentional about creating unity. It doesn’t just occur.
Few churches or organizations experience real unity.
There are 5 Main Enemies of Unity:
Poor Communication
Poor communication can take many forms, but when the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing, strife sets in. you have to work to create communication.
Gossip
Gossip is degrading and will destroy a church or organization.
A successful leader develops and maintains a culture in which negatives are handed up and positives are handed down.
By definition, gossip is when a negative is discussed with anyone who can’t help solve the problem.
Unresolved Disagreements
Unresolved disagreements happen when a leader doesn’t know they exist or when that leader avoids confrontation. When you don’t deal with your “stuff” your stuff gets bigger.
Confrontation
Sometimes Christians avoid confrontation in the name of being “nice”. That’s not nice, that’s wimpy.
A little confrontation cleanses the wound and allows the parties to go forward in a spirit of unity.
When you are aware there are hurt feelings and/or disagreements, act quickly and decisively. Nobody ever killed anything by saying, “Ready, aim, aim, aim, aim….”
Lack of Shared Purpose
Lack of shared purpose is caused when a leader doesn’t restate the goal, the vision and the mission early and often.
Sanctioned Incompetence
It has been said that sanctioned incompetence demoralizes. When you allow someone to goof-off, not execute, or live up to their potential, you damage your witness.
Team members will eventually eventually become demotivated when someone else on the team can’t or won’t do their job and a leader will not take action.
For the sake of unity in the entire group the leader must go to battle early and often with any of these enemies of unity
When unity is valued in the culture, the team will also act to keep these enemies at the gate.”
WOW!
Lack of shared purpose, fueled by gossip stimulated by poor communication leading to unresolved disagreements with sanctioned incompetence tolerated by a lack of leadership. Unity is intentional, it takes work. Unity does not allow outside forces to drive a wedge into the gang without paying a heavy price. Unity does not allow the enemy to poach off members without going after them and fighting for them. There are healthy reasons people leave a “gang,” lack of communication from an offended member and lack of leadership to seek out the offended member and protect the flock are not one of them. Satan loves division and will use the smallest of offense to split a group. As well stated from the movie 300:
“Xerxes: It isn’t wise to stand against me, Leonidas. Imagine what horrible fate awaits my enemies when I would gladly kill any of my own men for victory.
King Leonidas: And I would die for any one of mine.
About five years ago, as I was dutifully scurrying to work down the halls of the halls of the Hunter Holmes McGuire Richmond Veterans Administration hospital, on my way to to fulfill my duties as a fellow in the field of nephrology (fellow = poor sap who signed on for more specialized slave labor after completing 3 years of indentured servitude in the area of internal medicine), I was whacked by an elderly gentleman driving a golf cart down the hall. Now I use the terms “elderly” and “gentleman” with the loosest of association, because if this guy wasn’t at least 90, then I am George Clooney’s identical twin brother (which my wife would REALLY, REALLY like) and gentleman only because Richmond, Virginia is considered part of the “south,” southern belles and all. The VA hospital in Richmond is not only one of the largest veterans hospitals in the VA system, but is also home to one of the largest spinal cord rehabilitation centers in the US. The door that I used to enter the hospital this particular day was located in the spinal cord rehab wing and motorized vehicles are abundant due to the nature of the illness being treated. NASCAR is also bigger than the NFL in the south, and this coupled with the motorized vehicles, gives some a license to drive the halls of the hospital like it was the Richmond 400. As the grizzled old fart blasted me, I heard a “pop” in my left knee. Not the kind of pop you hear as your finger “pops” out of your cheek making that goes the weasel sound, or as you might hear as the cork leaves the end of your “pop” gun, but what you would hear as living tissue tears away from the bone where it is supposed to be attached. I think it was actually a terrorist plot, because as he drove away laughing, he was screaming, “get out of the way Yankee,” (being from what some called the far away “country” of South Dakota, I got called a Yankee multiple times a day. I just reminded them that they were sore losers. Funny, they never found that nearly as amusing as I did…). I was able to suck up the pain and perform my fellow duties that day, and over the couse of time with the help of medication and ice, my knee transformed from the size of a small watermelon, to that of a softball. Since the incident, the good days where I could funtion without pain outweighed the bad days until the last six months, where every step I took felt like someone was sticking a darning needle into my knee. As with most things in a marriage, the wife endures more than her fair share of the male whining and belly aching, until one day, unable to take it any longer, she snaps. Maximus of the movie Gladiator, King Leonidas of the Spartans, Chuck Norris, Jack Bauer, James Bond, the list goes on of manly men, men able to overcome the greatest of obstacles and endure pain with the ease of a Micheal Phelps winning gold medals. Not me dude. I am allergic to pain. Not penicillin, not morphine, not bee stings, pain. My wife sometimes says I am also allergic to work, but that is usually in one of those “snapping” moments. So as with most things manly, I eventually caved to the, “either go to the doctor and get it fixed, or quit whining about it,” pressure. The hopefully compentent orthopedic surgeon examined me and after looking at my MRI said, smiling, that we need to, “clean that joint up.” Why is it that surgeons aren’t generally happy unless there is the potential of slicing you open with an extremely sharp instrument? Surgery was promptly scheduled and on the day of the said deed, I arrived at the scheduled time whisked through admitting and taken to the outpatient surgey area. Everyone was great. I think nurses take special joy in taking care of doctors all the while keeping in mind the age old saying, “payback is a b@#$%.” The nurses who drew the short straw and had the duty of caring for me were stellar. I was taken to the OR on time. As I laid there on the table, I had a horrible feeling that I may end up with a tube in every orfice by the time the doctor patient was wheeled back to his room. Surgery went well. I made a note to myself that the happy juice that I received in my IV in the OR right before the lights went out, will be more liberaly given on my part to patients in the future. That stuff ROCKED! Recovery went well. In my drug induced euphoria, I felt like I could give Mr T a run for his money on Dancing with the Stars. My brother in law taxied me home because my wife had scheduled her Tastefully Simple party that night. I don’t have time to describe the scene of a roomfull of party attendees observing the narcotic induced bliss of a recent surgical patient. Let’s just say that the drool was not very striking. Now time will tell with the knee and whether or not I will have to enroll into one of those online law degree programs to come back and haunt my surgeon. I doubt it, it already feels better, but I still whine about it none the less.
Check this new site out:
We were on high alert at our house this morning. Few things in the Kovaleski house strike fear into my heart like running out of toilet paper. Being a product of the Air Force and stationed at an air force base that was part of the Strategic Air Command, I was very familiar with Defcon levels. For you non military types, Defcon 5 is basically the state of hunky doriness (I just made that up by the way!). Everything is cool with the world. The Twins are winning the World Series, the Steelers are winning another Superbowl, and there is an endless supply of ketchup. It progresses up to Defcon 1, which basically says the world will soon be a glowing ball of nuclear debris and life as we know it will soon be over. We were at what I call TP 2 this morning at our house, that is, Toilet PaperCon 2. In our house we have four bathrooms, all usually well stocked with 2-ply (1 ply = 60 grit sandpaper and break through accident waiting to happen) Charmin in all bathrooms. I have been nominated for the Sams Club Wall of Fame on more than one occasion by buying large quantities of toilet paper. C’mon, where else besides Sams can you buy 400 rolls of toilet paper for 9.99 AND eat lunch by sampling goodies from the cute little ladies they have serving tasty bites of everything from swedish meatballs to turtle cheesecake. As the toilet paper was flying off the roll this morning, the yell went out from one of the bathrooms that someone needed toilet paper. Now if that someone had been following Rule # 9 of Toilet Paper Etiquette, they would have surveyed the stock of toilet paper available before commencing on their trek to colonic bliss. But as with most youthful tasks, proper care was not used before the job was started and thus required a call to arms after the job was done. Now, if I had my way, each bathroom would be stocked with at least 15 rolls of toilet paper available in a dispenser well within one arms reach of each chair, with another 30 rolls as back up in the nearest closet so the dispenser could be quickly replenished as a roll is used. The waddle technique could also be employed as a last resort. That is, if the person wants to waddle to the toilet paper storage area after performing his duty, then he or she can. This technique can be messy and is not usually employed unless they are home alone and the neighbor is mowing the grass next door and is unable to hear the cry for help. As a roll of 2-ply was sought, a shriek was heard throughout the house that could only mean one thing: we were down to ONE ROLL of toilet paper in each bathroom. As with Defcon 1, TP 1 has never been initiated. As we searched for back up, i.e. the box of Kleenex that SHOULD be stationed on the back on each toilet but wasn’t, we were struck with the stark realization that we may have to move to TP 1. Now I don’t know if you have ever been to TP 1 in your house (TP 1 while camping or hunting is a totally different situation. I have a poison oak story to tell someday, which to this day still makes me squirm). TP 1 protocol states that through the choosing via Rock-Paper-Scissors, the loser has to go to the nearst neighbor and beg for mercy, and if the neighbor only has 1-ply toilet paper, that the person must take two layers and put them together to make a make shift 2 ply. It also states that in this time of emergency, if no neighbors are available, even the youngest, although not of driving age, may take the vehicle of choice to the closest gas station and get toilet paper or dial 911 and have the responding officer drive you the nearest 24 hour commerce center where emergency stock can be bought. Luckily, a cache of paper was found in one of the Boy Scout emergency kits and quickly retrieved. Those Boy Scouts sure are prepared! I quickly got dressed and since I have a buisness memership at Sams Club, made an 0700 (for you civilians, 0700 = early) toilet paper run, unfortunately I was to early to get samples of shrimp scampi or kiwi-banana yogurt. Maybe next time.
I figure that there are plenty of deep thought blogs out there and basically I write about events in my life, because to be honest, I really couldn’t make stuff like that up if I tried. I know it has been a while since I blogged and I actually had a couple of chapters about my long, very long, road trip to Texas to visit my Mom who hasn’t been feeling well, but something happened last week that leaves me hugging the people I love and going over the petty walls that need to be torn down in relationships in my life. Before we moved to Richmond Virginia so I could pursue training in nephrology, we attended First Baptist Church in Sioux Falls. While there we made friends who are still close to this day. There was a group of people who became close, all about the same age with kids. One of those relationships was with a couple named Cal and Sandi F. Last week while, while sitting with her son who was in the hospital, Sandi died suddenly leaving Cal and three small children. I don’t pretend to know why the same God who spoke the worlds into existence decided that it was Sandi’s time to come home, but I know that Sandi is now sitting on the lap of Jesus getting a big hug. Part of my heart is jealous, but the other part of breaks for her husband and three kids who now don’t have a wife and mom. A husband who won’t have a best friend to watch the kids go to dance lessons, baseball, middle school, prom, graduation, weddings, grandchildren, etc. It reinforces the fragility of life and that every day is a blessing and in my own life the obscene amount of time that I waste in silly disputes with people. I have often said that people don’t really live like they know they are called because they do not have a revelation of Hell and what it would be like for a loved one to spend all of eternity in such an awful place. The converse of that is also true. What will it be like when you get to Heaven (assuming you know that is where you are going)? When Jesus meets you what will it be like? Will he look at me and say, “yes Dave, you accepted me but didn’t really live like I wanted you to but come in,” as he looks past me to the next person? Or will He come running out to meet me, throw his arms around me, pick me up in a big bear hug, and while holding me, say to me, “I have missed you so much! Come with me and see what I have prepared for you!” How about you? I have a feeling that Sandi is in a big heavenly hug and catching up with people who have gone before her. See you later Sandi, you are deeply missed. I have to go hug my wife and kids and tear down some walls that have been put up between friends.
I confess, I’m a caffeine junkie. I have been consuming the sweet nectar as long as I can remember. It is probably a product of the hours my job requires me to keep, but I consume large quantitites daily. My parents both drank the black gold (although my Dad liked his with cream and sugar, somehow cheating the process of drinking coffee by leaving less room for caffeine). My parents bean of choice was a Folgers derivative, but that was before you could get hundreds of different kinds of flavors, everything from peanut butter swizzle stick to coffee beans that have been consumed by an animal called a luwak and pooped out to be collected and ground into coffee (hmmgood! NOT!) delivered directly from the dealer right to your door . As a young lad, I snuck a sip of the high octane gruel. I didn’t die on the spot, but thought the swill was going to eat a hole completely through my body. That started a journey down a very jagged, steep path. Caffeinated beverages now come in many forms. I am thoroughly convinced that Diet Coke and Peanut M&M’s were the manna provided the children of Israel in the desert. When I was in medical school there was a little coffee shack at the edge of town and I popped in for a cup of mud one day during lunch hour. As I was perusing the menu, I came upon an exhilerating little number referred to as the Freight Train. I was not a newbie to the world of caffeine stimulation so thought in my sleep deprived state a little extra pick me up would come in handy. I hastily consumed the five shots of expresso topped off with coffee and returned to class. As I sat there listening to the mind numbing biochemistry lecture, I thought my skin was trying crawl off of my body onto the space alien I swear was sitting in front of me. I was young, so the heart rate of approximately 250 beats per minute was tolerable, but I was trying to remember the proximetry of the closest cardioversion device or if I should just lick my fingers and shove them in the nearest electrical outlet. Needless to say, self preservation was more on my mind that day than biochemistry. I haven’t tried this particular drink since then but do partake in several cups of regular joe and quite a few Diet Cokes per day and an occasional Vault. I have taken up with another forbidden fruit recently. It goes by the name Double Shot on Ice and I of course get the “energy packet” that is offered. This is available at the local Fourbucks. The venti is 24 ounces of caffeinated yummy and I am sure that if the DEA were aware of the “energy packets” that the supply would be cut off from Starbucks Columbian supplier if you know what I mean. I provides that little extra kick in the pants at just the most opportune moment without feeling like I just got hit by a freight train. My wife, also a caffeine junkie, prefers to go the local juice stop and get a large juice drink with a can of sugar free Red Bull and an energy packet. More healthy she says. I’m not sure how it can be more healthy when they don’t even know that the energy packet is probably a derivative of crack cocaine, but since I am still recovering from the last excoriation I received at the hands of the health food zealots, I won’t go down that road anytime soon. As they used to say when I was a resident and fellow after medical school, “You can sleep when you’re dead. Get some coffee, we have rounds to make.” Long live the bean!!!
I thought that things like this only happened in the wild west, but apparently things in Milwaukee Wisconsin are just a tad slow these days (www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,391522,00.html). It seems that Keith Walendowski’s (no polish jokes allowed!) Lawnboy mower had requested a vacation day and forgot to tell Keith about it. After achieving the appropriate blood alcohol level for an early morning mowing job, Keith went to start his mower in attempt to get an early start on the honey do list that his wife was most certainly nagging him about. Not owning a single pull Honda, Keith attempted to start his Lawnboy, to no avail. Annoyed, Keith retrieved his sawed off shotgun from his Second Amendment bunker and shot the defenseless mower, he didn’t even give it a running chance (BAHAHAHAHA…sorry, couldn’t resist). I wish I could say that I haven’t felt Keiths pain. Granted, it’s been quite awhile since I was tanked at 9:30 in the morning, besides, what was he thinking, the morning dew isn’t even off the grass by 9:30. Now, I never shot a mower, but I did get mad enough one time to hit one with a sixteen pound sledgehammer when I was 15. It probably didn’t have the same effect as 00 buckshot, but it would have been better than getting a piece of the flywheel embedded in my leg like a hunk of war time shrapnel. I think Keith is on to something here sports fans. What if the mower had a fighting chance, say like a head start, throttle set on full rabbit and had the ability to fight back. This could be more fun than calf riding in a Little Levi Rodeo and certainly has more potential than the 3 day BB gun wars we used to have when I was growing up. I hope Keith learns his lesson from all of this, nothing runs like a Deere.
Why is it when I am going 30 miles per hour on 41st Street it feels like it would be faster to jump out and run to the particular place I am going, but when someone else is driving, say a for example a hormone enraged teenager, it feels like we are doing a space jump on the Battlestar Galactica to try and avoid the Cylon invaders and I swear I can see planets whizzing by my head…
Why is it when I want to take the 100 pound Yellow lab/doorbell for a walk (which isn’t often mind you) I let her run in the yard for 30 minutes, care free, and she does no “buisiness” if you know what I mean, but right at the beginning of the walk, just far enough from the house where you can’t turn back, she drops a heater the size of scottish terrier, then looks at me like, “let’s see you rub my nose in that one fatbutt.”
Why is it the Walmart bag you took on your walk to carry the “business” in always seems to have a hole in the bottom…
Why is it when you are running late for work and don’t have time to stop for gas, the last words you hear as you are running out the door are, “I took your truck today and by the way, the gas light came on sometime while I was driving it.”
Why is it you never know quite how far you can drive with the gas light on…
The completion of third grade in the Kovaleski household carries many significant meanings, the most significant (no, not that driving is only four short years away), is that one has reached the age needed to attend Camp Judson (www.campjudson.org). Camp Judson has a long history in our family. My wife started attendeding Camp Judson after completing third grade (I won’t tell you how long ago that was because I have become accustomed to walking without a limp), and the tradition was followed by John, Luke, and now Abby. I am not sure who was more nervous about her going, Abby, her Mom, or me. It was bad enough to send the two boys off to the wilderness of the Black Hills, but the Princess has me wrapped very tightly around her little finger. As with all younger siblings, the lore of the siblings who have gone before preceded Abby to Camp. Stories are still told around the camp fire of Luke deciding to wear his swim suit all week because it has built in underwear, thereby eliminating the need to change shorts, as well as being able to do everything from swimming to rock climbing, all in the same outfit. Actually, makes pretty good sense to me. As we have done with the previous attendees, we trek out to the Hills midweek to check on the first time camper. We like to think this is because the new camper is so terrified and homesick that a visit from the parents will put their hearts at rest. In reality, it is more for the parents who need to appease their worries. As with years past, the new camper was having a terrific time, meeting many new friends, enjoying new adventures, and most importantly, developing a deeper walk with God. Luke is packed and ready to go for his fourth year in a row tomorrow. I hope all have a chance to attend this camp at some point in their lives, it is well worth it.
Twitter