George Lippert

Darren Bell

George Lippert and Darren Bell.

A creative  and an engineer, both who happen to be friends of mine, and today I’d like to introduce you to a new feature of Martyholman.com.  Both George and Darren are really really smart.  Now I wouldn’t tell them this, but when I see them write on facebook or their blogs or when I chat with them, their insight and thoughts have inspired me to think more, so as a connector, I had an idea.

Why not get them to help more people think in a gentleman’s dual of intellect.

So I asked George and Darren, as two men who think very different from one another in some ways, and very much alike in others, to answer a question that I would ask via email, and then chat back and forth about their answers.  Along the way, Jeff Campbell gets involved in the conversation, and he makes things even more interesting.  Because this conversation was so lengthy, these posts will last most of the week.  I trust you’ll be inspired to think thorugh their conversation and ask questions to all the participants.  So I’d like to introduce you to George (GL) and Darren (DB).

MH:  So tell us a bit about yourselves.

George Lippert:  I’m a full time CG artist and part-time writer currently haunting the suburbs of St. Louis. Between being a husband, a father of two awesome little kidlets, paying taxes, cooking Mexican food, mowing the lawn, keeping my 100-year-old house from falling down, and playing lots of racing video games, I formulate lots and lots of “controversial” opinions. Some of them I will surely share below.

Darren Bell:  I’m Darren Bell. I’m a Chemical Engineer living in Philadelphia that lived for 6 years in New England mostly going to college and one of those years attending Fellowship Church. Spiritually I’ve been all over the spectrum from an Ayn Rand-esque athiest to going through 40 Days of Purpose. The last couple years I’ve been away from the church and Christianity, in the past 6 months I’ve found a church I really like in Philadelphia. Although aesthetically something appeals to me in Christianity and also I find it helpful to be reminded of certain morals I tend to forget I am pretty much agnostic.

I’m not sure what we were thinking, but Mark, the super fast, built for running type guy, who’s been running with me almost every Saturday for the last 5 weeks, and I started our 13 mile run on Saturday afternoon.  Earlier on we had tackled an excellent team service project at the Community Harvest Farm in North Grafton, then we decided to meet up again for what would be the longest either of us had ever run, even Mark, the super fast, built for running type guy.

Carie crushed the course, the morning before, and now it was our turn.  And I couldn’t have been more prepared and more scared of anything, including the time I rode the highest, fastest roller coaster in the world at the time at Cedar Point – The Magnum XL 200.  I’m not in the 8th grade anymore, but this was even more terrifying.  What if I couldn’t do it?

So we met at 4:30 pm, and started what we now know as the descent  up to our halfway point.  For that reason, the first half was really easy.  The whole thing was basically downhill, something we might have researched first.  So for 6.5 miles, I thought, we can really do this.  We wooped that run like David jacked up that dang giant with 5 smooth stones and a trumpet.  Then running back it started to get a bit harder.  It didn’t seem uphill, yet my legs were getting tired and when we eventually did get to a part that seemed uphill, I found myself ready to give up.

When I stopped running to take a break, I looked at our gps reading, and we had hit 11.11 miles, and it seemed like 2 more miles would never come.  I felt nauseous.  I felt weak.  I begged for Mark, the super fast, built for running type guy, to go on ahead so he wouldn’t have to wait for me.  He wouldn’t.  He was being challenged too.  The last two miles were so fierce.  Mostly uphill.  All tired.  And to make matters worse, we passed my house at 11.6 miles.  Couldn’t we just stop a bit early?

Finally we arrived at the 13.11 mile mark, and the run was over.  I had nothing left.  No legs.  No breath. Mark, the formerly super fast, built for running type guy and I walked quietly to our cars, looked at each other with faint glances of satisfaction, and went our separate ways.

I drove to my house and sat in my car for a few minutes.  I couldn’t really move and Carie was visiting some family, so sitting in the car just seemed appropriate for the occasion where one can no longer move.  I called Carie, told her I finished, and unfortunately, she was on the other end of what happened next.  I lost it.  For no reason that I know of, and just because I felt like it, or maybe it was because I had nothing left in me…

I just cried into the phone for the next 10 minutes.

One day, a writer sat in front of his computer thinking about what to write on his blog.  He wrote all different kinds of stuff on a regular basis, but at the time, he had nothing interesting to say.  One thing he did know, however, was that the more he told stories as opposed to other genres of writing he tried, the better the results.

So he decided to write a story about himself, and how he was trying to figure out something to write and the epiphany came upon him that he was better at telling stories than trying to get people to feel better about themselves or challenging them to do something.

The problem was that the writer also realized that sometimes he ran out of stories to write, and that made him sad because he knew that, more than anything else, he should be making new stories to write about- going out and making a difference in his world or traveling through a comedy or a tragedy with friends.

You see, this writer seemed to do his best work, not when writing about imaginary lands or other people’s junk, but when he wrote about his adventures- Like the time he realized Jesus might be okay with beer, or the time a bee stung his mouth.

So making new stories became his mission, and he wondered what friends would like to be a part of that mission…

“That wasp just attacked me and stung me in the mouth,” I lamented to my two friends who previously were laughing at the thing to which I had just reacted so largely.

I finished volleyball minutes earlier after 4 big losses in a row and, already moping around a bit from an epic beating, I bowed low to get into my cellar in an effort to turn on the hose to wash our feet off before we entered the Holman household.  With the water turned on and mission accomplished, Bramlett, the left handed wannabee golfer, and Dagget, the wiry 3 languaged nightmare, took turns ribbing me about losing so many volleyball games.

We washed our feet.  I could have washed theirs in an amazing display of Christ-like humility via John 13, but I chose to turn the rays of my flashlight in the middle of their eyes instead.  I have much to learn.

When we were done with the water, I  crawled back down the cellar, turned the water off, all the while listening to their continued teasing about my athletic decent into Hades.  As I moved to the top of the cemented Cellar steps, a wasp, evidently very angry at something I’d done, attacked me, allowing absolutely no time for reaction.  It immediately hit the lower left side of my lip, and I immediately cried out in pain, holding on to my mouth like Steve Jobs holding on to his reputation.

As could be expected, Brams and Daggett continued their laughing as I grunted a pain-filled roar, at least until I mentioned how bad it hurt, then they stopped, and I could get on with feeling bad for myself.

It took only about 5 minutes for my mouth to resemble Will Smith’s from the movie “Hitch”, but it looked ugly, and I learned a valuable lesson that evening:

If you don’t play beach volleyball on Monday nights, then you probably won’t need to go down to the cellar for the water hose, which means you probably won’t get attacked by a wasp.

Capiche?

I’m not advocating this, but for the first 4 years I had a car (ages 21-24), only the first year did I have all the up-to-date “state-needed” credentials to owning and driving a car.  Ya know, things like car insurance, registrations, etc…?  For whatever reason, I had this great fear of the RMV.  So I learned to drive cautiously, like a scared bird flying over a gang of alley cats.  Every time I drove, I had all eyes open and ready to pull in some strange parking lot or driveway for fear that I would get stopped by a patrolling officer ready to take down the evil “non-compliant” boy from the midwest.

One time my first year in Holden, I was driving back to my apt. from a late night Boston excursion with some friends, and I finally arrived on to Bullard St around 2 am.  As I drove the mile down the street to my apt., I passed a cruiser pulling on to Bullard from one of its 4 side streets in that mile.  I was driving slowly enough, but the cruiser turned my way and followed me from a distance.  Knowing I wouldn’t speed up, and he would eventually catch up to me and probably see one of my many “non-compliant ways”, I gambled a bit.  I pulled into the driveway of  a house on Bullard St.  I had no idea whose house, just a house.  About the time I came to a complete stop, the cruiser slowly drove by, and I was left to wonder what I should do.

The cruiser turned right on to the next street, but I knew that the next street was a big loop and the officer had to eventually return to Bullard St.  So quickly I got out of the car, walked over to a huge (and wondrously low to the ground) pine tree, and dove under the pine tree.  Sure enough, the cruiser came out on to Bullard St and passed the house and my car once again, and this time even more slowly.  When the cruiser finally left my sight, I jumped up, rushed to the car with an adrenaline shot twice as powerful as any Monster drink, put it in reverse, and drove the rest of the half mile trip I had left.

Not that night, but eventually, I did get caught in my non-compliance, and I did turn from my evil ways and get all the credentials I need to be a good and safe driver in Massachusetts, but the one thing I, and my lovely wife Carie always remember is the way I drove during that time.

For this weekend, as we drove from Leominster back to our house in Holden, Carie complained that she was getting sick.  So she begged me:  “Please drive nice.  I’d like you to drive nice.  I’d like you to drive the way you used to drive before you started driving legally.”

I laughed, slowed down a lot, and looked around for a driveway or a parking lot.

9 years ago, my friend John (32 years old) from upstate, NY,  told me this story:

“When I was 25, a group of friends and I walked into a bar here in upstate NY.  We were looking to find some ladies and hook up.  Finally I saw this attractive girl, and decided she was going to be my “catch of the day”.  Walking over to her, I gave her a smile to let her know I’d be talking to her shortly.  We started talking and I evidently made her laugh enough that she seemed to be having a good time.  She was in college.  I was just out of college.  We weren’t looking for anything solid in terms of relationships.  Out for a good time.  That was our basic story.  We talked for long enough, so I asked her where she lives, and if I could take her there.  She said yes, and as we walked to my car, she gave me her address.  I stopped.  I hadn’t had contact with my dad for 3 years, and hadn’t had a relationship with him in 14 years, but I certainly knew where he lived.

“That’s my dad’s address,” I told her as we both glared at each other for what seemed like eternity.  “yes, Marty, that girl, who I was about to hook up with, was my half sister.”

As of yesterday morning at 9 am, I (back to Marty) hadn’t seen John in 7 years.  He walked into my office to surprise me after he spent a few days watching Red Sox games and taking tours of Harvard University.  Now he was headed home to upstate NY and decided to stop by for a visit.  We talked about family and life 7 years later.  I was married.  He was married with 3 kids.  He had now been a high school math teacher for 18 years.  I was now the lead pastor of Fellowship Church.  It really was great to see him.  Conversation eventually morphed into talk of old times, and I reminded him of the story I shared moments ago.  Then he asked me if he had updated me on that story.  I told him, “How could you have?  We haven’t talked in 7 years.  So he shared with me the rest of the story:

“So as you know, my relationship with my father has pretty much been non-existent for the majority of my life.  My mom warned me of his selfishness and that he was his own number 1 priority.  I learned that the hard way when I started playing baseball in high school.  He took off when I was a kid and all but ignored my existence.  Then I started playing high school baseball, played well, got my name in the paper, and he started to come around more.  “That’s my kid!” he would yell loudly for everyone around him to hear.  At first I was proud.  My dad’s finally taking an interest in me.  We would go fishing and talk a bit more.  Then later on in my athletic career, I hurt myself and couldn’t play anymore. I was on injured reserve in high school.

“As far as games go, it wasn’t a shock that he stopped attending them, but the fishing trips faded, and time with dad evaporated very quickly.  I would no longer have a relationship with him, and I realized our time together was connected to what I offered him.  It sucked.  Later on when I became a teacher and started coaching girls basketball at my school, our team went to the finals, and about the time my name appeared in the papers again, he made his way to the games again.  But this time I was an adult, and barely acknowledged his existence.

“Fast forward to the time I became a Christian, through our time together, Marty, on to when I got married and had kids.  My family and I attended a boys basketball game in February 2009.  I saw him and he saw me.  I looked away and hoped he would just go away, but he didn’t.  He walked over and we exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, while I chose to leave my wife out of the loop.  During a most awkward silence, my dad looked at my wife as if to tell me he’d like to be introduced to her.  I would not do it.  My heart was cold, and this basketball game would not be the place to thaw it out.  But after a look from my wife, I gave in and said, “Nancy, this is my dad.”  We’d been married for 6 years and lived in the same small town, and they’d never met.

“At the end of our conversation, which lasted much longer than I had wanted it to, my dad asked me to write down all of the names of my family and their birthdays.  I grabbed his pen and paper, and wrote them down.  After looking at the paper for longer than he should have, he anxiously said, “Could you write down yours too John?”  Anger flared up inside me as I realized the magnitude of this moment.  I suppose it took a bit of humility to ask me that, but my insides told me that years of neglect had affected me more than I knew.

“Before he left, he said he had gone through some health issues recently, and realized how selfish his life had been.  He wanted to connect more with our family.  I left knowing I should forgive, but not wanting to allow my heart to open up.  After several conversations with my wife, and knowing that I was going to have help from Jesus to allow for this kind of forgiveness, I could feel some improvement.  And though I secretly hoped he would never call or want to get together, I continued to ask God’s help for my heart.

“Then he called.  It was the birthday of one of my kids, and he asked if he could come and bring a gift.  We were having a party, so hesitantly, I invited him to come along with his wife.  They came and gave a gift and seemed to have a great time.  That birthday started a trend that year of spending time together as two families became one again.  Recently, my dad told me he enjoyed spending time with us because, as he put it, ‘Nancy and you treat one another differently than any married couples I know, and you’re good examples to us.’”

“As our relationship continues to grow, and as my heart heals, I’m learning so much about the amazing grace of Jesus, and though I didn’t deserve it, he freely gave it.  Though I have continually hurt him, he continues to forgive me.  So the least I can do is forgive my dad, and that forgiveness has opened up a lot of avenues for our family.

“In fact, Marty, he recently invited me to one of his family reunions that he goes to every year.  I knew he attended it every year back in the day, but I was never invited or whatever.  So I went and saw people I hadn’t seen since I was a kid.  I saw many of my half brothers and half sisters, and I saw one half sister in particular who I had met in a bar several years before.  “You look great!”  I said enthusiastically…

She responded, “You thought that about 20 years ago too!”

I have a fear that when we have a “good idea” at Fellowship Church, the idea in our minds won’t translate to getting across a real point of spiritual significance, but will translate into “Man, that sucked.”

Several weeks ago, Carie and I celebrated our 5 year anniversary at the Italian restaurant where Carie’s sister Jessica works.  It’s a nice restaurant that only recently opened by occupying another failed Italian restaurant.  The experience was enjoyable, the food amazingly delicious, and the only negative was the ambiance given off by the restaurant’s 1970ish looking decor.

Fast forward to last weekend when Carie and I decided to hit up a brand new Italian Restaurant in the same city that reoccupied a closed McDonalds.  To say I was skeptical of whether it would be a good experience or not is to under-exaggerate.  I figured that I would not be able to get past the fact that I had spent some time ordering “two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun” at this establishment.  For a short time at the new restaurant I felt this way, but eventually they won me over having redecorated the entire building, so only the outside was reminiscent of the golden arches.  Then the wait staff was outstanding, and the food was even better than the aforementioned Italian restaurant we visited on our anniversary.  (It should be mentioned here in all fairness that we have only eaten at both restaurants once, and in both cases the food was great!)  Also, the restaurant was packed, for this particular restaurant has four other restaurants in Massachusetts, and they clearly did a great job of building their platform nicely on this launching weekend.  Food, check.  Wait staff, check, check.  Atmosphere, triple check.

On the way home, Carie wanted to encourage her sister, who was working at the first restaurant, so we decided to stop by there for dessert.  The first thing we noticed as we walked in was the number of cars in the parking lot.  Clearly most of the Italian restaurant connoisseurs decided to eat we ate that night, as the parking lot loomed largely empty.  As we walked in, the same vibe that had illuminated Jessica’s place of employment 2 weeks earlier had clearly disappeared as we wondered if this was really the result of a new restaurant in town.

The hostess sat down in a booth, and within two minutes of sitting, we noticed something was going on about 20 yards from us on the other side of the bar.  It looked like…No, it couldn’t be.  “Are they setting up for Karaoke?” I asked Carie in disbelief.  Alas, the woman leading the karaoke in charge was about to answer my question as she picked up the microphone and made an announcement that singing and good times would begin in about 5 minutes.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked Carie and now Jessica as she also stood in apparent disbelief, having not known about this before we walked in.  In the next 5 minutes, three couples formerly sitting in booths and enjoying the remains of there dinners quickly left the scene.  And then as tradition has it, the woman leading the Karaoke charge takes the mic, asks the Dj to push play, and begins to bellow a nasty country song worthy of any honky tonk on any side of the ‘ol Mississip.  A new couple walked in holding menus and walked towards a booth, then realizing what was happening, and about the time they were passing our booth, silently and with cat like prowess, they turned around and walked out.  The woman leading the Karaoke charge kept on bellowing.  Nothing could stop her.  And Carie and I were witnesses to the unraveling of a classy Italian restaurant.

Jessica served us our fancy desserts as some guy who had a halfway decent hit a grand slam with a U2 song, the only runs of the evening.  She responded to my inquiries about who in the world thought it was a good idea for a nice Italian restaurant to host karaoke by telling me the Chef was pissed and felt like the evening was a slap in the face to him and his kitchen staff.  By the time we walked out for the evening, the bar held a handful of wedding singers and the booths were practically empty.  Later, the owner confessed to his staff that he was trying to boost his bar numbers, and thought this was a great way to do it.

So he compromised what his restaurant was great at for a lackluster attempt to resurrect what was not going so well, and the result -  at least for that evening…

An epic failure in every area of the restaurant.

This weekend is July 4th weekend.  I live in Massachusetts.

The big thing to do in Massachusetts on July 4th, and I mean really big, is go to Boston.  I’ve done this a few times now, and it is really big and really awesome.  The drawback is that millions of other people agree with you and will be there with you, making the ride to leave the city of Boston impossible to do at a decent hour.

A few years ago at Fellowship, we started a new “tradition” on the Sunday of July 4th weekend.  We began having an outdoor service and a party on our property that day.  Last year, the church surprised me by celebrating my 10th anniversary here at this church.  It’s amazing to be around the people you love.  To hang out and play games and talk and enjoy the beauty of God’s creation with your closest friends.

This year, the two events happen to coincide:  Boston’s July 4th, and the Party in the Park.

And if I had my choice (cause really I don’t this week), I’d go relational before I would experiential.

We love the experiential, don’t we?  To experience big things and huge events and the next great adventure.  But one thing I learned a long time ago is that if I had the choice to do experiential or relational, I should pick relational.  I should be where I know people love me and care about me.  I should pour into them and allow them to pour into me.  And I should wallow in the experience of being with my community.  This is why I’ve turned down free tickets to huge games and concerts to attend date night with my wife or small groups during the week.  Because I know at the end of the day, my wife, and the people I share life with, are going to be there with me long after the season ends or the newest tour is finished.

When I was in high school, I had the opportunity to travel on a trip to Mexico with my friends, classmates, and teachers.  It was kind of a missions trip and kind of a learning adventure to an area  of Mexico called Monterrey.  The trip had been planned and we were all pretty excited to go, when I received a call from my uncle Matt, telling me he had some tickets for me to see DC Talk at his church, and then he was sure I would be able to meet them.  I loved DC Talk!!!  It was going to be so epic, and I couldn’t wait, and it was right in the middle of my planned trip to Mexico.

Naturally, I begged my dad to let me go.  I told him it was only Mexico, like one country away, and I could save my traveling for going to a country farther away some day, and that this opportunity wouldn’t last forever, and that DC Talk’s Free at last was the best album ever.  My dad wasn’t feeling it though, and he calmly said I could go to any concert I wanted after I came back from Mexico.

I learned some big lessons on that trip.  I remember eating a jalapeno so hot that it made me vomit in the middle of the street.  I remember the exhilaration of having a high school crush to the experience of said crush taking my heart and crushing it in her cold bony fingers (that’s poetic more than literal, btw).  I remember the beauty of the mountains in Mexico, and the smell of the marketplace cooking in the towns.  But most of all, I remember the people I met there and the people with whom I traveled.  Amazing people.  People who poured into my life for years and helped make not only this experience, but most experiences in the early part of my life much better.

I’ve since gone to numerous DC Talk shows, and seen about 100 other incredible concerts since then, but the one thing I have since learned, that I believe helped change my life, was when it comes to making a decision – Should I do this or this? – Always make that decision with the people who love you the most in mind.

Experiences will come and go, but relationships will tell the world who you really were.

*By the way, this post isn’t even about how horrible July 4th in Boston is.  My friend Jay goes every year with his closest friends (minus me) and makes a day of it.

I’ll cut to the chase.  Sunday morning at Fellowship we’ll be hosting a great author, an author of a book one of my fave pastors, Andy Stanley says, “I Can’t put it down.”  His name is Jon Acuff, and he writes the popular blog “Stuff Christians Like”.  He’ll be speaking at our 10:30 am service, and frankly, I can’t wait!

Here’s one of my favorite posts from him about “Our prayer requests that aren’t big enough”:

“Uh oh,” my friend said the other night at the end of our men’s group, “I don’t think I should share my prayer request anymore.”

Why did he say this? Simple, he didn’t have a “big prayer request.”

After hearing everyone’s very serious, very heartfelt prayer requests, his suddenly felt small and insignificant. He didn’t want to say it out loud. He was struck with a bought of prayer envy or “prenvy.” And you hate to see that kind of thing strike a kid so young. It’s a shame, a dang shame.

So to help him, and others out there, I thought it would be a good idea to review some ways to prevent feeling like your prayer request isn’t “big enough.”… (read the rest and more here)

This Sunday.  10:30.  Fellowship Church.

Sometimes Bruno barks.  I’m not sure at what, but I hear it.  he barks.

Bruno’s our dog, and he’s a good one, but sometimes, out of nowhere, he just spastically starts to bark and howl.  Maybe it’s a butterfly, or maybe it’s a squirrel, but for whatever reason, makes loud noises that I wish came out when people were around.You see, Bruno never barks when people come to the door or when someone’s walking around our property, only at what I perceive as little, unimportant things.

I should teach him when to bark and when to sit quietly and to just be amazed at the little flying creatures that God created from a caterpillar crawling on a tree.  Barking at little unimportant things becomes annoying to others as they are trying to live out their lives.  Barking at little unimportant things makes Bruno a nuisance.  And barking at little unimportant things means he might one day ignore something more important because he’s so focused on that which is unimportant.

Hmmm.