He's Not Fred Hoiberg, But. . .

People here in Iowa love Fred Hoiberg.

After all, what's not to love? He's a local boy with a great story - talented high school basketball player works hard to become a great college basketball player in the state, followed by a solid NBA career and front office job. As if that weren't enough, he returns to his home town, in his home state, to lead his alma mater as coach to consistent greatness on the hardwood floor, all while appearing unflappably and constantly in control of all around him.

The Fred Hoiberg bandwagon has lengthened it's journey to a national tour, with commentators from all corners singing his praises and suggesting he could name his pick of a job, any job, he wants. And how does he respond? He makes commercials for charity in which he breakdances, multiplying by powers of ten the fawning adoration of the Cyclone faithful.

Fred Hoiberg is a good coach. Though not a Cyclone fan, I can recognize and appreciate that fact. He is one of many great coaches who gain deserved national attention for their hard work, attention to detail, discipline, and leadership. Ben Jacobson, at the helm of my beloved Panthers, is another. I want to write today, however, about one who isn't on ESPN today.

I've been co-coaching my daughter's first year of basketball in a 1st-2nd grade girls rec league. The season, has been, well, full of stories. I've enjoyed the experience, challenges and all, and so has my daughter. That is a win.

But some nights I just don't have it. We usually practice at 7 pm on Thursdays, and after two weeks of many late nights working on home renovation, I showed up to practice this week tired. Worn down. Perhaps, dare we say, irritable?

I just didn't have the energy to carry practice. I was positive, but not enthusiastic. I was teaching, but not with passion. And realistically, I had little patience for the wandering attention span of particularly my own daughter and her seeming search for butterflies and rainbows, despite the practice being held at an indoor court at night.

Fortunately for me, fortunately for the girls, and fortunately for my daughter, my fellow coach was there. For someone who likes control as much as I do, the idea of "co-coaching" is difficult and one I hesitate to agree to. In this scenario, however, with someone who has been a long-time friend and for whom I have a great deal of respect, I knew the experience would be positive. This week I recognized just how necessary it was.

This guy, who will probably never be on Sportscenter or Gameday (though who perhaps may be starring in a few obscure impromptu dancing videos if the right camera phone at the right local establishment were recording), who few outside this community would recognize, is one of the best coaches I know. And he is so because his energy-level is unchanging. I had an off-night, a tired night on Thursday in which he picked me up. I've never seen him have an off-night. I've never seen someone have to pick up his end of the passion, his end of the positive, his end of the energy for the game and the kids. I've never seen him tired. I'm sure he has been: he just doesn't let it affect his time with kids, whether those are high school varsity athletes or a group of 1st and 2nd grade girls who at times want a drink more than they want anything else in the gym.

This guy is no Fred Hoiberg. He doesn't have to be. All he is, is the best coach my daughter has had the opportunity to work with.

In all that is wrong about youth athletics, in all that is wrong about the altar of sports that we too often find ourselves worshiping, coaches like this are exactly what's right. And I am a grateful parent.

Foolishly Frustrated

We are hip-deep in a remodeling mess here at the Dykstra household this week.

We finally got back in the house on Thursday night after being out of it for a week and half while our living room and dining room walls were refinished. Coming home was a blessing, but a mixed one. Rather than peacefully reading, writing, and generally ignoring all work in the evenings while we stayed at Emily's parents' home, we came home to an overwhelming list of things to do: unpack, tape the existing trim, primer and paint for walls, new trim to stain, ceiling tiles to purchase, ceiling tiles to install, and on and on and on. So much to do, all of it staring us in the face every minute we're in the house. We knew it would be a large undertaking; we just hadn't planned on it being now.

The original plan was later. Late spring perhaps. Maybe summer. But that's not how it worked out. After all, you don't tell your wall guy "no" when he tells you he can get you in.

It's hard not to feel stressed. We've got all this work to do, and we don't really have a lot of time to get it done right now. We filled our schedule, much of it before we knew that this project would begin in February. On Thursday afternoon, prior to heading home for the first time in 10 days to face the task, I realized that my upcoming schedule is pretty tight:

Thursday evening: Officiating job. Home at 8 pm.
Friday evening: Officiating job. Home at 7 pm.
Saturday morning: Coach Elise's basketball team.
Saturday afternoon: UNI men's basketball game with girls.
Monday night: Parent-teacher conferences. Home at 8:30.
Wednesday night: UNI game with friend.
Next weekend: visiting friends out of town.
The next weekend: Spring break trip to Texas.
Free time: work on my next sermon, which is in one month.

I wanted to grumble on Thursday afternoon. I wanted to get frustrated at the schedule, agitated about the work to be done, anxious and tense about the next few weeks and the chaotic abode in which I'd be living. But because I had a brief window of time before my refereeing job, and because I needed to get some words down to keep myself within shouting distance of this month's 13,000 word goal, I prayed. And praying led to an important revelation.

I was being an idiot. Any stress from my situation was stupid stress, essentially finding ways to grumble about blessings. What was it that was filling my schedule and making it difficult to make progress? The opportunity to work in order to pay for the job - blessing. The chance to spend time with my daughter doing something she cares about - blessing. The chance to see the Panthers with my wife, my daughters, and my parents - blessing. Friends willing to host us. A fun trip with our daughters. The invitation to speak about something that I'm studying and am passionate about. Blessing, blessing, blessing.

I made a decision right then during the prayer - don't be an idiot. And I realized that probably most of the things that I grumble about, if I looked at them closely enough, would be about blessings as well. I just went back and reread that prayer: "Grant us calm, Lord. Protect us from allowing the blessings to become stress. . . How silly would it be, Lord, to allow a life crowded with blessings to be the source of grumbling? I'm already humbled by the fact that I knew the temptation would exist to feel burdened. Instead, I thank you, Lord."

I'm thrilled I had those extra 15 minutes to get my head and heart right.

In reading I Corinthians 10 this week, I found some instructions from Paul to the Corinthians in terms of their conduct and what they should avoid. First up - idolatry. That's a biggie. Next up were sexual immorality and testing Christ. More heavy-hitting sins. What came next, tucked in with that list, surprised me: "do not grumble."

Perhaps it should not have been surprising. For the temptation is great, every day, even in the midst of a charmed life.

The Power of Things

John Steinbeck, in his book America and Americans (from 1966), writes the following:

"I strongly suspect that our moral and spiritual disintegration grows out of our lack of experience with plenty. . . We are poisoned with things. Having many things seems to create a a desire for more things, more clothes, houses, automobiles. Think of the pure horror of our Christmases when our children tear open package after package and, when the floor is heaped with wrappings and presents, say, 'Is that all?'"

I used that quote on my board recently, teaching it alongside a Hemingway short story, "Snows of Kilimanjaro," in which the main character comes to the end of his life and realizes that he never did what he wanted to do, what he was born to do, what he enjoyed doing, because he was ruined by comfort. It is no uplifting story, but it certainly serves as a cautionary tale to the rest of us, all sixteen pages of it, that the very goals that many Americans chase - comfort, security, toys, etc. - are exactly what prevent us from what we truly enjoy and need.

My immediate reaction to Steinbeck's quote upon first read was to connect to the Christmas line. I've seen that picture before. I've seen it from my own kids a time or two. The endless gift lists of desires for all giving occasions always builds; there is no satiating the thirst for more. And when more arrives, it never brings satisfaction. My kids are in danger, came my first thought; their generation is in danger, came the second. Days later came the third: I'm in danger crept into my head. And a recent week provides the evidence.

We were recently out of our house for a week and a half. Knee deep in a remodeling project that we grossly underestimated, we vacated the premises to have some walls redone. We were greatly blessed to have Emily's parents offer us their home to stay in while they were out of town on vacation. While the timing and offer couldn't have been more convenient for our undertaking, it did come with the natural stress of packing what we would need for a week or two and attempting a temporary bare-bones approach regarding those "needs."

It was remarkable to find how little stress there was. Were there inconveniences? Sure. Any bed but my own is just different, I had to shower in the same bathroom my kids use in the morning, and there was no programmable thermostat to anticipate my needs before I woke up in the morning. You know, real first world problems here. But even some of the inconveniences decreased stress. What a blessing it was that for the first 3 days, I was too scared to mess up the TV remote and had no idea where any of the DirectTV channels were, forcing me to skip the time-wasting portion of my evening and dive straight into reading some Steinbeck or writing words like these.

Emily and I both noticed that in many ways, it was a relief to be out of our house. We did not come home to a half-done project that demands attention. There was no mess to live in; no next box to check on the to-do list; and no belongings to move, put away, or organize. In short, we were no longer stressed by all of our stuff.

I was worried about my kids staying in a house that was not their own, sharing a room that is not their own, without the toys and puzzles and books and dolls and art supplies that are their own. But they pretty much subsisted solely on playing games of UNO with each other non-stop. Honestly, they got along with each other better during that stay than in many weeks in recent memory. They did not seem to be looking around, missing out on the lack of stuff.

No, it is me who was tempted to look around for my stuff, for all the things that cause the stress that I've been able to leave behind: the stress of paying for it, the stress of picking it up, the stress of cleaning it and caring for it. The stress of living in the stress, hurriedly unwrapping all the blessings around me, barely noticing any of them, and thinking, Is that all?

Home ownership is not bad. Blessing my children with a cool gift on occasion is not bad. Improving our home as an act of maintenance and an effort for others to feel comfortable as our guests in it is also not bad. But looking around and realizing that the source of most stress is the very stuff and projects we are reaching for? That calls for some reflection.

Beware the power of things. Steinbeck, half a century after putting pencil to paper, may know what he's talking about.

Will Ferrell, Fairy Dust, and a Shakespearean Performance

I have been in awe of Jimmy Fallon at various times over the past few months, as I've been exposed to more video clips of his Tonight Show antics. Jimmy, I've come to realize, is a funny, funny man. And brilliant. Or at least brilliant at being funny. Whether that's through Jimmy becoming the new Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, instigating his own appearance on Saved By the Bell, or creating Brian Williams rap videos (though I assume those may be in short supply in the coming months), I've had ample opportunity to fawn over the creative genius being produced over at the Tonight Show. Thanks to YouTube, I don't even have to stay up past ten to see it.

But Jimmy doing what Jimmy does didn't prompt this post tonight. For what Fallon does is merely being really, really good at his job. That's not necessarily a rarity. Openly loving your own job in the way he does may be; but I see people committed to excellence in their station in life every day.

No, who impressed me most in a recent Fallon clip is Will Ferrell. Ferrell is a funny guy too, despite the fact that I've struggled to find much humor in most of his film comedies. For me, he's hit and miss in that department, though I'm able to recognize his skill and hard work at his craft.

But coming onto Fallon's show is not Will Ferrell's job. His livelihood and professional reputation are not at stake in that appearance. He didn't have to be great. But there he was, as a guest, challenged by Fallon to a lip syncing contest. Challenge accepted. Will Ferrell doesn't just play along; he doesn't go through the motions, laughing awkwardly at appropriate times, counting the minutes until he's done. No, Will Ferrell goes on the offensive. Will Ferrell pulls out the fairy dust.

(For the ten or so readers who haven't seen this video yet, I've posted it at the end of this post. I'd put it here, where it most appropriately belongs, but I'm quite certain if you watched it, there is no chance you'd return to the rest of my words here.)

It's ridiculous just how good he is in this performance. With no real responsibility and no immediate financial reward, Ferrell worked and practiced and planned and danced and put together a masterpiece. And then another one. He was excellent simply because he had decided to be, for no other reason than that if he was going to do it, he may as well go all the way.

This happened in my classroom this month as well. I assigned my AP students to memorize and recite a 24-line Shakespearean speech to the class. While I encouraged them to have some fun and speak with some gravel in their gut, their only requirement was to know the words. Most chose that route, because that's what was required of them. Some stepped out a bit further, adding emotion and a few hand gestures. But there was one student who decided to make this a gem of her own. While not available to millions over YouTube or Twitter, her performance was worthy of it. There were props, intense pauses, and tears. There was a dead body on a makeshift coffin and the scattered outbursts of a Lady Ann bemoaning the death of her husband in the face of his murderer. There were chills. And why? Because she was doing it. And if you're going to do something, you might as well go all the way.

I offer these two examples, this high school senior and comedy giant, as motivation for all of us. Pick something. Pick something that you do, or are asked to do, something you don't have to do for a paycheck, and just be excellent. Be excellent because you're already spending the time doing it, and your name is on it, so you might as well really dive in and make it brilliant.

There are examples around you, if you look hard enough. And they're worth looking for. It's the care and craftsmanship I see my father put into each oaken creation configured in his wood shop. It's my wife's attention to presentation as much as taste in her culinary artistry. It's why my friend takes meticulous notes for us to discuss over Steinbeck, notes he wasn't assigned by any professor. And it's why I plunk-plunk away at another blog post, a few more words into the 13,000 for the month in a hobby that pays me nothing and demands of me everything.

You don't have to. Of course you don't. And that's the point. Because you don't have to, because you've chosen to, because there's no consequence for not doing it other than knowing that you could have, go be excellent at something. And don't forget the fairy dust.

A Call for Precision

Recently I've been bothered a bit by a trend in student writing I've noticed over the past year or two. It has become common for most students, when they turn in their final paper for major assignments, to hand in rough work. Or perhaps "careless" is a better term. Whatever the adjective, it has become rare now to see essays turned in from junior and seniors that are devoid of basic spelling, capitalization, and punctuation errors. Most feel unfinished.

It hasn't always been so. There used to be a sense of pressure felt by students on due dates. It was the pressure of having one's name on something and having it judged. Though not for the masses, they were in a way "publishing" their work, and many (at least far more than now) carefully checked for the unforced errors that plague the writing I read today.

I have a theory. I think today's student is so accustomed to "publishing" that the pressure of having their name attached to something is non-existent. Their name is attached to dozens of unpunctuated half-thoughts each day in the form of tweets, texts, posts, and pictures. Thousands of people are exposed to their writing at all times; publishing has lost its luster, it's significance. If the synapses connecting fingers to keypad fire more quickly than it requires to reflect upon what is being put out to the world with their name on it, then so be it. They feel no burden to represent themselves with a work of art every time they attach their signature to something.

This is more observation than criticism; this is my attempt at understanding my students and this trend.

But it is a call, I believe, to many of us to take greater care in our publishing. For we should feel the pressure to be precise and the need to produce masterpieces in the digital world in which we find ourselves.

I recently read a blog post in which the author had decided to get his daughter a smart phone, but with it he and his wife had created a contract between them and the daughter regarding her use of it. It made for interesting reading, and in it I found many pieces of wisdom that reach beyond teenagers. Of particular note was this: "You've been gifted with incredible creativity and skill so use it and create, don't just consume. Avoid the trap of mindlessly consuming others' thoughts and productions. Leave an incredible 'digital footprint' in this wonderful world you're a part of."

Here lies two specific challenges First of all, do not merely consume. If you are creative, then create. It is easy to passively ingest social media and media in general as though through a feeding tube; frankly, it's easy to do this in all corners of life. It will always be easier to demand that others produce beauty and entertainment, that others get involved with the dirty work of actually interacting and helping others, that others make the changes that we see so desperately need to be made. But just as being a spectator in the rest of life seems like a waste, it seems like a waste in the digital community as well.

Secondly, this is a call for masterpieces. The challenge to create is not one that demands hundreds of posts a day. Or a week. Rather, this asks that with each Facebook post or tweet, we ask, Is this a masterpiece? Is this improving the world? And for Christians, Is this bringing glory to God? The pressure of publication should come with each post, as it drives us to do better, to create with more precision and care. It asks for a purpose for everything: not merely to fill the air (or screen) with babble, but to paint boldly, on purpose.

Bret Lott, in his book Letters and Life, writes, "Because my God is so precise, my writing ought not to be fuzzy or nearly clear or just almost precise enough. My writing ought to be precise because I have been made in the image of God, and not blurrily in his image, not almost in his image, not close enough in his image."

So publish, and publish wisely. Publish with pressure, and publish with precision. For your name is on it. And that matters.