I like sports. I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed or anything, but if given the option of watching a good game/match/bout/race/whatever, or watching a cooking show or PBS presentation, or presidential address for the past 3 years, I will probably choose the former option. When it comes to my sport of choice, college football wins out, followed by pro football, then college basketball, and then pro basketball. Somewhere at the bottom of that list is horse racing, bowling, and anything remotely tied to women’s sports. Sorry ladies, watching a basketball game with no dunks and half the speed makes me doze in a matter of minutes.

All of this to lead into a conversation I heard on the radio the other day as I headed up to Wabash for a chiropractic appointment. The DJ was asking people who they thought might have been voted the #1 most hated player in the NBA. Now, I follow the NBA fairly closely, and happily confess my love for the Miami Heat and their big 3. I also know I am in the minority because many hate Lebron James for the way he left Cleveland. I get that, but c’mon Cavs, if you wanted the guy to stay, you should have found a way to surround him with some talent. Anyway, my guess of most hated player would have been Lebron, or someone like him who is polarizing across the league, not just for any one team. Another good option would have been Kobe Bryant, who’s crybaby ways and sex scandals have caused tons of bad media scrutiny. Or what about Metta World Peace, formerly known as Ron Artest, who is famous for the brawl in Detroit when he was part of the Pacers (and because he changed his name to Metta World Peace)? All of those would be fine choices, and with good reason. But according to Forbes magazine, and the DJ I heard it from on the radio, the most hated player in the NBA is Kris Humphries, a seldom used back-up player on the New Jersey Nets. Why Humphries you ask? Well, he was famously married to Kim Kardashian for 1700 hours, or barely 72 days back in the fall. Kardashian, who is only famous for a sex tape that came out while she was dating some rapper, and is now all over the news, and has added about as much value to the American landscape as Richard Simmons, makes me want to throw my remote through my TV anytime I see her. I think I actually yelled at my radio after the announcement. C’mon America! Did you really decide to hate a guy because he shelled out $2 million bucks for an engagement ring to a woman who has continually proven by her antics on television and in person that she most certainly isn’t the marrying type and then finds himself in a failed marriage after barely 2 months? I can understand voting him the most pitied player in the league, or maybe the most “how did you not see this coming” player, but really, the most hated? Have we really spiraled downward so much as a culture that we’re willing to side with a girl who lives her life like a perpetual sex tape and hate the seeming nice guy who got caught in the shuffle, after shelling out more than most people make in a lifetime for a ring that stayed on a finger for a matter of months? Yes, blame Kris for poor choices as a life partner, and maybe for poor money management, but hate him for a failed marriage to an amoral woman, c’mon America, you’re better than that.

Kris, if you read my incredibly famous blog (thanks for reading, Mom), and ever find yourself an hour north of Indy, feel free to swing by and see me. We can laugh at the stupidity of pop culture, and you can give me $2 million for something that will actually still be around in 73 days.

My last post, several months ago, promised to be the beginning of a series on 12 Things Jesus Doesn’t Care About. In the countless times since then that I have seen my blog’s homepage, I have grown more and more reticent about writing this series. Some could say it is because I am lazy, some would say uncreative, but I would say I’m worn out thinking about all of the rebuttals I would have to give to the statements made by well intentioned persons who think they understand the heart of what I am getting at but don’t have the faintest idea. This is not to say they are dim-witted or less intelligent that me. It is more of an indictment on what I am sure would be my inability to properly explain myself. As such, I have opted to simply list the 12 things below without any further explanation and open it up for discussion if anyone cares or even still reads this seldom updated blog. So, without further delay, here they are, 12 Things Jesus Doesn’t Care About:

Your Education/Degree
Your Money
Your Job
Your Cholesterol
Your Past
Your Good Intentions
Your Church Attendance
Your Circle of Friends
Your Bible Reading
Your Blogging Ability
Your Car
Your Favorite Sports Team

There they are, 12 things I am convinced Jesus doesn’t care about. If you’d like further discussion, I invite it,  but won’t bother spelling it all out unless you’d like clarification.

Hopefully this post will be followed by another much sooner than the last.

If you’ve been a reader of my blog and have waited with baited breath to see if I actually returned from Haiti, since my last entry in early January found us there, rest assured we are home and in one piece. We’re excited about the recent birth of our second child, Wade Robert Wisley, and still trying to figure out how we work out our salvation with fear and trembling.

It is from that perspective I’ve finally been re-inspired to blog. I have purposefully stayed away from religious stuff in my blogs of late, but the more I think about it, if you’re a friend of mine or follower of my blog, you either know where I stand with Jesus (Hey-suse – just because I’m feeling Latin today) or its high time you learned. I want this life I live for Christ to make a difference and be crazy, on the edge, falling-for-Him-and-needing-Him-to-catch-me-or-I’m-lost as much as I can. I love Jesus and try to let His influence on me as Lord and Savior take precedence in all my life decisions and plans. He is, in short, the most important thing in my world. Okay, now that we’ve settled that…

The next several blog entries, hopefully in fairly rapid succession, will deal with 12 Things Jesus Doesn’t Care About in your life and mine. Some of these may offend you. Some may surprise you. Some may prompt you to respond with angry words. I welcome all such responses, as long as it promotes healthy dialogue that will point to a better understanding of Jesus. If you disagree and want to comment simply to assassinate my character, that is fine. I will not block or delete your comments for anything other than atrocious profanity (moderate is alright, and will be chuckled at, but this is a kids show). My viewpoint of these 12 things (and maybe more as I write this series) comes from my understanding of Galatians 5:6 that “the only thing that matters is faith expressing itself through love.” Peace…

Just thought I’d drop a quick note to let everyone in cyberspace know we’re doing well and having all sorts of new experiences here in Haiti. It is hot, mostly 85ish and humid each day, but the warm weather and cool breezes are extremely calming. I’ll give a full update via blog in a few days but there are other’s waiting for our limited access computer and I don’t want to hog it. There is also a beautiful little Haitian girl who keeps hitting the “p” key on the keyboard and I want to be done before I have to say “pas touche” anymore! Keep checking back once we land back in the States for a full update. God bless.

Joe

I’m enjoying the Christmas season in Chicago with Melissa’s family and staring out their back window at 6 inches of snow as I listen to the patter of Jake’s little feet on the hardwood floor. It has been a great 3 days and I’m sad to see it end. However, I’m very excited about the next 8 days we’re headed into. In about 24 hours (Jake is screaming in my ear because I won’t let him have a piece of chocolate!), we’ll be landing in 85 degree Port au Prince to spend a week working with our friend and missionary Tina Eisenhower. I’ve been to work with her before, but Melissa has never had the chance. On this trip, we’ll be working to improve conditions for orphans and some elderly folks who were hit particularly hard with the earthquake. Overnight, Tina’s home became an orphanage and she is still struggling to feed and care for the many children who last everything last winter. Please pray for a good trip that will allow us the opportunity to make some positive changes. Pray also for Melissa, who is going at about 6 1/2 months pregnant and leaving her little boy behind for 8 days. I know this is reality for alot of people, but this will be the longest, by far, that she’s been away from Jake. I’ll try to keep everyone up to speed on the trip through my blog, but service on the island is sketchy, at best, and we’re not sure how often we’ll be in touch. At the very least, we’ll give everyone a full update when we return. Have a great week and choose your resolutions wisely!

As I sat down to watch the best show in the world last night at 7:30 (on NBC if you want to know what it is), I settled in comfortably on our hand-me-down couch and shoved a pillow under my arms. Call it some weird sense of comfort or a throwback to my days of trying to hide my chubby frame, but I always sit most comfortably with a pillow across my stomach when I watch TV. I was happy to have my almost 14 month old son, Jake, seated next to me and I saw him watching me with that “I don’t care what the world thinks of him, my Daddy is awesome” look in his eye. He finally put the pieces together, reached into his Cheerio strewn corner of the couch, grabbed his own pillow, and shoved it happily under his arms as he nuzzled in next to me. To those who have their own children (and men who have sons) you know there is nothing more fulfilling and altogether terrifying than having someone want to be just like you (by the way, Harry Chapin sang “The Cat’s in the Cradle” in the 70′s if you’re still confused…its about a boy wanting to be just like his daddy).

I’ve noticed more and more in the past few months how, even from an early age, Jake’s actions and activities are a direct result of how I live my life. When I leave for work he stands in the front window pointing and waving because he wants to be right next to me. When I jump on my motorcycle, he isn’t content unless his little legs are straddling the gas tank and we’re cruising around the camp together. When he sees a truck drive past he points and mutters in his own little Tim the Toolman Taylor language because he’s seen how much Daddy loves and drives trucks. He dresses like me (his mom helps with that), sleeps with his arms over his head like me, and even went out muskrat hunting with me last night before Jeopardy! As I was watching him for a while yesterday afternoon while Melissa was working a couple hours at the daycare, we were in my office and Aaron, our intern, had joined us. As Jake was waddling back and forth from my desk to the couch, pulling stuff out of my trashcan as he went, Aaron asked “Did you and Melissa ever think you’d love having kids as much as you do?” I didn’t even hesitate. “No,” I said, “we never would have believed how much joy and fullness he adds to our lives!” (As I sit here at home typing this, Jake just walked up and shoved a cup of cold water on me…that’s right, I said “joy and fullness!”)

Thoughts of Jake wanting to be just like me do two things. First, they make me want to be a better man. I don’t want Jake wrestling and struggling with the same things I struggle with. I don’t want him growing up with a less than perfect picture of how to be a husband and father. I don’t want him to be timid, or angry, or lazy, or condescending, or any number of other things that I could be on any given day. I want him to live from him heart, as passionately and recklessly as I feel God calling me to live. I want him to live on the edge where he has to depend on God to pull him back in. I want his light to burn brightly and the world to know more about Christ because of Jake. Those are the things I want and pray for him.

The second thing thoughts like this do is make me reflect on the kind of love our Father in Heaven has for us. I think so often people who are raised in the church, and those who are turned off by the church, have this mistaken view of God as simply being up in Heaven demanding blind obedience and having His finger on the “make bad stuff happen” trigger if we screw up. While I think I serve a holy God who wants me to be Holy as well, I can’t help but think of the way I feel for Jake as a less intense picture of the way God feels for me. You see, Jake woke up this morning not feeling well and cried, kicked, and screamed for about 20 minutes. After enough time to see he was just being a pill, I punished him and took him back to his crib until 5 minutes later when he calmed down and was fine. He also poops, a LOT. He wears us out and sometimes disobeys. But, the times that are easiest to remember, the moments that define Jake in my eyes, are those times he nuzzles in next to me with a pillow across his lap just so he can be like me. Or moments after I got him out of his crib this morning and he stood at the shower door crying because he loved hanging with dad so much he couldn’t even stand for a glass door to separate us. Those are the moments I think of when I think of Jake. Of last night when he starting eating cattails when we were supposed to be hunting for muskrats, or of 2 nights ago when he almost laughed himself sick from just clumsily bouncing a basketball, or of the countless times I’ve sat in his bedroom floor as he’s brought me book after book to read and plopped down in my lap like that’s the only reason he exists. Jesus asks in Matthew 7 that if humans, though we’re imperfect and evil, know how to love and care for our children, then how much more does our perfect Father in Heaven love us? If I’m capable of loving Jake to the point of tears and can look past his less than perfect times so easily, then how much more is that true of our Father in Heaven?

Without question, I love Jake enough to die for him, and that’s what our Father did for us, even before we wanted to sit next to Him on the couch and ride around with Him on the motorcycle. Being a dad is tough at times, and I know it will get tougher when Jake decides for that inevitable time in a son’s life that he hates his father for a bit. But, just as I’ll continue to love and care for him regardless of his actions, so to our Father in Heaven looks down on and loves us. The end of “The Cat’s in the Cradle” has a haunting line for the writer as he realizes his son is just like Him in all the ways he regrets. I know I won’t be perfect but I hope when Jake has grown that I’ll have raised him not only to live like me in all the ways that are honorable, but that I’ve raised him to live like his Father in Heaven. My prayer is that he’ll remember the love of his earthly father and seek to love and follow his Heavenly Father just as he now loves me and seeks to follow me.

So, after a long summer of struggling to get out in the woods on my mountain bike, I talked with my buddy Craig here at camp a couple weeks ago and we decided to head down to Anderson on our day off and stir up some dust. We went to an area called Rangeline Park, which is where I first got passionate about mountain biking while working as youth minister at Bethany. I’ve been to the park several dozen times and would certainly call myself experienced on the trails there. Craig had never been, so we started slowly and did the entire intermediate loop while he got used to riding on dirt. Once we finished the first round, I asked if he was game for something a bit more challenging, and we were off to tackle the expert loop. For most of the day, the most eventful thing that happened was Craig wrecking off the side of a little hill, coming to the same hill a half hour later, laughing about his earlier wreck, and promptly wrecking in the exact same place again! I, of course, made fun of him, and we continued on our merry way. The expert section is really a series of 4 difference sections that shoot off of the intermediate, and we were on the first of those 4 sections when we discovered that much had changed since my last time here several months ago. This was great news for me, as I’ve been riding here since before the trails were even marked or named, and I’m always excited to see city tax dollars being used to improve things I actually enjoy. After some difficult up and downs, a couple new bridges, and a log ramp that we struggled with a bit, we came to a section where what used to be a steep decline down off a small ridgeline had been replaced by a ramp with a log across the top. I stopped at the top of the ramp, surveyed the scene, and determined I could make it down the 10 ft drop with a ramp in the middle of it if I carried enough speed and got my front tired up and over the log. I’ve done similar things before, and have learned when I’m a bit apprehensive, my best bet is generally to just do it before I chicken out! So, I backed up, dug in with my left foot on the pedal and started toward the ramp and the promise of some big air and bragging rights.

The next thing I remember is waking up flat on my back, head covered in dirt and sand, feeling relieved to see my toes were still able to wiggle, and telling Craig I didn’t know where I was but I was pretty certain I’d broken my left shoulder. I guess what happened was when I hit the jump with my front tire, my weight wasn’t shifted back far enough and I wasn’t going fast enough to carry my back tire over the log. As a result, I went over the front of my handlebars and headed toward the ground face first from about 10 ft up in the air. Apparently, I saw the inevitable pain heading my way and turned on my side to avoid hitting my face. This proved to be both good and bad. It was good in the sense that it may well have saved my life by keeping my 200 lbs from crashing down on my face and neck but it was bad in the sense that those 200 lbs wreaked havoc when I landed with all the force they could muster on the back of my left shoulder and the side of my head. Apparently, when I finally regained consciousness enough to remember who and where I was, I had been incoherent for almost 30 minutes and had torn all the ligaments holding my clavicle and scapula in place. Simply put, I got a really nice concussion and a nasty shoulder separation. When I was finally able to sit up, about 45 minutes after the wreck, I promptly blacked out again and laid back down. After another 15 minutes, we tried again, and I was able to get to my feet and walk the 10 minutes back to the truck holding my dangling shoulder in place while trying to crack enough jokes to keep from crying! After thanking our friend Tim Fair, and some random college kid named Kevin, for helping us get out of the woods, Craig and I made our way to the hospital.

Several hours, a $1300 CAT scan, an x-ray, and having to admit several times to multiple different people that I had forgotten my helmet at home, we headed back north with the shoulder in a brace and me looking forward to 6-8 weeks trying to eat with my bad hand, shower with one arm, and nothing but side hugs for my wife. At least I avoided surgery and God kept me alive for another day!

So, here we are, two weeks out, and I’m finally off most of my pain meds, my headaches are gone, and I can type with both hands again. My only concern now is whether or not I’ll be able to fire my shotgun once deer season rolls around. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that I’ll never ride in the woods without a helmet again, one year old boys don’t understand shoulder injuries, and sitting around the house for 2 weeks isn’t as exciting as it sounds. Hope this rather long in coming blog update finds you well and able to use both arms! God bless.

The camp where I work has a giant swing. It’s kind like the big v-swings you see at amusement parks, but much cooler, in my opinion, because of the free fall factor at the beginning. We were training our summer staff on the swing last week and we hooked Jake up in a child’s harness, strapped him to my own harness and the v-swing, and away we went. He was a bit nervous on the way up, but when we dropped and started swinging back and forth, he went completely limp and just laid back and enjoyed himself. Toward the end of the ride, he even started kicking his feet and laughing! What a brave little guy. The pic below is just as we’re getting started when he’s still not too sure about things…

What a Man!

Spring has sprung…okay, that was weeks ago, but it still feels new and exciting. Spring is a great time around our house for a variety of reasons. First of all, I get to ride my motorcycle again! That in and of itself is reason to rejoice, but there are so many other things. Walks with the wife and boy are more comfortable…going for a jog is less obnoxious…bonfires are once again a dry nightly ritual…and of course, the yard gets some attention after a long winter of death and ugliness. If you’ve followed my blog for a while, you may know that I’m not much of a green thumb. In fact, the part of a man that drives him to beautify his yard has always struck me to be like most other beautiful things, very girly! It’s hard for me to get jazzed up about getting my hands dirty in a flower bed when there are so many other places to gets ones hands dirty, like under the hood of a car, fixing a chain saw, or in the body cavity of a deer carcass! You can imagine my surprise then when this spring I started having an overwhelming desire to do more than just cut the grass and weed eat. It could be that it’s one of the few things Melissa and I can do together once Jake goes to bed, or it could be that I’m growing up (I am 30, you know),

The twin and me, at the turning 30 party

or I could just be really bored. At any rate, I’ve found great satisfaction in working in the yard this spring. Our flower beds are shaping up nicely, I’ve put in a nice fire ring, scraped the topsoil off and brought in gravel for what will be the under side of our back deck, and our grass looks better than it ever has (this is the part where you stop reading and loudly applaud)! However, all that is sadly about to change as we’ve also dug and poured footers on the concrete foundation for our garage floor, stacked a pile of concrete blocks in our yard, and over the course of the next few days we’ll have to move our driveway to make space for the garage floor and the flower beds will get a nice sprinkling of shingle grit when we tear off our roof. Oh well, perhaps this new gardening leaf I’ve turned over will stick and I’ll have the desire to get it all looking nice again. We’ll have to wait and see!

As for the baby screams, our 8 month old son has found his voice in a rather annoying way. When Jake was younger, we all marveled at how deep his voice was and we couldn’t hardly wait to sign him up for a much manlier version of the 3 Tenors, known as the 3 Basses…actually, I made that up, but if there were such a group, Jake would sing lead. As it currently stands, and he currently sits in the living room floor surrounded by toys, he has started screaming at the top of his lungs for no particular reason. If he’s bored…scream…if he’s happy…scream…tired…scream…hungry…scream…poopy…scream…naked…scream…touching the fireplace right now like he’s not supposed to…scream! AHHHHHH….I don’t know how to get the boy to stop. I certainly hope its just a phase, otherwise his high school football days may be numbered. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a man’s man in every other way. He does well with the ladies, he’s friendly and waves at everyone, the dog is his best friend, and he farts and scratches at all the right times. But even with all that working for him, the screams are holding him back. Has any other father ever driven his family around wearing earplugs? That may be my next option. Have a good one.

Something for him to hate me for when he's older!

After having been gone 23 of 31 days in March, I was more than happy to come back home for a bit. That respite from the road was short-lived, however, as last Tuesday evening, I packed up with another guy here at camp named Scott, and we headed to south eastern Ohio for a paintball symposium put on by the Christian Paintball Academy. The CPA was founded to help non-profits, like the camp, take their paintball programs to the next level in terms of safety, promotion, gear maintenance, etc. We spent Wednesday through Friday in the classroom tearing apart and reassembling guns (the proper term for a paintball gun is a marker, but that isn’t nearly as cool, so I’ll stick with gun), learning strategies for running our own scenario games, and hearing stories from the main speaker, a guy who works in Cincy as an independent contractor for the US govt. who tries to figure out ways to be a terrorist in the city. If he succeeds, it usually costs a few million dollars, but it changes safety standards, which I guess is a good thing. I could tell you his name, but as I’m sure you’ve already guessed, he would then come kill you!

One of the highlights of the symposium (which there had better have been highlights to take me away from my wife and son for 4 days…okay, here’s a picture),

He gets his looks from his Mama!

was everyday after dinner, when we got the chance to play on their 25 acres dedicated to paintball. The property has bunkers of every shape and size, a sniper tower, the Alamo, a fuel depot, a minivan with wire mesh windows and a turret cut through the roof, and anything else you could imagine to put one in the mood to shoot things! On Wednesday night, we were playing a scenario game where 3 people were placed in the top of the depot, a two story building that is very difficult to capture, and they were charged with defending it against about a dozen attackers. The last team standing wins! I was on the defense the first game, and I’m happy to say I took out 6 before succumbing to the firefight. The second round, I was on the offensive, and had worked myself into a position less than 10 yards from the depot without even being seen. I asked a fellow symposium attendee named Phil to cover me with his full auto Tippman A5 (of which I am now a proud owner as well), and he was glad to throw down some paint to cover my unnoticed advance. In the midst of a barrage of paintballs, I made the corner of the depot and, with back pressed flat against the wall, was running through my options for entry and victory when, out of nowhere, I saw a streak from the left and felt the sudden sting of death (at least in paintball terms) as two orange paint filled orbs desecrated my left leg. One shot got me just above the ankle and the other shot, from close enough to break the skin and leave me bloody, caught me in the meat of my left thigh. I threw up my gun, called myself out, and resigned myself to spectator for the rest of the round. This story isn’t over yet, though, as I had carefully calculated there were only two guys left in the depot, and I had a line of sight on both of them. The shot had come from outside their stronghold, on the ground, from less than 3 yards. As I turned to see my victorious assailant, my blood boiled when I realized it was a tool from my own team! Now, please don’t get me wrong, I love a good paintball match, and getting shot is all part of the deal, but when its friendly fire, and it comes from less than 10 ft, and it hits so hard it makes me bleed, I am less than my normal gracious self. My only solace was the next day, when everyone who witnessed the Benedict Arnoldian (?) display chose to hound Mark (that was the traitor’s name) mercilessly, even from the front of the class where the teacher/referee of the game was seated! I am happy to say Mark and I worked out our differences, and I also shot him later in the game, multiple times in the knees, while he was wearing shorts!

On Saturday, as part of our graduation from the Academy, we helped run and participated in, a huge scenario game put on by Pleasant Vineyard Ministries called the Gorilla Game. After a morning of reffing and watching others have a great time, we were allowed to get in on the action. I was ecstatic, as this would be the first chance I really had to try out my new A5 with an e-trigger (it just means its electronic and shoots paint really fast!). After a few rounds of playing, getting shot, and being reinserted at various locations, the aforementioned Phil, with his own A5, and I, along with several other members of the red team (so noted by our red duct tape arm bands), found ourselves in a dream position. We were trying to take The Bunker, which is a WW II style concrete bunker (theirs is made out of plywood) that served as one of the main reinsertion points for the yellow team. If we could take it, we could control that entire area of the woods. There was one hapless 13 yr old in the bunker, keeping us from our objective, but this kid knew his stuff. He kept his head low, the paint flying, and he was certainly holding his own. Phil and I had worked to within 20 yds of the bunker and we had several of our teammates covering our flanks. I yelled to Phil to throw down some paint, and I made a mad dash to the front wall of the building and threw my gun through one of the window slits as I yelled “MERCY, MERCY MERCY” like a madman. If you’re up close to someone and you know you have the drop on them, yelling “mercy” is your way of giving them a free pass from getting absolutely lit up. The kid, named Killian, threw up his hands and walked out, all the while congratulating me on a good tactical maneuver. I turned to let the red team know we were in the clear when I felt the unmistakable pain of once again being shot, multiple times I might add, from close range. I turned to see a member of my own squad, hunkered down less than 20 feet away, lighting me up with blood red paint. I lifted my arm in the air to show him my red arm band and, I’ll be honest, I wanted to lift other things in the air, like a single finger from my trigger happy left hand! As I yelled “SAME TEAM” over and over again, the sheepish response I got from the 10 yr old inner city kid hidden behind his smoking barrel was, “My bad.” All sense of calm had escaped me by this point and, even though I recognized his outfit and knew he was the youngest player on the field, I bellowed, “Yeah, it was your freakin’ bad. Don’t you know what red looks like!” before I walked off in a huff. In a much calmer hindsight, a witty response from him could have included something like, “Yeah, red is the color of the paint dripping down your leg from where I lit up your 30 yr old butt!” I think my yelling kept him from thinking of anything nearly so witty, and he just say there while I sauntered off. A couple minutes later, he was out as well and we made nice when he got off the field. I found out soon thereafter, Phil had endured a similar run-in with the young Rambo. When he was reffing, the little traitor had dropped two shots right in Phil’s meaty backside from about 5 ft! Oh well, life goes on.

On the whole, it was a great event, we learned alot, and now I’m home with my wife and son, who is only 7 months but is already cruising around the house by holding himself up on things and walking. This is happening much too fast! Here’s hoping you don’t get shot in the butt today. God bless.