I've been sitting in the McCarran airport for more than ten hours. Dozens of names have been called that didn't rhyme with "Schmave Schmandell". The PA system have become one with the atmosphere - it's no longer surprising to hear a booming voice. It's a minor distraction, like sirens or trains in Chicago. In the airport I can find no healthy eating choices, except for a sports bar that was no longer serving food. I've drank more Pepsi and eaten more junk than in the last three days combined, which is amazing since I've been dining on buffets every third meal (I've made really healthy choices at said buffets and almost entirely stuck to water since Friday, however, making the former sentence possible). And the monotonous sounds of the slot machines will surely follow me like a phantom to Chicago.

I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm ready to be home. Ah, Chicago. The greatest city on earth. I'm convinced of it. There's no place like home. But this post is about Vegas. And it's long because I want to pour my thoughts onto the page and see what comes of it. Because somewhere in there I think I happened upon a deep truth about God this weekend. So if you have a minute, let me tell you about my first (and hopefully only) trip to Las Vegas, Nevada.



I have officially experienced Vegas. The glamour. The glitz. The sleaze. Vegas - where women are treated like delivery pizza ("girls to your room in 20 minutes or less"). Vegas - where people walk down the street with open containers & drop hundreds of dollars in minutes for the thrill of it. Vegas - where an NCAA tournament weekend could probably have paid to provide fresh drinking water to the world. In cash. Vegas - where mothers and fathers bring their sons and daughters for a fun-filled family vacation. Wait, scratch that last part. I can't figure out why someone would bring their kids here. Heck, I can't figure out why someone would bring their selves here.

Vegas. Right now in the airport I'm sitting in front of 44 slot machines, most of which have been occupied throughout the day. They promise spins worth $2300 and jackpots of $644,789 and counting. I'm tempted to pull the lever on the Wheel of Fortune for the chance to win that $644K. I'd like to think we'd buy a home, put money away for the future and give generously to our church.

I walked the strip up & down at least six times during my three-day stay (now four with a full day in an airport). What I'm told are illegal aliens, men as young as ten years old and even women handed out pornographic fliers for hookers, the way a new hair salon might hand out coupons as you get off the El, the aforementioned '20 minutes or less' written boldly on their t-shirts. I watched husbands take the fliers and laugh about them with their wives. I wondered what the wife actually felt like saying about his source of amusement. On Saturday night we hung out at a sportsbook (where I daydream I could make my living if I lived in Vegas - 11 for 12 for the weekend, although i didn't have a cent on any of that), and a man with arms larger than my head casually came up to us, as if he'd known us for years and we proceeded to have the following conversation verbatim. It began innocently enough.

"What are you guys doing tonight?"

I don't know, going to bed maybe. Kinda tired.

"You like strip clubs?"

Ugh.

Vegas, baby, Vegas. It's worth noting that there were nice memories mixed in. On Friday my friend Jason treated me to dinner and we stared entranced at the Bellagio fountains for at least a half hour (if anything, this weekend made me want to watch the Ocean's Eleven films, the first of which was on TNT last night as I laid in bed suffering from a two-hour time difference that never worked out right). On Saturday, I got to have a nice dinner with a good friend named Pos, and we had such a great conversation. And the training event, what I was here for, went quite well. I got to meet a lot of great people we laughed a lot (there was ample fodder).

But, I am ready to go home. I feel toxic, as if someone spilled chemicals all over me for three straight days.

But here's what I want to say. On Sunday I was able to get out of Vegas for a little bit to see some spectacular works of God's hands. Canyons of every shape and size, each colored and cracked uniquely, as if the mountains were expressing their personalities the way we use clothes. I sat in my car with the rain hitting and talked to God. We talked about my life, my future, my marriage, my health. Well, mostly I talked. It wasn't until I was driving down the mountain that God collapsed on me like a ton of bricks. As I drove home, I slowly drove out of the storm and I saw at first just a hint of the sun. Then, I saw this giant white ball pouring down on God's creation. It was simply majestic. The clouds split in just the right way that the Sun's beams shone divinely on all of the land below.

And I thought, oh my, God, you are so much bigger than me that it hurts. You have crushed and will crush the lord of Las Vegas, but you long for the people on that Las Vegas strip, with all of their brokenness and the industries that profit from that brokenness, creating more and more brokenness. Perhaps nowhere in America do I wish we could just drop a big Jesus bomb that wrecks everyone in its path with the love and peace and grace and forgiveness of Christ.

When God ushers in a restored Earth, what will become of Las Vegas? Perhaps it won't be wiped off the face of the planet. Perhaps the buildings will be swept away, revealing the earth God created. Even now Vegas cannot escape the Sun's rays. It shines brightly overhead, sustaining it and bringing new life each season. It is not forsaken. So we must pray and help, however we can.

photo - cynnerz

Labels: Jesus, Other

Growing up, local cuisine was often synonymous with potluck dinners: scalloped potatoes, Sloppy Joes, deviled eggs, some sort of meatball, some concoction of cool whip and fruit, Jell-O molds, underdeveloped lasagna, macaroni salad and other salads that never featured lettuce (but often featured mayonnaise), taco dip, three types of mashed potatoes, casseroles, fried chicken, little smokies, tater tots, and more dips and desserts than should ever be consumed (My mom, being the fabulous cook that she is, tended to make these types of dishes with a twist, often meaning they were the first dish gone on the buffet).

For all of the amazing food available in Chicago, "potluck cuisine" is hard to come by. So when, under completely crappy circumstances, we found ourselves in small-town Illinois this week and someone mentioned that there would be a potluck reception hosted by the ladies of the Methodist church, I was filled with joy and anticipation. It's my comfort food. It feeds my soul.

Sometimes I miss small towns. The town we were in was considerably smaller than the one I grew up in, but they had more in common than Burlington does with Chicago. I miss diners that serve pork tenderloin sandwiches (if anyone can tell me where to get a breaded pork tenderloin sandwich in Chicago, we'll go on me), more free time than you know what to do with, Target trips that take fifteen minutes, gravel roads under skies loaded with stars, playing Euchre under said stars, and celebrations where hodgepodges of people gather together and end up sitting in a circle laughing and enjoying their potluck cuisine.

I suppose all I want to say is that we should gather more often, hopefully under better circumstances. I count this week as a nice memory, one I'll cherish for some time to come. For those of you who were there, I enjoyed talking and laughing and crying with you. I hope we can do it again soon. If someone lends me a crockpot, I'll bring the Sloppy Joes.

photo - newyork808

Labels: Favorites, Other