Republicans: It’s Too Late for Disavowals

Whether they knew it or not, before the nomination went to Trump, Republicans were called upon to make stand between decency or degradation, conservatism or convenience.

I’ve said it before: 

Those united behind Trump to hedge bets on their political futures will lose. We won't forget who gave us this mess. #RNC #leadershipfail

— Trevor Williams (@jtrevorwilliams) July 18, 2016

No turning back: The ordnance has been launched.

But when so few did that he became the face of a party that once valued free trade, moral fortitude and some speck of religiosity, the choice became even clearer for those facing down-ticket races: Either disavow him now and save some shred of cred, or be stained forever and lose the White House and perhaps your majority in Congress.  

For some reason, many failed to realize that the Donald had already thrust the choice upon them. They thought maybe, just maybe, Hillary was bad enough of an opponent that there was a way to ride it out, to survive until a Trump presidency justified their goal-line stand.  

She was almost unlikable enough, but the success of this strategy now looks increasingly unlikely, and those who clung to Trump as the levee blocking Hillary’s flood of liberalism will likely be doubly disappointed in November. They could now lose both the presidency and the only legislative bulwark they had against her agenda because of a terrible miscalculation. 

They thought that people like me, those who feel homeless in this election, would eventually come around to supporting their imperfect choice, that their lesser-of-two-evils argument would hold true as it has in years where their candidate may not have been a shining star, but at least was remotely competent. But his complete lack of substance on the issues and the further revelations about his character, I believe, has proved them wrong. The supposed “evil” of the one has somehow been Trumped by the volatility and crassness of the other. We're still homeless. 

Some Republicans were shaken from their fantasy this week when Trump’s lewd video emerged. They then disavowed him as if the “p-word” somehow made the chauvinism oozing from his macho persona and checkered history with women officially unacceptable: 

"That's it, that's the last straw," they said, surrounded by billions of straws

— Kumail Nanjiani (@kumailn) October 8, 2016

Others even continued their balancing act. Paul Ryan, the party’s best tightrope walker, continued to straddle the line between abhorring the candidate and walking away from the party’s nominee. The best he could do? “I’ll no longer defend him.” Funny enough, Ryan had already bent over backwards to avoid defending him for the entire campaign. 

Sadly, the damage is done for Republicans who couldn’t find their backbone. The grenade has already been lobbed into their midst. The question is whether they will run and perhaps survive for the battles ahead, or fall on it for the man who pulled the pin in the first place. 

Trump’s Women Problem Is Our Manhood Problem

Throughout the second presidential debate, Donald J. Trump reminded us repeatedly of one of this election season’s tragedies, that a major U.S. political party has anointed as its standard-bearer someone who reflects back to America its deeply broken view of manhood. And, almost comically, they’ve done it at a time when he’s running against the first woman nominee.

 

Thanks to the historic nature of this election, gender has played an outsized role in this campaign. Democrat Hillary Clinton has played the female card more than once, and Trump’s misogynistic record, speech and personality have left him uniquely powerless to defuse it. He has fallen into rhetorical traps (and Twitter wars) that anyone with the self-awareness, charisma and confidence of a 13-year-old boy could have easily sidestepped. He now trails Clinton by some 20 points among women. 

Throughout the second debate, the flubs continued. Trump pouted like a petulant child. He complained like a third-grader that the moderators favored Clinton, muttering at one point that it was “three-on-one.” He repeated a half-hearted apology and again dismissed as "locker-room talk” the damning video recording in which he outlines how his fame entitles him to take advantage of women sexually. And at a basic level, he failed to show any sense of shared humanity in responding to the audience. 

As he stumbled through his answers, continuing his master class in blame deflection, my wife looked over at me, as she has on more than one occasion throughout this campaign season, and said, “It’s like he’s a toddler.” Indeed. And this coming from a trusted source: a former nanny and current stay-at-home mom. 

While Trump’s whining certainly fits with his “media-is-against-me” and “election-is-rigged” narratives, the sad thing is that it’s not part of a carefully planned political strategy. What we see reflected in his words is a deeper thread that runs through the series of gaffes that have inexplicably failed to topple his candidacy over the past year and a half.

Here’s the core of it: Trump is unwilling or unable to take responsibility for himself, or to show the slightest sensitivity to how his words or actions affect others. He’s the kid that knocked over the vase and immediately resorts to explaining away how it broke, who was caught with his hand in the cookie jar but insists things are just not as they seem. Responsibility means admitting wrongdoing. That’s failure, and failure is not an option for a man like Trump. 

To me, there’s only one explanation for this: The billions in his bank account have failed to convince Trump that he has what it takes as a man. And if he can only convince the world that he does — whether through starring in a reality-show, erecting towers across the globe or running for the highest office in the land — he might just be able to convince himself. 

We’re Also to Blame

This problem of male validation is not unique to Trump. It’s a deep emotional need for guys. I see it surfacing in myself, in hopefully less obvious ways that I constantly have to fight against. Any man who claims to be completely confident in himself at all times either has gained astounding maturity through a life of experience and reflection — or is simply in denial. 

But Trump’s manner, combined with his ubiquity in the media these days, has made him an easy champion to those who need to validate the anger they feel at their own perceived victimization. He doesn’t spur them to good works; he gives them permission to embrace a narrative of passivity — the idea that things happen to them and not because of them. That they are affected by forces of change in the world, not that they can be the force for change themselves.

This is dangerous. The logical result is a world full of disgruntled 70 year olds that have never done anything to help anyone else, and who mistake bravado for power. 

We’ve got our virtues all out of whack. Trump is praised as “honest” because he spouts off without guarding his tongue, as “strong" because he fails to compromise, as “persistent" because he resists pressure to moderate wrongheaded views. 

Men like Trump base their strength based on performance — sexual, financial, political. You see this in his constant (selective) citing of favorable polls, his references to “beautiful” media reports about him, his ire for journalists that challenge him, his office wall plastered with photos of himself with celebrities. It’s easy to see that he needs this on an emotional level: His conviction comes from outside approval, not from inner fortitude, which is why his positions so easily shift. 

For a man whose whole existence serves to prove his strength, the cardinal sin is to admit vulnerability. But caring about others is a source of strength, and it’s key to effective leadership. Honesty without tact alienates those you’re trying to persuade. Strength without empathy is just bullying. Persistence on a path headed off a cliff is just plain stupidity. 

Judging by poll numbers — especially the divergence in Trump’s support between genders — too many men fail to see this, perhaps because they see in him an excuse not to undertake the hard work of change. 

Son, Don’t Watch 

If you ask most men, I’ll bet few can point to an exact moment or even the season when they transitioned from boyhood to manhood. Some don’t even know what’s the dividing line. 

But I think most would agree that we’re closer to the ideal when we’re giving of ourselves, not taking for ourselves. As my friend Chuck Holton puts it, “A boy takes; a man gives.”

This is Trump’s — and America’s — manhood problem.

Whether it’s objectifying women, engaging in cronyism, or supporting someone who does, the core issue is the same: We all want to serve the self at the expense of others rather than serve others at the expense of self. Men in this country (and everywhere, really) have bought into the lie that the world is there to make them happy, not that they have been created to help improve the world. 

This is not at all to say that self-sacrifice is an exclusively male ideal; in fact, women usually do a better job of it. But many of our societal woes stem from men shirking their responsibilities because they have failed to understand the nature of their role and that of happiness itself. The irony is that seeking the good of the world, not yourself, is what tends to bring lasting purpose and peace. 

This is lost on Trump, and it’s one of the many reasons I can’t vote for him. Over the next eight years, I will be teaching my son that those who are truly strong don’t have to flaunt their strength. It’s the imposters who need to be their own spokesmen. It’s the insecure who need to be right in an argument rather than do right in their lives. 

I can’t throw my support behind a man — or woman — who is poised to constantly undermine those important lessons. 

Most Americans Have Never Heard the Gospel

Sandwich boards commanding repentance. Street preachers shouting hellfire. Political slogans condemning gay marriage and abortion. Trite, pithy bumper stickers and church signs with lame puns.

We've presented many versions of the good news to the culture.

The problem is that none of them sound all that good. 

You might say the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing. I agree, but just because someone is starving doesn't mean you can only give him stale bread, even if he denies he's hungry. 

I will admit that I have become hardened to Americans, especially after sharing the Jesus story with foreigners. They often have no context, no built-in prejudices against it. They've never had a televangelist after their pocketbook or a protester calling down the sulphur of Sodom on their loved ones. A refreshing openness allows them to at least entertain a new idea, even if it's just so they can practice English. 

Americans, on the other hand, are jaded to Jesus. But on the rare occasions when I let God tenderize my stubborn heart, I realize this is because most of them have never really heard the gospel either, or at least a version worth hearing.  

Sure, they know that a babe was wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in a manger. They know that Jesus most likely had a beard and blonde hair glistening with a halo. They know that he had cool sandals and roamed around the countryside like a pre-incarnation of Gandhi, telling people to do no harm. 

Of course this is a caricature, but there's a reason it's there. Those who are supposed to be Jesus' friends have reduced the feast of his mission to a sack of greasy burgers.

In rare moments of clarity, I have been able to provide trusting friends and curious acquaintances with a tiny glimpse of the real Jesus, the glorious, powerful Jesus that the Bible portrays.

I've been able to show that he offers more than behavior modification. He completely transforms the heart, molding it in love so that its actions inevitably change. He doesn't preach empty acceptance. He stands like a levee, solid against the flood of God's wrath, turning us from his enemies into his beloved children. And most importantly, he comes not to judge as his followers so often do, but to save from a judgment already pronounced. As a result, we can have eternal life - not a future sitting around on clouds with harps - but the promise that we can touch forever now through faith in the one who bridged the temporal and everlasting.

Much of this must sound like mumbo-jumbo. It always does, even as it's coming out of my mouth.

But as a sommelier once told me, you just have to like how the wine tastes and be able to describe it to yourself. Then you can remember it, even if you can't articulate its subtlest notes.

So let me hand you the glass, offering a few tasting notes.

The world is broken. Look at Syria and the Congo. Look at the selfishness in your relationships.

Jesus is God's way of fixing it. He starts in you, then works through you. We are changed so that we can change the world. If that's not good news, I don't know what is.

Why Christmas Is for All Nations

I've heard that China's Santa Claus doesn't make his home in the North Pole. Instead, he lives in Atlanta. 

In addition to chicken feet, machinery and other products, the Asian country is now importing our cultural symbols. The benevolent, bearded man with a red suit and a belly that shakes like a bowl full of jelly is now apparently in such high demand at Chinese shopping malls that they put him up in five-star hotels and pay him enough to live for a year. Seems like a lot of trouble for a taste of Western tradition. 

Yes, it bothers me that when outside observers search for the meaning of Christmas, they are most fascinated by a fat dude who grants wishes, like a Buddha with a sleigh. But that's a rant for another day. More disconcerting to me is the fact that much of the world sees it as a foreign holiday, missing their stake in the story. 

The truth is, Christmas marks the fulfillment of a long-held wish, that things would be patched up between us and God. For those who don't understand God's love or justice, this doesn't sound revolutionary or even appealing. Why does the divine care about how I respond to him, and how would I approach him anyway? 

God knew this, and long ago, he appointed a people, the Israelites, to be his ambassadors to the world, carrying the answers to these questions and the secret of how to get back to him. 

Nowadays, with America's stalwart support of the modern state of Israel and shofars making their way into Protestant sanctuaries, it's hard to remember how foreign God's original chosen people would be to us today. They were tribal, raising animals for a living and worshipping in a tent where the presence of God was kept behind closed doors. The cost of their shortcomings was ever before them, institutionalized in violent sacrifices that put them back in touch with God. 

It's easy to see how "Immanuel" - God with us - was a breath of fresh air to those who worshipped him from behind a curtain of separation. After thousands of years of reaching up to Him, Christmas meant that he had come down to his people, repaying their rebellion with closeness, fulfilling a promise he made early in their history to send a baby boy to make peace with those who willingly became his enemies. 

God Is Global

So Christmas is a Jewish story, but as God fulfilled his promise to a specific people, he also flung open the doors of his kingdom to the world. The exclusive club of God's fellowship was now for all, as the angel told the shepherds when announcing the birth of the chosen one, 

“Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people."

We tend to forget that this was in the plan all along. Even the first Hebrew, God's original covenant partner, was chosen in order to usher God's presence and power into the world. As God said to Abraham, 

I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as the sand on the seashore. Your descendants will take possession of the cities of their enemies, and through your offspring all nations on earth will be blessed, because you have obeyed me. 

Born to a virgin in Bethlehem 42 generations later, Jesus was the conduit for this promise to be fulfilled. The magi (foreigners from afar) knew it as soon as he was born, and Jesus himself, though he concentrated on the lost sheep of Israel, later in life acknowledged that his Father would bring outsiders into his fold. His parting command to his disciples was that they go into all the world and share the good news that we can all be a part of God's family, taking on his name and sharing in his inheritance, no matter where we're from or what we've done. 

As I've traveled the world, I've seen the various ways men and women approach God. Christ's invasion is God's way of spelling out the right one for us. The Jew who seeks a Messiah can look to Jesus. The ascetic Buddhist can redirect his desires to the source of their fulfillment. The Hindu who sees God in all can begin to fathom the wonders of his specific, personal plan. The Muslim who trusts in God's oneness and justice can also begin to feel his grace. And the atheist can trade cold rationalism for illogical love. 

Christmas is not just for Christians; it's not just for Americans, Britons or Germans. It's the invitation of a global God to all people to partake in his plan to heal the whole world, establishing a universal community of peace and love rooted in him. 

Wherever you find yourself in the world today, Christmas is for you and yours if only you'll take hold of it by faith. 

Defining Manhood in China and America

In America, masculine stereotypes are easy to spot.

Photo by Brad Kinney, 2006

Being a man is rocking a six pack (beer or abs will do), scoring chicks, driving a nice car - generally showcasing your independence while masking any sense of vulnerability.

Ironically, even though we're sitting on the couch gaining weight as we watch them, Americans worship the Jack Bauers and James Bonds of the world, those heroes who can kill a man with their pinky as quickly as they can get a lady to go to bed with them.

While we err on the side of bullet-proof bravado, Chinese society seems to expect a softer man. In traveling to the country over the past eight years, I've met many demure guys with wet-fish handshakes and designer man purses. In educational and social gatherings, I've seen men stay in the background while the more outgoing girls steal the spotlight.

A New York Times article today discussed how boys are being left behind in China's education system. Girls in urban areas, perhaps thumbing their noses at society's preference for sons, are outpacing their male counterparts in a variety of subjects and on the all-important gaokao, or college entrance exams.

Tasked with carrying on the family name, boys in China are squeezed by the pressures of growing up as "little emperors."

On one hand, they're coddled. But the investment in their development raises the entire family's expectations for their future. Immense pressure to achieve leads to countless hours of study starting at a young age. With all this on your shoulders, who has time to ponder things like masculinity?

Apparently, 16-year-old Wan Zhongni does, and he's not liking what he's seeing.

“I should have used my free time to play sports, to play basketball. I think I lack masculinity. I need to improve," the NYT article quoted him as saying.

The piece goes on to enumerate reasons for the gap in male/female performance, but I couldn't get past the honesty and uncertainty in his statement: "I think I lack masculinity." How many of us could say the same thing?

It struck me that whether it's Chinese guys spending days immersed in Internet games or Americans collecting tattoos, deer heads or polo shirts, their problem is the same: Manhood in each culture is a moving target. No one is defining it, and few men in either society are inviting boys into a higher calling for their masculinity, which should be focused on submission to God and sacrifice for neighbors.

Where are the Chinese fathers? Many of the rich send their kids off to the best schools, while the poor go to find work in the cities, leaving their sons to be looked after by grandparents in the villages. Divorce isn't as prevalent as in the U.S., but Chinese families are practical. They will split up if it means better careers and more money for kids' education and parents' care.

Where are the American fathers? Many are parked in front of the TV, while some sit staring at computers in the offices where they spend 60-plus hours per week. Others left minutes after their child was conceived and never came back.

In America, it's well-documented that kids from fatherless homes are more likely to commit crimes and drop out of school. Many Chinese are worried that their country is losing its moral compass and sliding into materialism.

In both countries, it's going to take men defining manhood for boys like Wan Zhongni to avoid rough sailing ahead.

For a clearer view of manhood, read "Making Men: Five Steps to Growing Up" by Chuck Holton, which I edited. I've also found the teachings of Robert Lewis helpful. They're encapsulated in the book "Raising a Modern-Day Knight". 

Debtors to History

What makes me who I am?

I've been wrestling with that question over the past few years.

As I approach the age at which my father died, and I've had a growing urge to know my history, the story before my story began. I want to dig deep, to unearth the roots of my family tree like a curious scientist seeking an elemental glimpse at what made its fruit grow.

When I was in Mongolia last year, I had a chat with U.S. Ambassador Jonathan Addleton about his memoir. I had ample time to read it on a 30-hour train ride from Beijing to Ulaanbaatar, the Mongolian capital. As I flipped the pages, I was struck by how deeply he understood his family history and how he  relayed vivid stories of events that happened before he was born.

The key to getting such detail, he said, was humility - a deep respect for how the lives of his forebears laid the path for his own and how his experiences seemed to afford him advantages for each new stage. His upbringing in Pakistan gave him an international outlook. The zeal of his missionary parents solidified a strong sense of faith. His journalism degree helped him communicate better than many of his peers. He was, in his own words, a debtor to history, barely able to take any credit for his own accomplishments.

I can see the same pattern in my life. As much as our American mindset tells us that we are masters of our own destiny, and though our faith reminds us of the truth that we were customized in our mother's womb, we can't really understand ourselves if we don't tip our hats to what happened before and beyond us.

Maybe this is real to me because my father's absence has shaped my journey probably as much as his presence would have. In a strange way, I've been guided by lacking his guidance. I have searched for my Father because my father wasn't there. I've been driven to understand manhood because there was always a missing piece in mine. Some call this fate. I call it grace and providence.

In some Asian cultures a person's role in the family defines his identity. There's a piece of universal truth to this. We're all letters on the pages of a great novel, forming words and sentences that make a story when bound together. Without context we're nothing. With an author we're captivating.

It can be maddening not knowing what's on the next page, but I take comfort in being connected to the plot. My debt to history is one I'm glad to leave unpaid.

Please Help Send Me to Taiwan!

If you know me or have read this blog for even a few days, you've probably noticed my passion for China.

This love was first stirred up during four trips to the Middle Country in college. Each was a unique adventure, whether traversing the dusty deserts of Xinjiang province or teaching English in remote villages in tropical Yunnan. But for me, one common thread made them all a joy: Brad Kinney.


Brad is one of my best friends. Throughout our time at the University of Georgia, we had some crazy experiences in Asia and Central America - facing repeated interrogation by Chinese border guards and hiking across a former Panamanian prison island in the Pacific, to name a few. We also had a few quirky schemes here at home, including a (successful) quest to win free flights by diving in Wendy's dumpsters.

Now, we have a chance to return to East Asia as a team for the first time since graduation. But we can't do it alone.  We're not asking for money; we simply want one minute of your time for each of the next 10 days.

Here's the deal: We've entered a photo contest in which the top three vote-getters on a Taiwan government website will be sent on an all-expenses-paid trip to Taiwan. The contest lasts from Nov. 21-30. We believe we have a good shot at winning with a little help from our friends. Will you commit to voting once per day for us? 

If so, please post YES on the wall of our Facebook group or email me so that we can send daily reminder messages. We will only send one message per day. The messages will stop either by Nov. 30 or whenever it becomes evident that we have no chance of winning, whichever comes first. 


In the meantime, please follow the below instructions to vote. It literally takes less than one minute: 

1) Click this link: http://activity.taiwan.gov.tw/twfriends/SayHelloToTaiwanFBList.aspx?cword=U&cid=198&tid=123
2) This is our team page, "Flying Tigers - Happy Birthday, Republic of China.' Click the green Facebook 'Like' button.
3) Click 'Login with Facebook.'
4) Click 'yes' to Facebook integrating with the site. *Note that this will not post any activity to your wall.
5) Enter your email/phone number and security code (this info, from what I understand, will only be used to notify the daily voter prize - yes, you are entered by voting). Click 'OK'.
6) YOU HAVE VOTED! WE ARE ONE STEP CLOSER TO TAIWAN!!!
7) Repeat when you receive our daily email reminder.


Thanks for your help! We are already No. 3 in the U.S. and climbing, but it's critical that we move into the top 10 in the world today, especially while our competitors in Asia are sleeping!  

Stop Waiting on the World to Change

It's a friendly sounding little tune, but simmering under the catchy melody is a sinister message.

Though I'm mostly a fan, John Mayer's "Waiting on the World to Change" has always irked me. It's not just the sound of the song (though I hate those bells used in the intro and interludes). It's the lyrics.

I would ask if you've heard the song, but I'll assume that you've turned on a radio in the last three years. On the surface, it's a protest against against the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, a cry of frustration from a generation that's misunderstood and exasperated with stubborn leaders and a perceived powerlessness to effect change.

The sentiment seems right on target, especially as our legislators butt heads over raising our national debt ceiling. How can We the People be blamed for the polarized political system we've inherited? Maybe we should just hold on until the crisis passes, like an earthquake or a seizure. Maybe we should just wait, and the world will heal itself.

But listen a little closer and you'll hear the problem with the song. It subtly permits us to do nothing, assuming our efforts will be futile anyway. It's classic ostrich mentality, where passivity becomes a form of self-righteous protest.

Though the song presents it in a government-citizen context, I think waiting on the world to change has become a guiding personal philosophy for many. We see it in the erosion of responsibility in our country as more people rely on the government to meet their needs, their entitled mind telling them all the while that this is the way it should be. 

Even worse is the way it has seeped into men's lives. I need look no further than the mirror for evidence. I'm often waiting on my job, marriage, faith, Chinese language ability or any number of aspects of my life to change, rarely recognizing that if I would just do something about it, they probably would.

We live in a spoiled generation - at least I do. Pessimists will disagree, pointing out issues like global warming and the fact that last year's doomsday recession still has some people checking the unemployment rate like it's the weather.

Still, think of the progression our fathers and grandfathers faced: World Wars I and II, the Great Depression, the Korean War and Vietnam. They knew real crises; we often melt down at the slightest inconvenience.

This is neither American nor manly nor Christian. Men take responsibility, even when it's not their fault, knowing that ownership of the problem gives them the ability to fix it. Christian men don't lament that the world is going to hell in a hand basket. They dive into the fire to keep the basket from burning. We must reclaim that spirit.

Start today. Whatever the problem is - family, finances, career - become the solution. Stop waiting on your world to change. Change it yourself.

Puerto Rico on Four Wheels

The motorcycle zipped past, riding the dotted center line that separated my rental car from the one just a few feet into the next lane. My wife gasped. We looked at each other, eyes wide, then wondered aloud why someone would risk his life to show off for motorists he doesn't know or shave a few seconds off his commute.

I would say we couldn't believe it happened, but after a few days of driving in Puerto Rico, it wasn't much of a stretch.

I was warned that driving would be an adventure in the island territory, and we weren't disappointed. Along with the motorcycle fiasco in San Juan, we were trailed by an old clunker in Isabela that rode our bumper for miles, beeping fanatically until we finally pulled over to let him pass. 

Generally, driving in Puerto Rico isn't stressful if you see it as an exercise in cultural adaptation. Just as you reset your watch in a new time zone, you have to learn a different brand of road etiquette when entering a new place, even if the traffic laws are the same. Here are a few rules that I learned while urging my gray, four-cylinder Kia Rio up near-vertical hills in the rainforest and across freeways spanning the island from east to west:

Our Kia Rio in Pinones. 

1. Yellow lights mean speed up. Traffic lights rigged with cameras don't seem to have made their debut in Puerto Rico.

2. Drag racing is permitted (perhaps encouraged) in parking decks.

3. The crowded, brick-paved streets of Old San Juan could hold the world parallel parking championships. Extra points are awarded for moving trash cans to open up spots that obviously aren't big enough for your car.

4. Dents in the island's ubiquitous Toyota sedans are more like scars on a warrior than blemishes on a maiden. These show that the car has taken on Puerto Rican traffic and lived to tell about it.

5. Exceeding the speed limit while going backwards on a dead-end street is OK, as long as the other cars frantically move out of the way.   

6. If you are an outsider, you must rent a Kia Rio, a Jeep, or a Toyota FJ Cruiser sport utility vehicle. 

Perhaps the biggest driving rule could be borrowed from a mob boss's manual: If you want something, you just have to take it, whether a U-turn that would make your driver's ed teacher cringe or a better spot in line at the red light. A little bit of offensive driving helps earn your street cred, showing other cars that you will nose yourself into that lane, no matter how loudly their horns protest.

A tunnel of trees driving east from San Juan.

The surge of confidence this brings is amazing. I quickly learned to honk while rounding narrow, blind curves in the rainforest. I slowed to miss iguanas in the road and accelerated through yellow lights. I even began converting kilometers to miles, a skill that evaporated again as soon as I arrived back in Georgia. (In Puerto Rico, distances are measured in kilometers, though speed limits are in miles per hour.)

In some ways, I would've liked to have better public transport options, even those that are less than official, like Panama's red-devil buses or the makeshift cabs I hailed in Mongolia. But this was my first time driving abroad, and it felt freeing. Our exploration wasn't limited by train or bus schedules, and a $3 map from Walgreens was the only ticket we needed to access this scenic and photogenic 90- by 30-mile world.  As the concierge at our first hotel said, you can never get lost. On this island, you'll always know where you are. You're in Puerto Rico.

Puerto Rican Hotel Hopping

Five nights, four hotels, one amazing trip

Walking Old San Juan just after arriving from Atlanta.

For all the men out there planning an anniversary trip, let me save you some trouble: If it's a five-night excursion, try to stay in fewer than four hotels.

As my wife Katy and I prepared to celebrate four years of marriage, we had different desires in mind.

She wanted a beach trip, complete with umbrella drinks and cabana boys. I wanted adventure. We were both looking for a sunny spot where we could experience a different culture.

We settled on Puerto Rico. It's technically in the U.S., being a commonwealth and all, but its people and geography were totally foreign to us as mainlanders. The flights to San Juan were affordable, and the island promised a good mix of outdoor activity and beach bumming. I couldn't wait to dust off my rusty, limited Spanish. Katy packed some books and magazines, preparing to dust off a few beach chairs.

With the destination set, we started working on where to stay and what to do. Katy left most of the planning to me, since I arrange about four overseas trips a year for my work as an international business reporter.

Here's the problem: I only require three things from business hotels - low price, fast Internet and some kind of bed. As I remembered from our honeymoon, making plans for two is much more complex.

I became overwhelmed with all the criteria swimming in my head as I surfed the Web.

I wanted romance without breaking the bank. I wanted a secluded beach that wasn't too far from the city. I wanted to be able to move around the island without feeling rushed. I wracked my brain, talked to Puerto Rican acquaintances and scoured the Internet, hoping to find the perfect mix.

In the end, since all the resorts seemed like equally suitable bases for exploring the capital city, price became a prime factor in San Juan, where we would at least start our journey. Priceline won out, since we could save 50 percent off the going rate on Hotels.com and other sites by naming a price. And with all the added fees that resorts pile on in San Juan, shaving half off the top helped keep these places in our price range.

There was another factor for using Priceline. We were booking two nights at first but figured Priceline would allow us to extend at least one night at the same rate. If we hated our hotel or wanted to venture out into the countryside, we could move on.

This did give us more options, but it also meant I had more chances to mess things up...

Conrad Condado Plaza

Looking west from Conrad Condado Plaza at dusk.

Condado, a trendy district just east of Old San Juan, was the area where the city's resort scene first took root. Its heyday might've been last century, but I saw no lull in activity.

Along Avenida Ashford, locals came out in the waning sunlight to run along the sidewalks. As night fell, cars jammed the main thoroughfare on their way to the area's many restaurants, bars and casinos. Extensive reconstruction in the already bustling district should add even more vitality when completed.

The taxi from the airport dropped us off at the Conrad Condado Plaza (an $18 fare) on a rainy Thursday afternoon around 2 p.m. The check-in was seamless, though the room wasn't ready, and the attendant in a dark lobby seemed to be tolerating more than welcoming us. As the concierge took our bags, we took a $14 cab to Old San Juan to wander around. An hour or so later we got the call indicating our room was ready, right on time.

The ninth-floor room was spacious with a comfortable queen-size bed and a balcony overlooking the city, though there was no outdoor seating. Maybe they figured people with city-view rooms couldn't possibly want to enjoy coffee in breeze coming off the lagoon in the morning.

Inside, the room had a deep red accent wall with a matching L-shaped sofa, dark wood furniture and a white flat-panel TV. An art piece depicting a black-and-white flower was centered above the bed, giving off a very Japanese/modern feel.

I guess it's a matter of taste, but it seemed like the overall decor of the hotel was a bit too modern, as if it were trying to compensate for its age, like an old lady wearing too much makeup. But it was pleasant, and we found the room quite comfortable.

We particularly liked the large bathroom. The glass-encased shower was an unintended anniversary present for me, since Katy hates how I fog up the mirror while she's trying to put on makeup.

A few qualms with this hotel:

-10 percent resort fee, whether or not you make use of resort services

-$16 fee for a spot in the dungeon of a parking garage

-Staff was helpful when you could get them, but the phones seemed to ring a long time. A pile of dirty dishes left by a beach chair in the morning was in the same spot 12 hours later.

-Not the place for a beach getaway. There's only one tiny sliver of public beach adjacent to the hotel, and chairs must be rented.

-No one offered to take our bags to our room. I probably wouldn't have let them, but at least give me the option if you're going to charge a resort fee.

A few bright spots:

-Very close to Old San Juan, though this makes the $14 one-way taxi fare set by

the government seem outrageous. The B21 and C53 buses to the old city stop

in front of the hotel every 20 minutes during the week and every half hour on

weekends. I've read that fares are from $0.50 in exact change if you can stand

the wait.

-Very cheerful and helpful concierge desk, especially Yomary.

-Great pools and nice grounds overlooking the ocean.

-Starbucks downstairs that will deliver coffee to your room.

-Free and fast wi-fi.

Villa Tropical

Sunset on Shacks Beach in front of Villa Tropical.

After two nights in San Juan, we set off for a day of ziplining at Toro Verde Adventure Park in Orocovis and horseback riding on the beach in Isabela, a small town about two hours west of the capital. Since we were driving a lot, I figured we might as well find a charming place to stay on the beach, away from the crowds.

From the reviews on Trip Advisor, Villa Tropical seemed like a winner. It's a hotel split into apartment units right on Shacks Beach between Isabela and Aguadilla, with easy walking and driving access to other beaches.

But once we arrived, it quickly became evident that not all of its units were created equal. The five-star reviews that had drawn my attention came from folks who could watch the sun fade into the ocean from their beachfront decks.

Stupidly, to save a few bucks I chose 1B, a studio on the first floor in the back of the building, above the office and away from the beach. Sure, it had a full kitchen and separate bedroom, but it smelled of age and mildew. The dated bathroom was 1970s yellow and had no hot water. To boot, we were charged a $25 cleaning fee for only staying one night, bringing the price with tax up to $140. That could've bought us a resort room in San Juan at what we were paying.

The words from the lady who handled my booking haunted me: "Your wife will like the one on the beach better," she had said. She was right. As far as Katy was concerned, there was nothing redeeming about my selection, whether or not it was steps away from white sands and a coral reef.

She felt like a mountain climber who comes down too fast from altitude and gets sick. I made a note to never again to slip down the quality scale so quickly.

To be fair, Villa Tropical did have its charms. Trevor, one of the owners, has put together a fantastic, detailed guide to area restaurants and attractions.

Our one sunset was indeed beautiful. The atmosphere was very homey and laid back. We were offered some Coronas from a community cooler downstairs, for instance.

Families were around, but the beach still felt secluded when we spent time there in the morning.

Honestly, I think our disappointment with this property came partly from faulty expectations and the high price that we agreed to pay because we were rushed. If we had expected a low-key surfer's haven and paid half the price, I think we would've had a different feeling altogether.

Ritz-Carlton San Juan

A glimpse of the immaculate grounds of the Ritz-Carlton San Juan.

Redemption is oh-so-sweet. After bombing on Villa Tropical, we skyrocketed up back up the quality ladder when we landed at the Ritz-Carlton San Juan in Isla Verde for our fourth night.

It was our first time at any Ritz property, and it met our expectations. Everyone, from smiling Monique at the front desk to the guy who swathed our (free) beach chairs with towels for us, seemed to be enjoying their job, and they passed on this feeling of satisfaction to the guests.

The luxury was in the little things. We were greeted with fresh papaya juice when we checked in an hour early. We were asked three times if we needed someone to help with our bags. Next to the pools and on the beach were towel stations with urns of lemon- or pineapple-infused ice water. When we headed to the beach the next morning, we found bowls of chilled oranges set out for guests.

The room wasn't overtly opulent. The decor was simple and traditional, and the furniture was nice. The bathroom, filled with grayish-tan marble, was the real star. My only qualm was looking out the window to see the dingy hotel next door, but you get what you pay for with regard to the view.

Probably the most refreshing thing about the Ritz was that although it was the only place where a resort fee was justified, we didn't have to pay one.

And I didn't feel like they were out to nickel and dime me. There was a $17 daily parking fee, but beach chairs and wireless Internet, which I've had to pay for a la carte at inferior hotels, were free of charge. Also free were the services of the staff, who would help set up chairs by the pool or beach. You could even leave your towels on the chair when done, and they would come by and pick them up. (Can you tell I'm not used to luxury travel?)

In short, if we have the budget for it, we'll definitely return to the Ritz if we're in San Juan again.

Gran Melia

La Coca Falls at El Yunque National Forest, near Rio Grande.

Sadly, Hotels.com credit only goes so far, and we had to leave the Ritz after one night, but not before the staff offered to allow us to use the facilities for as long as we wanted for the rest of the day.

After lunch, we headed out to Gran Melia, a golf resort that sits on a peninsula in Rio Grande, which is 30-45 minutes east of San Juan near El Yunque, Puerto Rico's famous rainforest.

We arrived at 5 p.m., an hour after our designated check-in time. When the room wasn't ready, the front desk attendant offered no apology. "Maybe they are behind?" she ventured, without a hint of regret. Luckily the room opened up just as we were heading toward the hospitality room to change and head to the pool.

Gran Melia was an interesting place. It had the feel of a compound where leaving was discouraged. To get to the resort, you drive 10 minutes north from Route 3 on a road that winds through security gates, around fountains and past empty Donald Trump condos, all surrounded by a golf course where no one seemed to be playing. The lack of activity was a bit eerie.

We quickly realized we probably aren't the right clientele for this place, which seemed perfectly suited for business travelers looking for a laid-back rendezvous or families looking to enjoy the beach and the pool. We enjoy a relaxing atmosphere, but we also want to do some things outside the hotel gates.

The rooms were in 19 separate bungalows reached by a short walk or golf-cart ride. Ours was a large suite in Bungalow 18 with a very nice bathroom and big patio. All the floors were a light marble. I can't complain about the room, other than the mattress on the king-size bed. It had no pad and you could feel the mattress pilling beneath the sheets.

The grounds were extensive and include a long, calm beach where we watched the sun sink in to the ocean. With no more chance of tanning, we sought an outdoor hot tub and found the only one was in the spa. Even when it was open, you have to reserve it, but alas, it was closed.

My favorite asthetic aspect of this hotel was the outdoor lobby and the restaurants surrounding the main office. Candles illuminated the area at night, giving it a romantic feel.

Saint Brad of St. Louis

He stands like a statue, motionless except for the baggy, white clothes fluttering in a strong westward breeze from the Mississippi. He wears a backwards baseball cap emblazoned with a cross over a pure white bandanna. Back to the river, he stares silent and still at the Gateway Arch, the symbol of the city he is trying to save. In his left hand he holds a large Christian flag that billows in the wind. At his feet is a towel, positioned like a prayer mat on the hard concrete.

Passing tourists are puzzled. Everything else about the day seems so normal, peaceful even. Jazz floats on the wind from a moored riverboat. People snap photos and marvel at the arch's elliptical wonder.

But this strange man stands out; he emanates mystery. He begs for engagement, either in ridicule or just plain curiosity, but no one dares approach. The saint of St. Louis never moves. His sunglasses remain fixed on the arch and the souls milling around it.

In town for a wedding, our family encounters him on a quick trip to the city's iconic monument, which stands as a symbol of America's bold shift westward at the turn of the 20th century.

After staring for a few moments at this odd display of faith, I decide there's no way I'll find out what sparked it unless I ask. Having shared my faith overseas and encountered university street preachers barking hellfire and brimstone, I've been fascinated with how people try to fulfill God's command to make disciples of all nations.

"Onward Christian soldier," I say as I approach, mentioning the Christian hymn as if it's a secret password designed to break his stony gaze.

He seems surprised, as if this is a first, but keeps his stark posture as we begin to talk. I quickly spring into interview mode. Under his superhero getup is a story of faith more interesting than I could've expected.

A few years ago, Brad Lee was living a rebellious lifestyle and felt that nothing could touch him, but it didn't take long for life to shatter his facade of independence. A female friend, Sunshine, was diagnosed with cancer, and the doctors weren't sure she would survive. The news sent him into a tailspin. Broken down, he cried out desperately for God's help.

Brad felt God drawing him toward repentance. Somehow God revealed that he was not a genie in a bottle. It would take commitment - a full turn from Brad's careless ways - for his prayers to have any weight.

Relationship with God restored, Brad turned his attention and prayers to Sunshine. For him, those Bible references to healing weren't literary devices. They were promises that God hears his saints and responds when they ask for something in the name of Jesus.With the zeal of a radically new believer, he threw himself into fasting and prayer. In light of God's power, he would only accept a full recovery.

Though given only three months to live, Sunshine's health began to dramatically improve. Eventually she was cured completely. Brad saw this not only as an answered prayer, but a new commission. He would pray for as many people as possible, hoping God might similarly change their fate.

So now he stands stoically in the same spot every Sunday from noon to 3 p.m., three solid hours faithfully hoping and praying that God will lead an injured soul his way.

I lay my hand on his shoulder and pray for his ministry. Then I walk away scratching my head. It's not that I question Sunshine's healing, but almost automatically I begin questioning Brad's methodology. Does the healing of someone you love give you the gift of healing? Will God will hear your prayers for any stranger on the street? And the pure white clothes, the Christian flag, the way he almost tests God by showing up in the same place every week - Isn't it just a bit, well, crazy?

After turning it over in my mind, I decide that it is. But instead of leaving me feeling superior, this realization leaves me convicted.

Brad has the audacity, born of faith, to actually believe what Jesus says, that we will do greater things than he, that prayers seeking his kingdom will be granted. I rarely venture to a place where worldly wisdom runs out, where risk forces me to rely on God's power. I never ask for it, and then I wonder where it is.

I think every true believer needs a dose of craziness, at least by the world's standards (think Noah, John the Baptist, even Jesus). Maybe then our first reaction to an act of radical faith won't be criticism, but celebration knowing that there are still some of us out there who take God at his word, despite what others - even our fellow believers - might think.

Back from the dead...again?

You can run Michael Myers over with a car, chop his head clean off with an axe or riddle him with bullets, but you can never be sure he's dead until they stop making Halloween sequels.

That's kind of how I feel about this blog. The credits have long rolled, and the few readers I once had probably forgot it existed. But I'm trying to learn a lesson in perseverance from the masked madman: It's never too late for a comeback. Hopefully my writing won't be quite as terrifying as that pale face and those hollow, unfeeling eyes.

Those (very few) who followed me before might scoff. I have promised to reboot this blog in the past, they'll rightly point out. It's true, and I have no other defense than to say that I sincerely hope that this time will be different, that I will truly repent of my non-blogging ways.

The problem has never been lack of material. I've been pressed a little for time over the past year or two, but I've had plenty of adventures worth sharing in travel, writing, marriage, church and other aspects of life.

I think my main impediment has been perfectionism. I never wanted to be one of those bloggers who shares everything he ate for breakfast or bought at the grocery store that day. (That's what Twitter's for, right?) I'm not necessarily knocking such writers. Many of them of them employ a great mix of knowledge, humor and raw personality that have won them audiences far larger than I'll ever attract.

I guess I feel that blogging is a bit like karaoke for writers, at least in the way I've approached it. A man who knows he can't sing has no problem making a fool of himself on stage at the karaoke bar. It's a bit harder for an award-winning tenor to let loose and belt out "Friends in Low Places." He's got a lot more invested in his identity as a singer, and therefore, more to lose if he screws it up.

Not that my writing is as sweet as Frank Sinatra's voice. That's where the analogy breaks down. What I'm saying is that I always feel like I have to write something groundbreaking in order for it to be worth sharing, when that's really not the case at all. I've withheld too many insights (and blunders), and I've failed to share countless travel experiences that might have proven useful to others, all because I've been too scared to miss a note. Now I'm going to try to lighten up, join the party and have some fun.

So here's what you can expect: I know that most blogs these days have a predictable editorial direction. Some folks pontificate about money, travel, raising children, church planting or another niche in which they've got hard-earned (or self-declared) expertise. I work in online media, so I know that specialization is the key to successful blogging, but that's not what I envision here. My thoughts will be the glue that holds Still Standing together.

I'm not veering totally into left field. I plan to introduce pages to corral posts on some of my more prominent themes, like travel, faith, manhood, family and China. I expect that other blogs (hopefully one on short-term missions in China, specifically) will branch off from this page. Then, I'll try to build a loyal following based on the principles of content marketing.

For now, just consider me back for yet another thrilling sequel.

Cue the Halloween theme song...

It Feels Good to Be Rich

My friend Brad is giddy after visiting a Chinese ATM in 2006.

I didn't win the lottery. I haven't come into an inheritance. I'm still working as a reporter. But it feels good to know that I'm rich.

I've got a $20 bill in my wallet. It has been there for weeks. I rarely use cash, so I don't remember when I got it out of the ATM or for what purpose. Maybe it was a yard-sale stash or feed for the parking meters around Atlanta. Maybe it was left over from paying a friend back for Braves tickets. In any case, it still lingers behind receipts, coupons and business cards, just waiting for a chance to be broken.

I was sifting through the ads in the newspaper this morning. I usually only glance at a few nowadays. I took a brief look at the digital cameras, then moved on. It's not that I don't like gadgets, but looking is pretty much pointless. I already have anything that could come close to qualifying as a necessity for work or play.

Learning from the Korean Passion

Business events aren't usually known for their spiritual flair. It's a rare occasion that I walk into a trade conference in Atlanta and encounter a religious invocation.

In America, even if many attendees are Christian, general consideration for adherents of other faiths dictates that we steer clear of rhetoric or actions that could remotely be perceived as intimidating or offensive. (Politically correct translation: Words or deeds that actually express an opinion or belief.)

Refreshingly, Koreans don't seem to have this problem.

Avoiding the Seven Demons

I've always been perplexed by the passage in Luke 11, where the Pharisees accuse Jesus of using the power of Satan to drive out evil spirits.

It's not so much Jesus's refutation that confuses me. In the discussion, he coins the phrase that Abraham Lincoln borrowed - a kingdom divided itself cannot stand - to show that Satan's forces can't survive if they war against each other. He then uses a parable about robbing a strong man's house to explain to that although our enemy has a formidable powers, he is easily bound and overtaken by his maker.

I'm good up to this point, but it gets a little trickier in the teaching moment afterward, when Jesus turns away from the immediate treatment of good vs. evil and begins directing criticism toward the Jews' unbelief.

We're Not Who We Think (or Say) We Are

Social media is a really convenient tool. Some say its magic is in the fact that it allows for transparency like never before. Politicians use Twitter to stay connected with their constituents. Parents can spy on their teenyboppers' online lives. Bosses can get a glimpse of their employees' true character out of the office.

While these are noble uses, I say the true advantage of these websites is their cloak-and-dagger aspect, the fact that we can hide our real selves behind the idealistic versions we post online.

What Would Jesus Tweet?

Come, follow me.

In the age of Twitter, "following" someone has become as easy as the click of a button.

It wasn't so simple 2,000 years ago, when Jesus searched for his true disciples. He had no email newsletter, no Facebook page on which to post photos and updates. He didn't have a website where millions could convene virtually to download sermon podcasts or submit prayer requests.

His was a day when a teacher's shoe leather was his bandwidth, and his sphere of influence was as large as the area his feet could travel. His audience consisted of real people with skin on, seen eye to eye, not faceless Google bots or Web perusers.

Will the Poor Always Be With Us? Jesus vs. Muhammad Yunus

Nobel Prize-winning economics professor and "banker to the poor" Muhammad Yunus visited Atlanta last month and spoke about the prospect of eradicating poverty to the point that one day we would take our children to see "poverty museums."

In Mr. Yunus' ideal future world, our kids would have to learn from a retrospective distance what they could not experience in the now: the sickness, starvation and abject lack that come with the inability to afford basic needs like food, clothing and shelter.

I applaud his vision and his efforts to make it a reality, but I wonder if it's a bit naive. Assuming that everyone (or even a slight majority) could learn to practice, like Mr. Yunus, the ideal of helping the poor help themselves, a world without poverty is at least imaginable. But it's hard to make that assumption, given our proclivity to act in our own self-interests at almost any cost. Even our charitable donations are mostly given out of our wealth, not any meaningful sacrifice (I'm preaching to myself here, by the way). How can we lift others out of poverty without giving up comfort and convenience? And how will people learn to sacrifice when the world's ideology tells them to get what they can in this moment?

New Year, New Ear

For me, journals are altars, written monuments to the places and times when God has worked in unexplainable ways, either responding to faith or interrupting rebellion.

Though not as enduring or tough to construct as the stacks of stones the ancient Israelites used, my written remembrances provide the same thing: a store of faith that I can borrow against when God's presence and goodness aren't so obvious.

In January I considered writing a blog post about the new year, a wrap up of 2009 and a look ahead to 2010. I planned to make new resolutions, posting them on this blog and sharing them with friends as a way of keeping myself accountable.

Giving Up the Quilted Community

Technology's making it easier than ever to build a patchwork Christian community of friends and mentors from the past. But effective faith requires a present context, so in this age of transience, we've got to overcome our fear of new faces.

Sometimes I drive home from work earlier than usual or go in a little late. The latter happens much more often than the former, as my wife can attest, but either way the result is the same when the context changes: The world looks different.

In the thick of winter, I've grown accustomed to darkness on my 6:30 p.m. commute, so darting home during sunlight hours sometimes reveals a food shop or a tire repair center that I've passed each day but never noticed. On those days I feel like a foreigner in my own apartment complex. Everyone who gets off work at 5 is out and about, grabbing mail, walking dogs, taking strolls, even moving in.