From the Hat Rack

Christmas Wishes 2010

2010-12-24T15:06:00.003-06:00

Merry Christmas from Iowa!

601 Holiday Road, Coralville, Iowa 52241 - 319-358-2311

felines@q.com - michael-w-davis@uiowa.edu

Family and Friends,

We’ve had another year of growth and blessing here in eastern Iowa. Among the highlights:

Robyn gave up the icy overnights of delivering newspapers and took on a new job as auditor and desk clerk at our nearby Holiday Inn. Her mother has been dealing with some health issues this year. Robyn and the kids spent a week in Texas in July visiting their grandparents.
Michael, in May, celebrated a decade of work with the academic advising office at the U of Iowa. He still misses pastoral ministry after a year and a half or retirement but enjoys helping with ministry at our church.
Schyler, now 12, began junior high this Fall. He’s adapting well and enjoying extracurricular activities with music and computers.
Quentin, 10, had the busiest year of all with orchestra (cello), band (trombone), baseball and now wrestling (a very big deal in Iowa.)
Alina, 7, is busy with school activities and piano and birthday parties and all things pink and purple.

All-in-all, it has been a good year with many blessings, friends, and memories. Our celebration of Christmas has already begun with the kids participating in the church Christmas program. Michael’s brother is flying in from SC on Christmas Eve. Our new kitten (giving us five total cats) is busy attacking the Christmas tree and wrapping paper. May you all experience the wonder of the season found in the manger.

Michael, Robyn, Schyler, Quentin, and Alina

Quentin's Broken Arm

2010-06-01T17:08:00.002-05:00

Photo

2010-03-27T13:27:00.002-05:00

Need a place to put a photo

A Visit to Walt's Place

2007-09-23T23:15:00.000-05:00

Last week, our family made a long-planned trip to Orlando, Florida and Walt Disney World. My wife and I visited WDW during the Christmas season in our pre-children years. But this trip was with our kids in mind. The trip happened to coincide with our daughter’s 4th birthday. She had a special day and our sons enjoyed the sights, rides, and displays. As for me, I observed many things not necessarily all trip-related. My blog has been in a stagnant mode through the summer so its time to awaken it with a five thoughts about our visit to Walt’s place.

1 – Big People
I’m not exactly a small guy these days but I was struck by the number of big people at WDW. Big people: walking three abreast making it impossible to pass on either side. Big people: squeezing themselves into rides. Big people: on buses and boats, in theatres and shops. And, most of all, big people: eating. Our first night we decided to eat at our resort, which was serving a basic buffet of chicken, ribs, salmon, veggies, salad bar, and some light desserts. As we were waiting to place our drink order, two big men walked by on their way to the buffet. One opted for the salad bar first and was razzed by his pal for not hitting the “real food” first. As we approached the buffet, the second man passed by with carrying a tower of cholesterol on his plate. Big now, bigger later…..

2 – Manners
I was taught all those years ago to be polite and well-mannered in public. A polite society seems to be a win-win situation. Forget it at WDW. The battle cry seems to be, “Outta my way!” I noticed children, seniors, and the disabled being pushed aside by those seeking a quicker path to another activity. However, I also noticed some children, seniors, and disabled involved in clearing out other park goers. It was equal opportunity rudeness. Families who lined up early to see an afternoon parade had latecomers line up in front of them as the parade began. Even when the behavior was noted to the latecomers, it was either ignored or they had a “so what” attitude. All this was going on while the loudspeakers played a song about WDW as the place where love abounds. Were it so….

3 – A Conversation
I’ve never been one who loves fast-paced rides. I really don’t enjoy getting sick. So most of the WDW options left me on the sidelines. During such a time when my family was zooming around on something, I watched over our stroller – used as a multi-purpose carry-all vehicle at WDW. I sipped on my coffee and looked at the person (?) who had just sat next to me. I found myself face-to-face with Grumpy of Seven Dwarfs fame. We exchanged hellos and I asked him a few questions. (He was downing a root beer.)
M: Is Grumpy really your name?
G: Well, on my birth certificate it reads “Sebastian” but I needed an alias for Hollywood.
M: Well, then, are you really grumpy?
G: Are you kidding? This ain’t exactly the most pleasant situation.
M: But you’re a star known the world over….
G: Big deal; you don’t have to put up with Snow White.
M: Snow White? But she seems so warm and lovely…
G: Public persona, that’s all. She’d be happy if all of us dwarfs just stayed in the mine twenty-four hours a day.
M: Come on, now. I’m sure she cares about all of you.
G: Boy, her PR is good. All she can talk about is finding some prince. You know the type: chiseled features, solid abs, cute little behind. And they always end up only in love with themselves. Snow White wants what doesn’t exist at the expense of those who might really care for her….
At this point, Grumpy started getting loud and dribbling his root beer. A management “cast member” rushed over and escorted Grumpy through a workers gate and away from a small group of patrons who’d gathered. I guess he does have a reason to be grumpy. Sometimes the Magic Kingdom can’t stop reality.

4 – Point of View
WDW is promoted as a magical place for persons of any age. Indeed it does have entertainment for those without children or empty-nesters. But the majority of its business – and it certainly is a business – is geared toward families with children. What I noted during my time there last week was the different perspectives on WDW. Many parents saw their visit as a gift of sorts to their kids. They wanted to get their money’s worth so to speak by hitting as many spots, rides, shows, etc. as possible each day. Kids, though, aren’t really concerned about finances or time investment. They are, instead, dazzled by the experience around them and want to soak it in. I saw a young girl looking at a Disney character signing autographs. The look on the girl’s face was priceless. A moment later, her father ran back and pulled her along to join the rest of their family as they headed off to the next “thing” on the parent’s agenda. It was all about perspective. But it seems to me that if the trip and the experience is a gift for kids, then parents need to see things a bit more for the child’s viewpoint.

I brought home many memories of our trip; from my daughter’s birthday delight to a wonderful light and fireworks show to excellent cuisine to the joy of characters coming to life for my kids. However, the most vivid memory of the trip did not involve my family but a nameless boy around the age of six. As we walked along, I heard off to my right the boy’s mother say to him. “Well, you made us later for the show. Now you’ve ruined the trip. for everybody” The look of pain and helplessness in the boy’s eyes will remain with me. I pray the mother, in a cooler moment, recalls her words and comforts her son with an apology. WDW should be fun not a stage for running down kids (or anyone). A child’s perspective at WDW seems as important as any adult's, maybe more so.

5 – Likes and Dislikes at WDW
Like: Disney transportation system was efficient and clean with few long waits
Dislike: Florida heat and humidity
Like: Character meals; characters took time for each child
Dislike: Disney’s constant selling of itself, even on the bus back to the airport after a week of giving them money.
Like: Staff, er, cast members as they are called; always ready to help and answer even the most innocuous question.
Dislike: Crabby gate staff at AirTran at Orlando International Airport. Could use some lessons from the Disney folks on customer care
Like: The food; we were on the WDW dining plan - free for the period we were there – and the variety and quality of the food was terrific. Ribs, seafood, and desserts were among the best I’ve tasted (and I’m not much of a dessert eater.)
Dislike: Being tired. It was, after all, a family trip with the kids in mind. Probably less sleep than at home
Like: Coming home to see my cats, who let me know they were in need of big doses of attention.
Dislike: Having to mow the law tomorrow. Welcome home…..

Reflecting on the First Fifty

2007-06-16T23:11:00.000-05:00

It was time; long past time. The gaunt figure of Josiah, age 17, orange and white tabby mix, ambled to the food bowl seeking to temper a never-ending hunger brought about by age and disease. It was indeed time. Time to end Josiah’s suffering. Time to do the deed no one really wants to face. And I was called upon to chauffer Josiah to his life’s completion.

Josiah howled as I started the van. Yes, he howled as he did a dozen times before on trips across town and across the country. I pulled into the parking lot at the veterinarian’s office and the cries ceased. With cat carrier in hand, I entered the clinic for Josiah’s 4:40 appointment with destiny.

The feeble feline relaxed as he was placed on the table. The doctor came in and gave Josiah a sedative which put the cat into deep sleep in less than a minute bringing a peace the cat had not experienced in months. A few minutes later the doctor returned and checked his patient. Satisfied that the cat had no awareness, he administered an intentional overdose of a mild drug….and Josiah slipped away quietly into time.

As I drove home, I found it odd that I was called to this task just over a week before my 50th birthday. Yes, fifty years. One of the “big ones” of individual anniversaries. I have seen this milestone coming in the distance, drawing closer. I’ve not really known how to respond. Who does? You get no practice at turning fifty. It is often seen as a bigger deal to family and friends than the celebrant. I’ve watched it draw near and now it is just a day away. I wonder what it will mean deep inside.

I guess it’s my good fortune that it falls on a Sunday. That means church and its associated joys and duties. It’s a third Sunday of the month so we’ll have a fellowship luncheon after worship. And, to top it off, it’s Father’s Day, highlighting the “Dadness” of the birthday boy. Might as well move July 4th up a couple of weeks and add some fireworks. All of this is going on, and who knows what my family has in store. With such a full day, it will be hard to find time to reflect on the birthday even itself. Fortunately – sort of – Josiah’s passing kicked me into reflective mode a bit early. So here on the day before “50” comes calling, I try to put a few thoughts together.

When I think back on the past five decades, I’m drawn to four significant influences that have shaped me:

Pain – The past fifty years have been filled with far more pain and heartache than anyone will ever know. Pain with roots in my own foolishness, in people dear and distant, in unavoidable circumstances, in decisions made from afar that found me. There has also been physical pain as my body has needed some patching up from time-to-time. The bright side? It seems that after fifty, I can anticipate more heartaches and more physical dilemmas as age takes its toll – cue Josiah one more time. I guess the first fifty have been a prep course call “Suffering 101.” My tolerance of pain is pretty high these days, never liking it but managing to live with it. I’ll face what’s next until those pain-free days beyond this world, which brings me to…

Christian Faith – I’ve been a church kid since birth. Yep, somewhere in a stored box is the Bible my parents were given right after I was born. Faith has always been important and central to my life. Familiarity led to belief; belief to commitment; commitment to professional ministerial work. I believe Christianity to be a living religion centered on God’s efforts to offer reconciliation to humanity. It offers humanity assurance that death is not the end. More, though, it offers a love-focused call to be reconcilers in this world through the power of the risen Christ.

All this said the Christian faith has had its challenges for me. It is foundational for my life but brings frustration when claimed by those who fail to live out their commitment to Christ. They offer only token affiliation. It provides a hope for any and all people but it has bred hatred from those who take its freeing power and turn it into an unachievable list of dos and don’ts. It is amazingly simple – “Love God, love others as you would love yourself” – and agonizingly complex – do I love one unconditionally who would dare to threaten someone I hold dear?

My Christian faith will continue to challenge and strengthen and call for study and service to others. It will be at my life’s core over the next fifty years but will remain concurrently fulfilling but always calling me to ask more questions.

Change – My parents were part of what was called “The Greatest Generation.” I am at the tale end of the Baby Boomers and I feel more like “The Challenged Generation.” Change and adjustment has been a theme for these past five decades. I was born into a segregated South Carolina. I was part of the initial group of grade school students in my district to have integrated schools. Many parents were unhappy but we kids didn’t really think it odd. Mixed races in school was part of who we were and are. As the world in recent years has become smaller, I’ve been amazed to visit and live in places that seem far more segregated than we ever were in South Carolina in the 1960s. This saddens my spirit.

I also mark by grade school years another societal change. From grades 1-6, American society seemed to be Dad working, Mom at home (except for teachers, nurses, and secretaries). Grades 7-12 saw a revolution in women’s rights. America began to view women as fully capable citizens. It was again a difficult change for some. As part of a generation that was lived out this change, I have a hard time believing that I was alive at a time when women were limited in their life goals.

Change has come in the thrill of my family’s first color television when I was ten or so to taking video clips with my cell phone. I’m delighted to type this reflection on a computer rather than a heavy manual typewriter with “white-out” by my side.

And beyond societal and technological changes, I’ve made personal choices for change. I was the first and only member of my family to venture out of the South. I’ve lived in major metro areas and rural towns. I’ve been in jobs of honor and have been laid off. I’ve been on public aid and have been blessed to have enough to contribute to others who are in the midst of tough times. Change has been a broad and personal theme for me in these first five decades. Now in my eighth year in Iowa City, I do appreciate the stability of my current situation. But I doubt the change will stop. After all, I see a few more gray hairs today than I had six months ago.

Humor – I’ve always thought of our world as an odd place. Odd and quirky and rather funny. I’m not sure where it all started. Maybe a steady diet of “The Three Stooges” and “The Little Rascals” on afternoon TV as a kid had a part in it. I do recall when the lingering feeling came clear. At the age of eight or nine, I snuck into my brother’s bedroom and grabbed the first paperback off of his shelf that looked like it had cartoons. The book was filled with smart aleck answers to dumb or obvious questions – i.e., a person trips and falls. A bystander asks, “Did you stumble?” A response might be, “No, the gravity is a bit strong right here.” You get the idea, and I did, too. My world of humor crystallized that day. Life was and is very funny!

Certainly, as the previous sections note, I’ve seen and experienced some of the serious sides of life. But how can anyone not see the humor in our efforts to live day-to-day. For example, there’s humor in spilling coffee as well as watching others spill coffee. We’ve all been there so we sympathize and realize we look equally silly. Any and all business meetings are ripe with funny moments. (My current co-workers are waking up on this one.) Shopping, dining, exercising, family time, church services, driving – all these venues and many more can be viewed with humor and fun. I believe that humor is the balance to keep the serious from overwhelming us. We are all imperfect people trying our best to be as perfect as possible and the results are endlessly poignant and humorous. I ended up a psychology major in college primarily because I enjoy observing human behavior. And such observations bring insight, opportunities for growth, and boatloads of funny moments as we struggle along together. As I move into past the age of fifty, humor will be my partner in dealing with the changes that lie ahead. It’s a funny and wonderful world. I encourage all to take things a bit less seriously and to laugh some each day.

I close with a remembrance that continues to spur me on. When I was in the first grade, I sat next to a boy named Keith. Keith was as typical as any first-grader could be. But in February of that academic year, Keith was not at school for several days. Sadly, our teacher informed us that Keith had been tragically killed while playing in his backyard. Workers were trimming trees near power lines. A branch got away and hit Keith. He died few days later.

I don’t know if any other kid in that class was affected but I surely was. My parents some months later showed me where Keith had been buried, one of the first in a new memorial park. From the time I could drive a car, I visited Keith’s gravesite a couple of times a year. That tradition continued through all my years away. It continued on visits home from Chicago and St. Louis and DC. I always made time to visit Keith’s gravesite. And in May 2006, on my children’s first visit to South Carolina, we went to that same memorial park for a variety of reasons. We visited the gravesites of my parents, my grandmother, a couple of aunts, and some family friends. But before we left, I walked over to Keith’s gravesite, now a bit worn. 1964 was along time ago. I paused then and I do so on this day before I hit fifty to ponder the experiences in my life that were missed by Keith. A fresh, promising life ended; my life moving on. Keith, forever age six, always brings me to my senses and keeps me grounded. Through all of the pain and joy; the faith and folly; the changes and challenges, I have had the blessing of fifty years and hopefully much more. Keith was not so fortunate. Keith reminds me in his death to remain a good steward of the life I have and what lies ahead.

The milepost grows near, only hours away, and my almost fifty-year old body is suggesting I get some sleep. My equally old brain agrees. Tomorrow brings a new era and some celebrating, followed by fifty years plus a day, and onward, blessed and grateful each morning I awaken. May Josiah and Keith, Mom and Dad, and others rest peacefully for eternity. I’m off to face fifty and the days beyond.

The Answer

2007-05-14T22:28:00.000-05:00

The answer came.

It was not “Yes.”
The word that would leave me overjoyed.
Tears of joy flowing through my heart.
Opening the door to the myriad of possibilities and promise

It was not “No.”
The word that would darken my spirit.
A flood of sadness filling my innermost parts.
Shutting off the hope and happiness so long desired.

The answer…

Instead, the answer was indifference.
A question asked, a question ignored.
Stealing my dignity by denying my human significance..
No stream or flood but a dry river bed

The answer came.
And with it no relief, no closure,
No answer at all.

Seeking Fairness

2007-02-09T00:02:00.000-06:00

My blog has stood silent for several months – in part due to many responsibilities, and in part due to choosing other options at times that could have been used to write. And then a week ago, a moment occurred that crossed three generations. It has taken a week to get away from not just the daily busy-ness but the unexpected and unwanted. Tonight my wife and daughter attended a mother-daughter Valentine’s activity so we men – my two sons and I – were left to ourselves. The boys were helpful, obedient, and had some fun, too. My mind suddenly found an open spot and last week moved right back in. Thus, I tell the story with the perspective of a week’s “simmer time.”

“Daddy, it’s not fair!”

My middle child – Quentin, my youngest son – came to me in tears. His brother Schyler wasn’t being fair. It seems that Schyler – two years older – had made a deal with his sibling. “If you help me unload the dishwasher,” he said during the afternoon, “I’ll help you load them after supper.” Quentin happily agreed. Having secured Quentin’s help the chore was completed quickly. But when it came time to load the dishwasher, Schyler refused to help and went off to play with little sister Alina.

“It’s just not fair!”

I gave Quentin a hug for a few moments before I went to deal with Schyler. But in those moments, across my mind and heart, I saw a thread, a bond between three generations of my family. Thankfully, the bond is one to be proud of, but also one that still causes consternation today. Of my children, Quentin has by far the sweetest nature. He believes and lives out in his six-year old way, being fair and honest and good to others. He believes that each should have a turn, each should get the same amount of a snack, and each should do his /her share of chores. What a great attitude for such a young child.

But the frustration comes when, of course, others don’t play fair. It’s an issue of justice I think. Not the “justice for all oppressed people” but just doing and receiving what is right and appropriate. It is so difficult for Quentin to understand why classmates don’t share or may not want to play at recess. And in those moments last week – in that time of agony at the injustice handed out by big brother – I saw Quentin’s grandfather – my Dad – a man that went off to eternity long before any of our kids were born. My father would be proud of his first grandchild who was named after him (John – Schyler goes by his middle name.) He’d adore and spoil Alina since he had only sons. But he’d find Quentin to be his kindred spirit. And in between them, well, there’s me, the middle link in this family chain that cries out for fairness and justice in daily life.

My father made it through 7th grade before he had to go to work to help his family. World War II was the defining event in his life. I am proud to have his Purple Heart and Bronze Star from his participation in the Battle of the Bulge. They’ll be handed down to the kids one day. After the War, he worked in electrical construction on such diverse jobs as nuclear power plants and cotton mills. He was a dedicated Christian and rarely missed church. Even if his job-of-the-moment had him working out of town, he’d find a church on Sunday while his working buddies slept off their hangovers. He was quiet and unassuming. Yet, he dealt with people with honesty and integrity. It chafed at him when people did not return good for good, right for right. Even as a child of the segregation era in South Carolina, he never looked down on the “colored workers” as did some of his colleagues. He’d say everyone was there to do the same job.

Whether the issue was a family concern or a world political crisis, he grew frustrated if it could not be solved fairly. He was not unrealistic but a person of beliefs and hope. He lost use of his left eye in a workplace accident. While he struggled with adjusting to one good eye, he never looked for revenge. He, instead, did wondrous living with a single eye for the next 25 years. He read voraciously with that 7th grade education, always closing his day with a book, then some Scripture. Those devotional readings strengthened his resolve that what God taught was the right way to live.

My whole family grieved as Alzheimer’s began to take away his ability to enjoy life and to care for himself. The only consolation was that he no longer had to struggle with life’s unfairness even in the midst of the most unfair of situations. I’ve always believed that in his latter days, he was already at peace in the presence of God.

My father’s honesty and sense of right was affirmed at his funeral. I could not believe the number of people that attended – co-workers from decades past – all colors and ages – some from out of state, local folks and neighbors, all who comforted my family with stores of Dad’s goodness and trustworthiness.

My father’s sense of fairness and rightness, and his quiet demeanor, were passed down to me. I, too, as a child, believed in doing right, playing fair, taking turns, etc. And, as witl all kids, I met those at school and in the neighborhood who held a less cooperative view. At times I struggled with doing right and feeling unappreciated for living in such a manner. (It took the concept of grace a long time to sink in, and it still does at times.) Through the academics of college and seminary, relationships sought and often not gained, even watching my lifelong sports teams from the University of South Carolina lose year after year after year, I wondered about fairness and rightness in a self-focused world.

As Quentin sniffed and sobbed on my lap, I was immediately drawn to an episode just a couple of months earlier when I felt my own frustration with issues of justice. I was told “If ‘a’, ‘b’, and ‘c’, then ‘d’ will happen.” When the circumstance arose, and ‘a’, ‘b’, and ‘c’ were in order, ‘d’ was not the result. Even months later, I feel that sense of injustice, lowering of trust, and frustration. I held Quentin a bit closer as my own recent struggle resurfaced in my mind and heart. No doubt, the soft-hearted, right-living grandfather was looking down on his son and grandson in that moment with a heavenly hand resting on the shoulder of each of us.

Quentin, of course, recovered quickly – six-year olds do that kind of thing. He was busy playing with Schyler later in the evening. I wish I could turn it off that easily but I’ve got a few more years and a life’s worth of memories, good and bad, on seeking to do right. I’m proud of what my father modeled for me. I’m glad I still get annoyed and emotional when injustice rears its head in the common life. And I’ll never let Quentin be any other way. It’ll be tough at times but his character will only grow as he continues to look for and expect the good.

Jesus once spoke to a crowd on a hillside. The crowd was not made up of celebrities but of the lower class, the unwanted, the uneducated, the unimportant. To that crowd, Jesus started his talk with phrases such as, “Blessed are the merciful; Blessed are the pure in heart; Blessed are the peacemakers; Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake.” There is a blessing to a life that seeks those right things, that pursues the dreams even when the world knocks those dreams around. And maybe my father’s dreams of a just and fair world are in some sense being lived out and carried on by this son and this grandson, we two, who are his most kindred of spirits, the current and future generation seeking to do what’s right.

I’ll be stopping by Quentin’s room on my way to bed in a bit. I know he’ll be sound asleep with that face of innocence and trust; that face filled with hope for a good day tomorrow. And I’ll leave his room renewed for the challenge of living that life alongside him when the new day dawns. And grandpa will say, Amen.

It's No Fun to Cry on Friday Night

2006-10-14T10:41:00.001-05:00

It’s Friday night. The end of the week – the work week, the school week, the mundane-activities-and-schedule week. Friday night: an evening to unwind from the pace of life, to catch one’s breath, to enjoy the fruits of one’s labors. Restaurants will be filled, some even with long lines. Family members will reconnect as they return to home base before the weekend. Friday night: a drink and a smoke; a hot bath and a pair of sweats; a movie for the DVD player and a fresh bowl of popcorn. It’s a night of relief and relaxation….for some. For others, this Friday night brings thoughts and reflection and tears. And it’s no fun to cry on Friday night.

Friday night is no fun for Alice. She is in the simplest, most familiar of settings: wooden rocker on a wooden floor, crocheted blanket covering her legs and lap, shawl around her shoulders, cat sleeping peacefully on the sofa across the living room. Alice is alone with her thoughts. And memories. It was a Friday night, this Friday night, now sixty years in the past. A cool Fall evening at a USO in Baltimore. It was the night Harvey walked in. Private first-class Harvey, a young man on his way to becoming a war veteran. She offered him punch. And they talked. And they danced. And by evening’s end, their hearts were connected forever. And two days later, Harvey boarded a ship on his way to the Battle of the Bulge. Alice cried and prayed. Every day for two years she cried and prayed, buoyed by the occasional letter with never enough sentences but always a closing word of love. Two years later, a battle-scarred Harvey got off a boat at that same dock and embraced Alice. The dream, her dream, was alive. Yet it did not, could not last forever. It was now twelve years, three months since Harvey’s painful goodbye. But no anniversary of his passing was as hard as remembering the beginning. The tears always came on this Friday, this wonderful, miserable, memorable Friday. Alice loved it greatly and hated it more. For Alice, once each year, it’s no fun to cry on Friday night.

Friday night is no fun for Kevin and Connor. Friday night means another night without their father. No Daddy to watch the playoffs with them or to tuck them in bed. No Daddy to climb on and hug. Where might he be on this Friday? He could still be at the office. He may be out with his buddies – that’s what he calls them. Wherever their father might be, they know how the script will play out. They’ll climb in their bunk beds in a little while and sleep fitfully until they hear the sound, the awful sound. Their father coming home at 2 or 3 in the morning, stumbling and muttering. Soon the sound of voices; the weekly fight with their mother. It will end in tears – her tears – seemingly unimportant to their father. And as the battle goes on Kevin and Connor will move together into on te lower bunk beand hold each other close crying softly. It’s Friday night. These events are yet to come. And even now the brothers look at each other and tears well up. It’s no fun to cry on Friday night.

Friday night is no fun for Gail. She sits at her dining table with her familiar partners: a novel – mystery this time, a cup of peppermint tea, and a few graham crackers. The novel may be new but it does not hold her attention. Her house seems unusually quiet tonight. It’s been that way since Denise moved on to her new job in a new city. Who knew a three-hour drive could be so great a distance? But it wasn’t just her daughter’s absence. It was what happened long before which stirs her this evening. Matthew. The silent whisper of his name brings back that face – that gorgeous face, that engaging smile, that personality. Oh, but was he was the charmer. Charmed his way into her heart. And all the way to the altar. And to a miserable, bitter experience. She should have seen it. A deade of hindsight can do wonders for one’s insight. Funny, all in their world celebrated the “perfect couple.” Gail shakes her head. In the years after the split, she and Denise did well. But love never seemed to come calling again, the truly great ones were already taken, the leeches weretoo plentiful. Each night feels empty and lonely. And now her darling Denise has found her way to her own life. Still in touch but no longer a part of “home.” Gail puts the tea into the microwave to reheat and reviie her drink. Oh, that she could somehow do the same in her heart. Some Friday nights found her with friends, or working a bit late. But most were spent with novel and tea. Variety came via the dining table, the easy chair, or the bed. With the peppermint scent again strong, she sits at the table. Slowly she marks the page and closes the book. It’s 10:00 PM, the time each week when the tears come. And Gail knows all too well it’s no fun to cry on Friday night.

Friday night is no fun for Amanda. It’s the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day come true. Amanda lies quietly in her bed and weeps softly. Moments of crisis come in all shapes and sizes, and for all ages. And for Amanda, crisis has come with one simple sentence: “We can’t find Billy Bear.” Billy Bear is only the most important stuffed animal in all the city, hey, in all the world. Billy Bear goes everywhere with Amanda: on shopping trips, in the backyard, on the TV chair, in her playhouse, and, of course, in bed at night. But Billy Bear seems to have gone AWOL. She remembers him being in the car this afternoon. Mama called the grocery store but no one’s seen him there. Daddy looked all over the yard till darkness came, but no sign of the worn black teddy bear with the half-missing mouth. Even big brother Todd checked the closets, well, sorta good. But, bedtime can’t wait for little girls. Sure, Amanda has an assortment of bears and bruins, puppies and pooches. But, none has the cuddliness of Billy Bear. Mama and Daddy promise to do a full search again in the morning. But morning seems a long way off. Amanda clings to the stuffed beagle puppy that serves in a surrogate role this night. But all this sad little girl can think of is where Billy Bear might be. And she cries softly again. It’s no fun to cry on Friday night.

Friday night is no fun for Marcus. The kids are in bed. A movie is on some television network. And, Marcus sits side-by-side with his wife Cindy. It’s “their time” for the rest of the evening. And it’s the same scene on most Fridays: television on, sitting together, Cindy reviewing the week, Marcus lost in thought, lost in so many ways. Yes, Cindy is a wonderful woman, a good wife. Their seven years together have been good. Their kids are healthy, happy, and loving. Marcus has much that many only dream of. And Marcus sits so very alone. As he moves through hi mid-thirtes, Marcus now knows what love should be. Marcus knows the deepest longing of his heart. He understands himself as he never did a decade or so ago. And he knows he’s in a good and safe and very miserable place in life. Marcus also knows he’s here to stay. No one leaves a situation like this, not in this goofy world. Cindy is caring, kind, thoughtful, etc. Marcus glances at his mate who is totally focused on the current step in the plot line. Great moter, good wife, no chance of ever being the love of his life. Marcus longs for a soulmate that he knows he’ll never see. Even if she comes along one day, he knows he’ll never jump ship. Seven years of a good thing has revealed to Marcus what truly is the deepest and best thing. At the next commercial break, Marcus heads to the bathroom but not for the usual reasons. He closes the door, sits on the edge of the tub, and tears off a piece of tissue. He dabs at his eyes which seem to be filling with tears far too quickly. He reaches over and flushes the toilet to cover the sound of his breaking heart. It’s no fun to cry on Friday night.

The restaurants close, the streets become deserted, the evening is done. And the tears of these and others like them linger as sleep beckons. A new morning will greet them all and the promise of a new day. An anniversary past, a teddy bear to find, a father to sober up, a wife to stand by, and a new cup of tea for a new day. The tears of Friday are set aside, at least for another week. And those who have cried them move quickly into the new day and beyond the memories of the evening just passed. For it’s no fun to cry on Friday night.

Fog and Darkness

2006-09-28T20:36:00.000-05:00

“The fog comes in on little cat feet…” Carl Sandburg, “Fog”

“No light, but rather darkness visible.” John Milton, Lost Horizon

Fall is by far the most appealing season to me of four. The sticky, sweaty feel of summer has given way to brisk early mornings, comfortable days, and cool nights. Leaves are changing their fashion from green to gold, orange, and red. As I walked out this morning, I was greeted by the loud commotion of birds roosting briefly in trees down the block, taking a moments respite on the way South. Fall is a season of dramatic change and renewed vigor. Yet, for me, autumn brings an annual look at a daily difficulty.

My annual vision checkups come around this time of the year. Yes, that’s plural. It means a visit to the glaucoma specialist, then the retinal specialist. Those who know me are aware of the ongoing battles with my sliced and diced eyes. These necessary visits bring about a bit of stress, though the real stress is in some ways long past. It’s time to see if my bad eyesight might be getting worse; if my vision has any new “surprises” in store. As for the old infirmities, they are both very present and possibly hiding around the next turn of the calendar.

Each morning I am greeted by the fog, not outside, my inside. I’m not sure what else to call it. Well, there is the official opthmological terminology: macular degeneration. It’s supposed to happen in one’s sixties or seventies. It started with me in my early forties. The central vision becomes blurred. If it runs its full course, the blur becomes a dark spot and central vision is lost. Not exactly something to look forward to in the coming years. For now, the blur is there and affects most every action of every day. It has more or less put an end to night driving. And as fall turns to winter, daylight becomes a precious commodity on weekends. In De;cember and January, that’s my time to shop, travel, get around town, ‘cause it’s dark by the time I’m home on weekdays. Darn that fog. Thanks to a good bus line, one can live without driving a great deal.

The real problem, however, lies in the day-to-day. Blurred central vision means blurred reading. Foggy eyesight means being unable to look people in the eye to talk. Oh the natural motions of a lifetime are there but they find no face, just that blur. A slight look to the side brings the face into peripheral vision but then I’m looking not quite at the person. It is frustrating to be unable to see the faces and read the expressions of family, co-workers, students, parishioners, clerks. Fortunately, I can still tell “Meghan” from “Marvin” so that’s a relief! I’ve been told that the blur will not be going away. It’s there – thankfully only in my right eye for now. The fog has indeed drifted in but is settling down for a lengthy stay.

And then, there’s the darkness. While the fog comes in gradually, the darkness has appeared three times in the past with no warning. On the first occasion, I was sitting at a computer at a church typing some notes when I begin to sense a problem with seeing. Most notably, things in my left eye seemed to be getting dark fast. I went from church office to emergency room and heard a diagnosis that was both foreign and frightening. “Son,” said the retinal specialist in his south Texas drawl, “Yer retina is detaching from your left eye, and fast. Gotta get you into surgery in the morning.” He briefly explained the procedure and left me to my fears. It was one of my few experiences in real fear in my life. Major surgery on my eye in less than 24 hours. And why, God, does a retina come loose anyway? Got no direct answer from above but the doctor later said it was tied to genetic makeup. My dad had weak eyes. (Memo to my kids: Pray now for new discoveries in visual sciences.) Meanwhile, as I waited, the darkness grew larger. How cold and ruthless; I put my hand out where I should have been able to see it and…. nothing. Just a black space.

The surgery was successful though recovery was tough. Eventually, the left eye got better…until a few years later when I suddenly noticed one afternoon, the dark spot was a slowly returning. Still scary but not nearly the fear. Experience does that for you even in the bad times. A new city, a new surgeon, this one with some newer procedures. A quicker recovery and restored sight. A cataract was removed a year or so later but the darkness was gone.

Then a hot summer day four years ago brought about more of the same in a different way. Driving along on highway 6, and suddenly a dark spot….but in the right eye this time. I slammed the steering wheel, then calmly turned the car around and headed home. I knew the drill. Again, new city, new surgeon, good results. And since that incident, no more dark spots. But I there’s always a chance that I’ll wake up one day or be talking to a student or a co-worker or to my child, and the dark spot will ooze its way into the light.

Autumn brings the beauty and cool temps and leaves and harvest. It also brings the official look at the state of my vision. So far, so good. Glaucoma risk still contained; macular degeneration stable. The retinal doc will check the rest in a few weeks. I feel blessed to live in a city with a top-ten ophthalmology department and world-class specialists. If they can’t help, then that’s that. I also am blessed to have a family who lovingly tolerates my limitations, co-workers who do likewise and provide help along the way, and church members who know I can’t get out at night. And the biggest blessing I have is the sight I still have. I feel pretty young but my eyes are, in a sense, elderly. I’m grateful to wake up each day being able to see my way to the shower and the coffee maker; to see my children at play, to enjoy a daytime drive on a fall weekend, to even type this entry.

Fog and darkness – now ever present parts of my life. And instructors in lessons of life and how you live it.

A Passing Joy

2006-07-28T15:22:00.000-05:00

The news came this week of a grand event. A friend shared the good news that he and his wife brought home their newly adopted daughter. The tiny infant – a preemie but very healthy – has been the focus of years of effort and prayer. The heartfelt delight was evident in the written notification. Persons from around this country and across the globe sent along notes of congratulations and celebration. Among these words of encouragement were admonitions from experienced parents to “enjoy each day with your daughter.”

As my friend and his wife experience their first days as parents, I reflected on my own journey as a parent thus far. Those early days and months are challenging, stressful, joyous. Yet, even as parents are grateful when the baby begins sleeping through the night, the special time of feeding and rocking at 2:00 AM can not be duplicated. Children grow quickly, far too quickly the older they get.

The same day as I received the happy news from my friend, a sever thunderstorm hit our area. I put my young daughter to bed after a long and busy day. A few minutes later, I heard her calling, “Mama; Daddy.” It was not her “I want to delay bedtime” cry. This was a cry of fear. I walked in and found her reaching out for me. The thunderstorm frightened her. The lightening was visible around the edges of the window shade, and the thunder was in full voice. I pulled her into my arms – her favorite teddy bear along for the ride – and settled into the rocking chair. We quietly talked about the storm, being scared, God and Mama and Daddy watching out for her and other chit-chat. After a few minutes, she snuggled close and drifted off to sleep.

And, for a few moments, she was 6 months old again, falling asleep in Daddy’s arms, feeling safe and secure. For me, it was the warmth of an experience that is nearing its end. With my sons now ages 8 and 6, and my daughter turning 3 in a month and a half, the experience of having your young child fall asleep in your arms is passing away. AS children grow older, a different appreciation grows as they go through new experiences. They can’t stay tiny for long and that’s part of the process of life.

But for one brief part of one stormy evening, the unique feeling was back. Having your child trust you enough to fall asleep peacefully in your arms can not be matched by anything else in life. I’m grateful to have that experience again and to be aware enough to enjoy it fully. To my friend, cherish those moments with your little one. They pass from you quickly.

Driven by Passion

2006-07-20T23:32:00.000-05:00

They sat around the conference room as they had many times. But today, a sense of weariness hung over the group. In that room were some 30 or so professionals, my colleagues who do academic advising at the University of Iowa. This staff meeting was something of an oasis, a moment to stop, reflect, and enjoy each other as a summer filled with freshmen orientation sessions drew to a close. Eight down, one to go, not counting the assortment of one-day sessions for transfer students that would extend one of our busy seasons another week. The meeting was highlighted by a staff haiku contest and ice cream bars. We enjoyed the two-hours together before dismissing to our offices to peruse student folders for the next day’s incoming transfers.

I looked at my colleagues that morning with empathy – hey, I’m doing this, too – and much admiration. I’m not quite sure why it hit me at this busy moment but I saw not just familiar colleagues and tired faces, but something else – I saw a people of passion.

Passion has become a favorite word for me in recent months. Among Webster’s definitions of this word is “love.” Love as in an object of deep desire and interest. The older I get the more I sense the need for passion in life; to have that person, occupation, cause, that one commits him/herself to. It is passion, defined as love, that I’m come to see as what motivates those I work with five days a week in my university office. Let me share how I see this passion in three areas. (Perfect for a minister who does three-point sermons from time-to-time.)

Passion flows first for the students. My colleagues come from very diverse backgrounds. Some have education and training in student services. Many do not. Some, like me, have training in other professions and have dual careers. Many have seen their life journeys bring them to this place unexpectedly. But all of my colleagues have in common a love for college students. We primarily work with students who are in their first year, 17-19 years old, from metro areas and crossroads communities, with multiple dreams and no idea what life holds in the future. We advise on what to courses take but can’t make their decisions for them. We discuss how to improve study skills but can’t stop the invitations from others to set the books down and go out. We offer referrals but know many go unheeded. We celebrate with those students who work like crazy and gain admission to a competitive program. We grieve with those who work like crazy and miss out; good students who come up short. In all of these areas and in dozens more, we live and die and exist with our students. A semester or two of this can and does wear on advisors. What keeps us going is our passion - our love – for students and their journey through early adulthood.

Passion flows next for each other. I’m my seventh year at our office and am still a pup in contrast to those who’ve been there ten, fifteen, twenty years and more. Yet, we all have a tremendous respect and concern for each other – from the newest to the most senior. All are gifted, all are insightful, all are professional. We work inside individual offices but work as a team. Our office is large, with three hallways of advisors. We consult with each other, even if it means a walk to the other side of the building or a quick phone call. But beyond the professional support, we have characteristics of a healthy family. We celebrate achievements, births, engagements and marriages. We grieve in times of death and separation. We share concern at times of poor health or personal struggle. I’ve felt the support in the loss of my mother and the birth of two children in my time at our office. Each day, we greet the colleagues nearest to us with genuine interest. We are aware when a neighbor’s face shows tiredness or undue stress. We note when one is out for few days unexpectedly and often let those nearest know if we’ll be away on vacation. Why? We have that passion, that love for each person we work with. I’ve worked in many settings, secular and sacred, and find the collegial spirit here the finest in my experience.

Passion, finally, flows for us as individuals. I’m not sure how many of my colleagues would come out and say that they have a passion for themselves but I can see it each day. We all come to the office each day seeking to better ourselves, our skills, our understanding of advising at a large state university. But that desire to do better is not driven by job description, salary, status, or glory. My colleagues all have a personal love to be their best for their own sake. It’s a personal passion, a personal love that is not centered on ego but in an appreciation for the chance to excel at a calling in life. I believe that this personal passion is the driving force in what makes our office function effectively. We are self-motivated, humbly seeking to improve, to care more, to seek answers, to be our best. It is what makes us able to smile during the tiredness of mid-July in the middle of welcoming over 4,000 new students to their next chapter in life.

My advising colleagues and I made it through that week, and will wind down this busy season early next week. Some will scatter for awhile for a well-earned respite. Others will stay close to home to enjoy family, time in the garden, reading, and resting. A few, like me, will stick around to enjoy a few days of quiet and get a jump on the new busyness that will come with the start of Fall classes. I’ll be helping to train four new advisors joining our office family. I have no doubt that at their core they will be, and are, people of passion.

Passion is based on love, the love that drives persons to act, to function, to live to their fullest. After many years in Christian professional ministry, I realize that passion must be at the heart of what any church or religious organization does. For churches, passion resides in a love for a living Christ. Churches that function out of that belief and stay “in love” with Christ, have the passion to make a difference in the world around them. Funny how I’ve come to see my secular workplace as an example of how churches ought to function – passionate, caring, focused on those they are called to serve, enjoying the journey together.

It’s that passion that will bring those tired faces back for another academic year, ready to love the students they serve.

"The First Family of Fireworks"

2006-07-05T23:35:00.000-05:00

This story stretches back to my childhood days. It happened when I was, I believe, ten years old. The big 4^th of July fireworks were held at the new enclosed shopping mall in my hometown. The parking lots would fill by early evening. This was in the days of blue laws in South Carolina and little was open in the mall on a holiday. However, the food vendors were turning a great profit. So we sat on the hood and trunk of our car with goodies to eat as waited for the darkness to come. Families of all shapes and sizes surrounded us as the anticipation grew for this annual summer spectacular.

Around 9 PM, as the last shades of sunlight faded into the sky, the first of the fireworks were set off. Unfortunately, they were NOT lit across the way in the vacant lot. They were, instead, set off by some kids a couple of rows over from us. (Fireworks were and are legal in SC and kids grow up knowing how to use them safely – or they have shortened fingers to prove they learned the hard way.) All of us looked over at the first pop of the firecracker and saw: a balding man, a slightly plump woman, and three boys – best guess ages 13, 8 and 6. They were taking a great delight in shooting off bottle rockets, roman candles, and firecrackers near their unsuspecting neighbors. My mother, in her typical fashion, said, “How rude! That’s dangerous! What kind of parents let their children do such a thing?” The unofficial show stopped in part due to complaints by those nearby and in part due to the start of the real show. At least we were safe from those stray bottle rockets.

The calendar now moves to the mid-1990s. My wife and I are enjoying a 4^th of July trip to Wisconsin. The venue is Lakeside Park on the shores of Lake Winnebago in Fond du Lac. It’s a pleasant summer evening as we and hundreds of others tourists and residents gather to watch what we are told will be a top-notch fireworks display. As dusk approaches, I feel a sense of deju vu. Off to our left, comes the snap, crackle, and pop, not of cereal, but of fireworks. A bottle rocket whizzes past us and pops loudly next to a young couple, awaking their sleeping baby. I cast a glance in that direction and note: a balding man, a slightly plump woman, and, well this time, there are two children – a boy about 10 and a girl around 8. They squealed with glee and continued their assault on the trapped masses. Finally, the combination of the actual show and grumpy citizens quells these kids. A lady near us was heard to say something like, “How rude! That’s dangerous! What kind of parents let their children do such a thing?”

Our final stop is Iowa City – 4^th of July, 2006. Our family makes the three block trek to the university golf course. We join other neighbors on the driving range hill to watch the fireworks display from our sister city Coralville. In the fading light of dusk, Coralville is brightly lit three miles a way. It’s a clear view of the show without the messy traffic. I’d guess about fifty people are on the crest of the hill and a few more on the slope. Just a nice, relaxed tune with our neighbors. It’s become an annual event of sorts. As the darkness began to wrap around us, I saw out of the corner of my eye an all too familiar sight: a balding man, a slightly plump woman, and – in this edition – three boys, best guess 14, 12, and 6. They hiked to the far end of the hill. As soon as they put their blankets down, the boys hauled out sparklers and started running down the hill in full “war cry” mode. This was followed by a few firecrackers, some whistling sparkly things, and then the dreaded bottle rockets. One bottle rocket spun away and popped right beside an elderly lady. The whole family laughed and celebrated, though I’m not sure they saw where it landed. A couple of rather large gentlemen suggested to the family that continuing such behavior might not be a great idea and pointed to some isolated areas on the golf course that might be more suitable. As fortune would have it, the Coralville show began and the issue was thankfully ended. This time it was yours truly, now having reached such an age, who said to his own family, “How rude! That’s dangerous! What kind of parents let their children do such a thing?”

After returning home and putting my exhausted children to bed, I pondered this phenomenon. It was too odd to be a coincidence. I flipped on my laptop and perused the resources of the Internet before sleepiness caught up with me. A few Yahoos here and a Google there and I found the evidence. I knew it had to be there. This was just too weird.

Let me introduce you to the Rudemores. They are known as “The First Family of Fireworks.” An odd title but apparently they bestowed it on themselves. They not only enjoy attending shows but also becoming a show. There seem to be some dispute on their place of origin. Some say France, others say New York City, and still others say rural Oklahoma. Some scholars postulate that they have ties to the Pushi tribe of the Montana plains. Apparently, they have populated almost all countries of the globe. The Rudemores have distinguishing features, some of which we’ve encountered: male pattern baldness, post-pregnancy weight gain, children that seem to range in age from pull-ups to early puberty. They are social creatures but also somewhat anti-social. To put it another way, they are in community but not of community.

Rudemores can be found at all socio-economic levels, all educational backgrounds, and in many faith groups. They all look and talk like you and me. However, along with issues related to fireworks, they may also dart in front of you on the highway and give you the finger, let their dog mess in your yard, take 15 items into the express line at the grocery store, and cut you off as you try to reply to their question. Rudemores of the Baptist persuasion are know to argue loudly and forcefully for red carpet over green at church business meetings. Then, after the red carpet is installed, they move to another church that is less confrontational. They often camouflage their identities with regular names. But, beneath the surface, they are authentic Rudemores.

My not-quite-exhaustive pre-bedtime research did not, unfortunately, find ways to change them. Tolerance and patience seem to be the best devices for dealing with them in the short term. It may take centuries off genetic development for their habits to change. Maybe prune juice could help, too.

Fireworks season is now over and I’m relieved. No more mystery missiles or runaway bottle rockets to threaten my family…………

Sorry, a computer virus tried to hijack this entry. I managed to block it but I did hear the faint sound of a “boom” and laughter.

An Island Tale

2006-06-27T00:35:00.000-05:00

Just a little east of the western Atlantic there’s an island so tiny that it is missed by most seafaring traffic. Its name is Tipoti. On Tipoti there lived a blue Muu-gar. This blue Muu-gar was cooperative, warm, friendly, a good citizen in the society of Muu-gars.

The blue Muu-gar moved to a new home and was seeking a new friend or two. However, it was a more isolated section of the island. The blue Muu-gar was sad at not finding friends easily. Then one day, while walking home by way of the Kazai forest, the blue Muu-gar saw what looked like – could it be – why, yes! It was another Muu-gar. This one was red, or so it appeared. It seemed a bit unclear. But that did not stop the blue Muu-gar from hurrying over to greet this new friend.

As the blue Muu-gar drew closer it was evident – this Muu-gar was indeed red. The blue Muu-gar had encountered only a couple of red Muu-gars but had found them great company. This red Muu-gar was turned away from the path, reclining comfortably. “How great it will be to meet and great this new companion. What fun we’ll have together. What stories will the red Muu-gar have to tell? What – WHAT?”

The blue Muu-gar was stopped cold – literally. For between the blue Muu-gar and the red Muu-gar was a huge block of ice. The red Muu-gar could be seen through the clear, frozen barrier. “This can’t be,” thought the blue Muu-gar. “I’ve searched all over for a new friend and now this….”

The blue Muu-gar reached out in frustration and struck the ice block with a fuzzy paw. And just as quickly the blue Muu-gar howled in pain. The block was cold and large and very hard. The blue Muu-gar looked around for something that could be swung to break the barrier. But all that was available were the delicate branches of the Kazai trees, long and soft. The blue Muu-gar sat down angry, sad, and annoyed by this turn of events.

“I can’t break it or hit it. I can’t move it. I wish I could just melt it away with something warm……” The idea came immediately. The blue Muu-gar pondered the possibilities. Suddenly the warm blue fur of the Muu-gar was attached to the ice. At least for a few moments. The sting of the cold was hard to take and the blue Muu-gar pulled away. The block was so cold that even a few moments attached to it was hard on the blue Muu-gar’s body. But the wet fur meant that some melting had taken place. “The only way to melt down the ice that blocks me from my red Muu-gar friend is to melt it with my warmth.”

So the blue Muu-gar began to alternate: front side to the ice, rest break, back side to the ice, rest break. Over and over and over the blue Muu-gar continued the quest to melt the block of ice. Day after day, the blue Muu-gar risked the burns and cold of the icy barrier to melt just a little more away. There was constant pain and soggy fur, but he blue Muu-gar continued the quest to melt the ice between blue and red.

Then one day, as lunchtime approached, the tired and sore blue Muu-gar saw the results of the hard work. A section of the ice block had broken through. Lunch was quickly forgotten as the blue Muu-gar worked to melt the remaining portions of the depleted ice block. By mid-afternoon, the work was done. The ice block had been conquered! Weeks of painful effort and tiring work had melted the block. The blue Muu-gar, exhausted but joyful, approached the red Muu-gar who seemed oblivious to what had taken place.

“Hello, red Muu-gar.” The sudden words of the blue Muu-gar startled the red Muu-gar from sleep.

“What….where…who are you?!” asked the red Muu-gar with disdain and surprise.

“I am your new neighbor. I was looking for a companion, a friend in this isolated part of the island. I found you behind that block of ice. It’s taken some time but I used the warmth of my body to melt the ice. It worked and now I’m here with you. Tell me about your….”

If the red Muu-gar could be red-faced, well this would have been the occasion. “How dare you melt my ice block! I put it there to keep Muu-gars, red, blue or yellow, away from me. I’ll not stand for this.”

The blue Muu-gar pleaded, “Don’t you want companionship, friendship…"

“I’ve been down that path. I’ll not go down it again. It’s safer and easier to rest alone.”

And with that, the red Muu-gar disappeared into a modest shack nearby. The red Muu-gar returned with…another block of ice, this one a bit bigger and freshly frozen. The red Muu-gar placed it in front of the blue intruder and locked it into place. With a sweep of a paw, the red Muu-gar called for the blue Muu-gar to leave. The red Muu-gar settled back into place reclining away from the blue Muu-gar, all silent and at ease again.

The blue Muu-gar slumped down beside a Dizlemon bush. The time, the effort, the pain, the sacrifice, all gone to waste? What was it in the relationships of the past that made the red Muu-gar so fearful? What would the blue Muu-gar do now?

As the sun began to set, the blue Muu-gar headed for home. A dinner of Ravet berries and Wystr juice did not bring any comfort. Was the real ice in the path or in the red Muu-gar’s heart?

And so it began again. And it is said that if you were to pass by Tipoti today, you’d find a blue Muu-gar hard at work trying to melt yet another block of ice. And a red Muu-gar now watching with disdain at this persistent pest. You’d also notice that each new block is a little closer to the red Muu-gar than the last. For ice is cold and hard and solid. But love is warm and tenacious and ever hopeful, like the heart of a certain blue Muu-gar on a small Atlantic island.

In theory......

2006-06-09T13:20:00.000-05:00

My family and I gathered around the dining table the other night for supper. It was a favorite meal of our children – spaghetti with meat sauce. The meal also included Italian bread - lightly buttered - and a small serving of salad on the kids’ plates. They dove into the spaghetti and bread but hardly touched the salad. As they asked for seconds on the spaghetti, we told them that they needed to eat their salad before seconds. We got the usual complaints and groans. My wife mentioned that the salad had a touch of a sweet French dressing on it to make it yummier. At that point the kids looked at the salad, even smelled the salad, then….. Well, then, rather than eating the salad, they began talking about the salad. “It certainly looks colorful,” my seven-year old son said. His five-year old brother followed with “The lettuce looks very green today.” Finally, two-year old sister chimed in, ‘My salad is pretty.” Lots of commentary, no consumption. The thought entered my head at that moment. “They’ve become theoretical eaters.”

Yes “Theoretical Eaters.” What a concept! They understood the concept of eating salad with French dressing, discussed its value and design, enjoyed looking at it as a compliment to the other items on the plate. Eating via concept but not putting the salad in their mouths.

Theoretical Eating is not a new idea. Well, at least the theoretical part. I believe it got planted in my head after watching a show on the History Channel. It spoke of a scientist who was considered a “theoretical physicist.” He had phenomenal ideas – in this case, how to use E=mc2 to bring create an atomic explosion – the foundation of what became the A-bomb. However, he apparently was not good at “lab work.” Amazing conceptual thinker but had to turn his ideas over to other physicists to put his theories into practice.

I’ve encountered “theoretical” persons in other realms of life:
· Theoretical Education – they understand the progress of their degree programs, know what they need to do to meet the requirements, and have ideas about careers. They know it all but just don’t “do” the work of a student to make it happen;
· Theoretical Faith – “Sure, pastor, you bet I believe in Jesus….” Said by many but not evidenced in daily life. As it says in James 2:14: “What good is it, my brothers, if a man claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save him?”
· Theoretical Ice Cream – also known as “ice milk”;
· Theoretical Love – “Yes, honey, I love you. Didn’t I tell you that back at our wedding?”

And there’s one final entry: theoretical writing. I think of ideas to write and enter into my blog. Great ideas, brilliant concepts, entertaining episodes. But, between careers, kids, cats, and some occasional sleep, they often stay locked in thought rather than placed on paper.

The salad never was eaten nor did the kids get seconds on the main course. But if they can theoretically eat salad, can’t they do the same with spaghetti?

Travelin' Home - Part Two

2006-05-22T12:57:00.000-05:00

The trip is done – the visit “home” is over – I’m back to where home is now and what home has become.

In my last entry, I shared questions, concerns, uncertainties, and hope for a trip back to my home state of South Carolina. It was a busy, quick, and enjoyable week. I’ve reviewed my earlier post and will share my thoughts based on the ponderings I posed two days before departure.

Columbia – It still looked like my home city though a bit bigger and busier. My brother prepared me for simple things like changes in an intersection near his new residence. Glad he warned me. Traffic flows better there but it was an odd routing. Downtown has been transformed as the city has replaced old cotton storage buildings with a new development area designed to attract tourism and commerce. The feel of history was not left out. It is an impressive change and a boost for a dreary section of town. The city is using its ample riverfront wisely. We spent an afternoon at the new children’s museum. It’s wonderful. My kids had a blast climbing in and out of “Ed” a three story tall “kid.” They climbed his spine and crawled through his chest. When they took the slide out through his digestive system, a funny raspberry sound made us all laugh. We also toured the State House grounds, now with memorials to almost every segment of SC society. The city looks great and that makes me very pleased.

Religious Life – Well, my earlier entry on the retirement of my home church pastor was a bit off. In fact, this wonderful gentleman who’d hoped to retire had been “run off” in a church spat. In all my years there, nothing of the sort had ever come up. This saddens me. I was unable to find out their current worship times so we ended up at the church my brother is currently attending. He usually attends the early service – traditional in style – but we went to the later service – contemporary. It was held not in the sanctuary but in a “bubble”; a blue tent-like facility. Nice worship band though I knew none of the songs – rare for me. They are had an interim pastor – state convention staffer – preach a lengthy Mother’s Day sermon. They took offering last and then said, “Bye; see you next week.” Odd ending to the service.

We had a nice visit with one of my former campus ministers. The new Baptist campus ministry center, an old printing building. Volunteers have done a marvelous job with it. It is in a great location. Jane has been for me a minister, a colleague, and a mentor over the years. It is good to make contact with one who still cares about me, my family, and my progress in life. She’s one of the few remaining touchstones with my hometown and my “past life.”

The Old Neighborhood – I was uncertain how I’d act seeing the house I grew up in for the first time under new ownership. The neighborhood looked pretty much the same – as did my old house. The azaleas were past bloom so I missed that. The shrubs in the back now blocked the view from the back street. Otherwise, it looked the same – and I felt no real emotion. There was one part of seeing my old house that brought a chuckle. In the early ‘70s, my then radical brother painted our basketball backboard - an oversized piece of plywood - white and added, in black, a large peace symbol in the top center. That backboard is still standing, with the peace sign almost faded away. A symbol of a time gone by.

The highlight of the neighborhood visit was a trip to my old elementary school, a few blocks away. The school has been renovated several times over but the playground is pretty much the same with a few modern, safer pieces of equipment. We parked and the kids played for thirty minutes or so on Dad’s old playground. It was lots of fun.

Family – We spend lots of time with my brother. He’s in a new townhome that fits him well. The kids had a great time with their uncle. The boys spent one night with him – their first night ever away from both their parents. We are his only family so he enjoyed himself as well.

Beach Trip – The kids all agree that the day trip to Charleston was the best part of the vacation. We spent the morning among the beautiful anti-bellum and colonial homes of the Battery area. After lunch, we headed to the Isle of Palms and the kids’ first real dip in the ocean. The air and water temps were in the low 70s but the wind was 15-20 mph, making it a chilly day. The kids got their first taste of salt water, leaped over waves, played in the sand, fed gulls, and generally had a blast even while shivering much of the time.

Food – Can’t visit SC without some home cookin’. We ate at several favorite spots. The highlight was eating the buffet at Maurice’s Piggie Park Barbeque. I ate till I was miserable for the first time in years. I rarely get the tender pork smothered in mustard-based sauce. Add rice and hash to the menu and you can’t do better. They even had some fried chicken on the buffet. I brought a bottle of the sauce and some boiled peanuts for my Iowa colleagues to try. The sauce has gotten a thumbs up but only a few like the peanuts.

All-in-all, it was a great trip. Most of our vacations these days are kid-geared to make sure they have things they enjoy. This was a rare occurrence doing kid stuff but doing things meaningful to me and my wife. However, Iowa City is home now and hometown for the kids. We’re glad to be back making our own memories in this place.

Travelin' Home - Part One

2006-05-08T08:43:00.000-05:00

The word “home” has many meanings. It can be a building of residence, a town/city/village, a region, even a starting and ending spot – like “home plate” in baseball. Some friends I know have never left the place they call home. Others, like me, have known a variety of home addresses. In those cases, home is often a matter of the heart.

I say all of this to say, “I’m going home.” In two days, my family and I will head out of Iowa City – the place that has become home for us – to Columbia, South Carolina – my hometown and home region. It’s where I spent all of my growing-up years. I attended grade school there. I attended college there. It is the place that shaped my perspective as each person’s hometown does.

I’m looking forward to the trip – but in an odd way, I’m not.

Our primary reason to make the trip is to introduce my very Midwestern children to the area where Daddy grew up. My two sons were at my mother’s funeral but at 2 and 6 months were too young to know the circumstances. Thus, for them and their sister, it’s their first real trip to the South. They look forward to seeing their uncle, visiting the beach and the zoo, learning about a state that is for them far away and brand new. They will encounter Colonial and Civil War history. They will eat new foods. They will have fun and grow tired and bounce back as kids do. My Milwaukee-raised wife will put up with the humidity and tolerate the grits (though not eating them.) But the real question mark is how I will react to all of this.

I’ve not been back to the Columbia area in four years. That visit was to pick up furniture to take back to Iowa as my brother and I prepared to sell the house in which we grew up. On that trip, I spent my final night in my old bedroom, walked the large backyard one last time, and appreciated the many azaleas in a way I probably never did living there. I don’t know what my reaction will be when my family and I pass by that house in my old neighborhood.

I learned today that the minister at my home church – the one who preached the funerals for my father and my mother – has retired. A new unknown pastor is in that pulpit. I look forward to having my kids see the church where I learned about the faith. It’s much bigger and grander than what they’ve come to know as “church.” I wonder who I’ll recognize, or more so, who’ll recognize me. I’d bet on more of the latter.

I do look forward to time with my brother – we’re the only family he has, and he enjoys his nephews and niece so much. I look forward to a mean with a mentor, one who still works in the capacity in which she worked with me. Few of these types are left. I also look forward to seeing and showing to my kids places like my high school and the university; to eat at some favorite places you can’t find in the Midwest; to have a shake or some ice cream at the Zesto; to buy a few bottles of that wonderful mustard-based barbecue sauce that I grew up on but that has now been “banned” in many stores due to the political leanings of the restaurant’s owner. (My interest is not in politics but the palate.) And, to get some good ole boiled peanuts from Cromer’s – still “Guaranteed Worst in Town.”

There’s packing to do, reservations to confirm, last-minute purchases to make, and work to complete before we leave. I’m excited for the trip and uncertain at the same time. But, we’re not selling back the tickets. A report will come upon our return……

An Experiment in Love

2006-04-20T22:49:00.000-05:00

“Hello, sir.”

I looked up from my coffee and newspaper to see the familiar smile of Nathan. I returned the smile. I’ve know Nathan since he was in diapers. He and his family lived in our area until he was in junior high, when they moved across town. It’s hard to believe that he’s almost 20 years old. Nathan is among the nicest young people you’ll meet. Courteous, kind, compassionate, thoughtful. He’s the kind of young man you hope your daughter will date. How odd that Nathan has always seemed to be date-free on most Friday evenings.

“Hi, Nathan. It’s been awhile. How are things?”

“Going well, sir. I spotted you as I came in. Do you have a minute to spare?”

“Of course, Nathan.” I waved him to the other side of the booth. He plopped down with his worn bookbag and a cup of black Colombian coffee – always Colombian. “Are you still pursuing engineering?”

“Well, it’s now chemical engineering. Of the options, it seems to interest me the most. And it’s got a bit more of a challenge for me.”

“How are your grades?”

“’As’ of course, sir,” he said with a touch of embarrassment. No surprise to me. Nathan came into his college experience loaded with advanced placement credit, mostly in math and computer science. He goes through calculus like a hungry teenager goes through pizza. Bright? He’s far above that. Nathan has a gift in math and sciences. No surprise to hear the report on his grades. He continued, “There will be good opportunities for work in the field. I’m also interested in graduate work, too.”

“Sounds like you are in your element.”

“Well, sir, that’s true to a point. But, that’s what I want to talk to you about. While I enjoy the world of engineering, I’ve been wondering if I’m limiting myself. That’s why I’ve added a second major to my studies – English.”

Another look over my coffee cup. Nathan? English? “I seem to recall your disdain at taking composition your freshman year. You found it – I believe your words were “a bothersome drain on my time.” Now English as a second major?”

“Well, sir, the composition work itself wasn’t all that bad. The graduate student who taught our section had broken up with her longtime boyfriend the week before classes began. She took out her frustrations about ‘Vince’ on us every class period.”

“So how’d you end up doing in the course?”

“Got an ‘A’ of course. Despite her problems, she knew good work! And that leads me to this English thing. I’m in a creative writing course that is really challenging me to think in some new ways. And, I believe I’ve discovered a new genre of writing that could be the next new wave: Math and Science Romance Novels.”

I peek over the coffee cup again, trying to keep the smirk on my face covered. “Math and Science Romance Novels? I guess I’m not aware of the market for such literature.”

“Think about it, sir. All those scientists and lab workers who sit there day after day all alone even in the preseince of others, toiling at their experiments and projects. They see it as work. I want them to see it as…as….as a springboard to matters of the heart.” Nathan gazed off into the distance like a pioneer casting a first glance at the mighty Mississippi.

“By chance, have you done any writing in this new genre?”

“You bet, sir. And when I spotted you in the café, I knew you’d be an ideal person to review my work. And, it’s also due in class at 4:30 today.” Nathan unzipped an outer pocket of the bookbag and brought out a neatly printed document – in a report cover, of course – and handed it to me. “If you don’t mind……”

I took the offering from Nathan and set it on the table. I refilled my cup, cleaned off my reading glasses, and began my initial foray into Math and Science Romance Novels…..

An Experiment in Love – by Nathan Spector

As Daniel pushed open the laboratory door, he could feel the darkness. Guess the previous user forgot to leave the lights on. Daniel found the switch, and with quick flip, illuminated the murky old lab. Murky lab to some, second home to Daniel. However, tonight he was less focused on the lab work at hand. Daniel was, instead, awaiting an encounter with Rachel. Yes, the lovely Rachel. He’d longed for the chance to work with her on a lab assignment. And, as fate would have it, they were paired for assignment #6, “Pondering the Periodic Table.” Word had it that Rachel was equally keen on some study time with Daniel.

Daniel set his briefcase on the desk and checked himself in the refection of terminal screen. Hair in place, tie casually loosened, finest leather pocket protector with initials standing out against his white shirt. Yep, he was ready for some serious work with Rachel. As he waited, he unpacked his bag, set out his notebook, and pulled up the computer program. He began to review some data in his notes, comparing it to updated research on the screen. “Wow, this looks like a significant change,” he thought as his natural inclination toward science took hold. He did not hear the clearing of the throat the first time…or the second…..or the third. Finally, he jumped at the sound of a crashing vial. He looked up to see a figure – not a numerical one – in the shadows.

It was Rachel, beautiful, enticing Rachel. She had slipped into the lab when Daniel’s attention turned to his studies. She sat on a stool, and reclining gently against the workbench. Her white lab coat was unbuttoned, revealing, revealing…her plain, yellow blouse and faded jeans. Rachel was no slave to fashion. She spoke with a soft voice, “Hi, Danny. Sorry I’m late.” She was the only person in the world other than his mother that called him ‘Danny.’ And, frankly, this was no time to bring his mother to mind. “I’m glad you could make it, Rachel. You are, after all, my partner for this little assignment.”

Rachel slowly removed the horn-rims from her face. Her bold, brown eyes gazed at Daniel. She then reached back to the bun in her hair and removed the ever-present pencil she kept there. She then sensuously shook her hair and the bun…well, the bun didn’t budge. Seems she’d been so busy with studies, lab, and her part-time job at the library that she’d not given her hair a good washing in a couple of days. Not to be deterred, she pulled the bun loose – the crackle of static electricity excited Daniel – and her hair fell down on her shoulders, sort of. She made her way to Daniel, placed his textbooks on the table, and pulled him close. Daniel moved away from the table a step less his profuse sweating cause a short in the computer. “She touched his face and said quietly, “Let’s start with an experiment in love……”

I’d come to the last paragraph on the last page. “There’s more, I hope?”

“Sorry, sir, but I ran out of time this morning. I plan to complete it. Pretty exciting stuff, eh?”

I handed the ‘historic’ manuscript back to Nathan. “I’ve certainly not read romance literature from that perspective before. I hope your instructor has an open mind to your new idea.”

“Oh, I can be pretty persuasive. And, I’m doing ‘A’ work so I have some capital to use. Gee, it’s almost 3:00. I’ve got to get out of here.”

“Are you headed off to complete the piece,” I asked as I refilled my cup.

“No, sir,” he said in an almost embarrassed fashion. “I’ve got to get to my study cubicle at the library. Marilyn and I have notes to review for our exam on Friday.”

“And Marilyn is…”

“Oh, just a friend. Well, a really nice friend, and great at formulas. We study together a couple of times a week.”

“Cute?”

“Uh, yes sir. I think she is.” The embarrassment grew along with a smirk of satisfaction. “Thanks for reviewing my paper. It was good to visit.”

“Always, Nathan. Thanks for sharing your work and your concept. I have a hunch your story will get completed, or it might just expand.”

Nathan looked curiously at me as he headed out the door.

Easter Message

2006-04-16T21:07:00.000-05:00

JOHN 20:1-18 (NRSV) 1 Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. 2 So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, "They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him." 3 Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb. 4 The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. 5 He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. 6 Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, 7 and the cloth that had been on Jesus' head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself. 8 Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; 9 for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead. 10 Then the disciples returned to their homes.

11 But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look ^F160 into the tomb; 12 and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. 13 They said to her, "Woman, why are you weeping?" She said to them, "They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him." 14 When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. 15 Jesus said to her, "Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?" Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, "Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away." 16 Jesus said to her, "Mary!" She turned and said to him in Hebrew, ^F161 "Rabbouni!" (which means Teacher). 17 Jesus said to her, "Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, "I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.' " 18 Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, "I have seen the Lord"; and she told them that he had said these things to her.

The past week was quite a week in Iowa City. The weather was all Springtime; wonderfully warm, in the 70s and 80s; low humidity; clear skies. Everyone in town seemed to be in a great mood. Most every student that visited my university office wore shorts. All were smiling and in great spirits. One student left our meeting to play beach volleyball. Another was off to ride his bike for the afternoon. Still another planned on reading some assignments on a blanket by the Iowa River. I would be curious to know just how far he got in those chapters! All was good as Thursday evening approached, a traditional evening of socializing in the downtown area. What a great week it had been. That all changed on Thursday evening.

My sons and I were shooting basketball after supper when we noticed the sky was getting dark, far too quickly for the time of day. We headed inside for showers and to prepare the kids for bed. Well, you all know what happened. The rain came, the storms blew in, and the tornado sirens wailed. Off we went, like thousands in our city, to our “safe place,” in our case our basement. We waited it out with TV and computer radars helping us stay aware of the closeness of the storm. And how close it was. Tornado damage was found just ½ a mile from where we worship today. We saw this headling in the Press-Citizen (hold up Friday’s edition) STATE OF EMERGENCY. Students on the east side of downtown lost their residences, their possessions, school notes, most all they owned here. What had been a pleasant, wonderful week turned violent so quickly. Students who were secure in their studies and their college lives suddenly found their lives changed in a matter of moments.

One of the central characters of today’s Gospel reading- the Easter story – understood clearly what it meant to have one’s world turn upside down with suddenness. John 20 tells us that Mary Magdalene came to the tomb of Jesus early on what we would call a Sunday morning. Discovering Jesus’ body missing, she informed Peter and John, then returned to the tomb in tears. Mary was reliving a lifetime of disappointment and hopelessness.

Mary was from the city of Magdala. It was a village with a bad reputation, having a history of turning ou unsavory types. This was Mary’s home and her background. Not one that would impress those she met. It was also know that Mary had demons cast out of her. Demons could be what we think of in the traditional sense. Or it could be a modern understanding of “demons”; mental illness, character flaws, sinful living. Whatever, it is safe to say that Mary was not deemed a person of high character. Mary also carried with her the cultural bias of being a woman. Women in Jesus’ day were seen as subservient to men. Their lives were defined by their husband and by bearing children. There is not indication that Mary was married or a mother. She was at the lower end of the lowest group in society. Mary: from a bad town, with questionable character, and a lowly, single woman. Her life was one of no value to society. Hope was not to be found in Mary’s heart.

Then Mary encountered an itinerant preacher and teacher named Jesus. What he shared amazed Mary. How he taught – “as one with authority” – stirred her soul. How he carecd and healed drew her. And how he loved, transformed her. Mary hopelessness was replaced with joy, purpose, love. Jesus saw beyond her characteristics and roots and gender to the person she was. Mary was invited to participate in God’s Kingdom. Mary the lowly became Mary the kingdom citizen.

Then, with the same swiftness of our recent tornados, Mary source of hope vanished. In a matter of hours, Jesus went from teacher and friend, to criminal, executed, buried, sealed away in an earthen tomb. It all happened so fast – the events and the heartbreak. Mary saw her teacher, her guide, her source of strength taken away.

Many of us can relate to this kind of hearbreak. Certainly those who’ve faced a natural disaster like the one our city dealt with this week see their world change without warning. Others of us encounter broken relaionships, job termination, and health concerns. Unexpectedly, these crises break our spirit and cloud our life’s focus. Mary faced such a crossroads in her life.

Today’s scripture tells of Mary going to Jesus’ tomb on what would have been Sunday morning. Why was she making the visit? Jesus had spoken of his resurrection; of the temple being rebuilt in three days. But Mary approached the tomb in tears. For her, it seems as if she was seeking a final confirmation that the awful events had indeed happened. It’s much like the young man who breaks up with his longtime girlfreind. Even though the relationship seems over, he finds himself still riding by her home, maybe hoping she’ll notice, run to meet him, and all will be well. But her house just sits there with the door unopened. Mary needed a final verification of Jesus’ passing before going on with whatever life held.

Mary’s broken world, though, cracked just a little further. There was no sealed tomb. Instead, the tomb as open. Shocked by this development, she shared the news with Peter and “the disciple Jesus loved” who we assume to be John. They ran to the tomb, found no body but instead neataly folded burial cloths. John believed, and both ran back to the larger group of disciples. But Mary lingered, weeping as she took in the sight of an empty tomb. She could not believe that someone would take the body. How much further could her world collapse?

She then spotted someone she assumed was a gardner. Her depression and focus would not let her see who scripture says it was: the risen Jesus. After politely asking about her weeping, Jesus addressed his follower in a powerful and person way. Most translations add an exclamation point to Jesus one word reply: “Mary!”

It was like a splash of cold water on her face, an awakening in her heart and soul. All the fear, the uncertainty, the sense of loss, the despair, were pushed aside by the voice of one she loved, the one who gave her purpose. And she responsed as she would to the one who gave her instruction for life: “Teacher.” Mary’s eyes were opened to the bigger picture. The cross wasn’t the finale. The tomb was not the closed curtain. Jesus had defeated death and was alive again; alive forever; and Mary was to forever be a part of his Kingdom.

So often when we face our those moments of crisis, we find ourselves buried in guilt, saddness, pain, uncertainty. When we visitg the “tombs” of those signinficant moments and people, we can only see the brokenness. Yet, the Christ who conquered death, can help us conquer the pain of loss and gived us a hopeful future. That is, in a nutshell, the point of Easter. The sacrifice of Christ opens the door for renewed life as we place our faith in Him.

St. Patrick’s Catholic Church was one of the locations hardest hit by the tornados. The congregation has offered a strong testimony in the midst of Holy Week. It was evidenced by the headline in Saturday’s edition of the Press-Citizen: (Hold up paper) RESURRECETION. St. Pat’s is committed to rising from the rubble to renewal, modeled after their Lord who rose form the dead to offer personal renewal for all. What a witness to the story of Easter. He is risen, and that opens up all kinds of possibilities for renewal and hope. Resurrection – in a devastated community – in devastated lives – founded on the hope given all by Jesus Christ.

A Letter to Amy

2006-03-29T23:15:00.000-06:00

Dear Amy,

This letter seems so long overdue, yet not ready to be composed until now. Years have passed since the events that strained relations. You were an example, an encourager, and a fresh face on a time-worn faith. Many of us looked to you as one who could live fully and faithfully through the changes of young adulthood. And all was good and secure and reliable for so long.

Then came the questions and concerns. Rumors of impropriety. Word of weakening relationships. A dimming of the hope so often shared. I prayed for resolution.
I encountered silence. Then came confirmation from you. No third-party, hand-me-down story. Your words: We are separated; irreconcilable differences; divorce as our choice.

I was frustrated and disappointed. The life you’d modeled, the life you championed, the faith you held high, all seemed to crumble beneath the cold reality of relationship ended so quickly and finally. When news came some time later of a new love – a soulmate found during the latter days - I lost interest in you and your journey. Just another role model with clay feet.

The years, however, have added wrinkles, graying hair, and some perspective for me. You and your ex have found love and direction with new spouses. You’ve handled your children with care and grace. You’ve acknowledge the pain and disappointment that will always be there. You’ve moved through what was seen at the time for a conservative Christian girl as the “scourge” of divorce. What was once a scarlet “D” has been overshadowed by the life and love that has grown in and around you.

While I’ve noticed the changes in you, I realize that they are seen through the filters of change in my own life. Divorce has come to family as well as friends now near me. Living outside of the Bible belt for most of my adult life has changed my perspective on actions once thought as anathema. My heart is less inclined to pass judgment but to offer compassion and care. Relationships change and grow and sometimes fracture as people mature and change. A friend said recently with a wry smile, “How did I ever live with myself when I was eighteen!” And how terrible it would be if our thoughts, our faith, our inclinations, remained in the past.

Amy, you went through a great deal in part because you heart, your faith, your love, all changed from 18 to 28 to 38 and onward. You have found a life of consistent passion and joy among the flaws and failings common to us all. In fact, you faith is deeper and richer than it could ever have been without the struggle. Through grace, love, and hope, you’ve risen above the painful times into a mature and rich life. You are once again for me and others a model – but in a much more meanigful way.

I hope you’ll forgive me for my absence though I’m guessing it’s not all that significant to you. But for me it’s like renewing acquaintances with a friend from days gone by who’s no longer a bright and beautiful young adult, but has never, ever looked better inside and out. It’s nice to be back with you again.

Your distant friend,

Michael

It's Not Fair

2006-03-18T13:53:00.000-06:00

My oldest son and I watched the closing moments of the Iowa Hawkeyes’ NCAA basketball tournament game. After letting a large lead disappear, the Hawks lost on a last-second desperation three-point shot. The defeat came suddenly. My son, a big Hawkeye fan, said, with tears in his eyes and frustration in his voice, “We’re not supposed to lose like that!”

He along with other fans and the players will eventually recover from the disappointment of the loss. But we all find ourselves in life situations where we say, “Life’s not supposed to be like this for me.” It comes in many forms. A life of good health interrupted by a long-term or terminal illness. A once-promising marriage ending in divorce. A life of potential and hope changed by a drunken driver.

There are some in the world of religion who preach a message of prosperity. “Do these things,, and God will bless you financially.” There is not room for the downside of life. It’s about following God faithfully for self-good. I have many difficulties with this approach to faith, the greatest of which is its effect on those who run into the unfairness of life. Are they to be deemed “unfaithful?” Also, a “prosperity gospel” seems to go against the teachings of Christ in some significant ways: “Sell you possessions and follow Me.” “Deny yourself, take up your cross and follow Me.” “Blessed are those who are meek, merciful, persecuted.” These words are not prosperity, but focus on a gospel that calls for service and humility. All who suffer from the unfairness – most of us – need a faith that undergirds us in those tough times, not one that abandons us because we fall.

And, we can feel support when we face those stumbling blocks because others have gone through them as well. I know persons who’ve battled and are battling cancer, have had children pass away much too soon who’ve had careers taken away due to office politics, who’ve been unjustly accused and tried in the court of friends’ opinions. These persons have felt the pain, cried the tears, suffered the shame. But in all cases, they’ve eventually kept going with life – bravely, purposefully.

ABC’s Wide World of Sports gave us the famous phrase, “The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat.” The Iowa players feel that agony today along with fans, like my son. That agony will fade in intensity but the scar will be there ten and twenty years down life’s road. It’s how we continue to live, scars and all, that tell something of our character. Life is both joyous and unfair. The sooner we can grasp that fact, the more we can enjoy the highs and accepts the lows.

Death Comes Quickly

2006-03-10T12:01:00.000-06:00

The moment of death comes quickly. Whether one has been ill for a time or is surprised by an unexpected end, the moment of death comes quickly. It comes to the famous – Don Knotts is a recent example – and to the common among us – who but a few know those in the daily obituaries – and to the unknown – another starving child in Kenya.

I recall sitting in a hospital room with Robert, a gentleman in his eighties. He was sleeping peacefully, a result of the medication given to fight the early stages of pneumonia. Robert’s children were at their jobs – they’d seem him that evening. I read the 23rd Psalm to Robert as he slept. Then I prayed audibly for him. I left to go about the rest of my business for the afternoon. The news was awaiting me when I arrived home – Robert had died quietly about an hour after my visit. No time left for his children. Death came quickly.

The circumstances of death are varied – the moment is universal.

The children played games amid scattered toys. The mother smiled as she walked into the kitchen to check on progress of the evening’s meal. Warm sunshine cast gentle, golden beams on the floor, spotlighting the children as they lost themselves in another chapter of make-believe.

Then came the cry, the painful cry….

The mother sped toward the horrifying sound. Next to the small table, by the patio door, lay the victim, eyes slowly closing. Her body was trembling. The mother’s embrace could not prevent the last moments of life from escaping. In a heartbeat – literally so – life was gone. Death had come quickly.

One of the mother’s sons had heard the cry and came over not knowing what to think. It was his first up-close encounter with death. He knew he could not help nor could he say anything of significance. He simply watched with a curious, pained expression. Suddenly, as if hearing a call from above, he moved back to the other children, taking them to the basement play area before they could discover the tragedy that had taken place so suddenly.

Not long afterward, the father came home, summoned by a desperate phone call. The first sound to reach his ears was sobbing from his wife. That was followed by an overly cheery son proclaiming that things were under control downstairs. The father immediately joined the mother as they knelt beside the lifeless body. So soft and quiet and peaceful. And, so cold.

Death came quickly, unexpectedly to a cat named Cricket, age 11, midnight black fur, stumpy legs, hopelessly overweight, crabby on occasion, loveable most of the time. On a perfect afternoon, near people who loved her, Cricket died suddenly, unexpectedly, painfully. Heart attack or seizure was the veterinarian’s best guess. Cricket lived a full and fun life. She was aging, yes; but she went too soon.

Death came to our house last week. It came without warning, an unwelcome intruder in the life of our family. It is often said that we should make sure those we care about hear if from us each day – through words, actions, attitudes – that we love them. We just never know when we won’t have that opportunity again. It’s true with people – it’s even true with pets. So don’t stay “just a little longer” at the office. Get home and hug ‘em all, even the furry family members. Because you never know when death will come calling.