A Sweet, Subdued Celebration

Our Christmas was memorable for the unexpected.  First, my father-in-law was admitted to the hospital a few days prior with a severe infection in one foot.  Originally, it was hoped that he would be out by Christmas, but it turned out he was to stay until three days after.  

In spite of that, we were anticipating a somewhat normal celebration until mid-day on Christmas Eve, when both my wife and I succumbed to a potent, swift-acting stomach flu.  Others in the family had been afflicted with it earlier but we had (so far) avoided it.  We were to host a Christmas Eve celebration at our home and the next day have Christmas dinner at our daughter's house nearby.  Just an hour before family was due to arrive Christmas Eve, we had to call everyone and cancel.  Still, our eldest daughter and her husband came over to spend the evening with the rest of our girls.

So, between trips to the bathroom, we lay weakly in our bedroom listening to the sounds of our offspring making the best of the circumstances, enjoying the company of each other.  It is hard to describe the comfort that comes when you are essentially incapacitated, but can still catch an inkling of the Christmas joy experienced by your offspring.  By Christmas morning, we were over the worst of the symptoms.  Which meant we could at least be physically present for breakfast and the subsequent unveiling of the contents of Christmas stockings.

Meanwhile, my wife's brother and sister visited their father on Christmas Day.  Their Christmas dinner was at the Olive Garden.

We were at last able to convene for a post-Christmas dinner yesterday.  The food was great, the children noisy, and the realization that nothing can be taken for granted was palpable.  Grandpa was out of the hospital, but not yet able to join us.  Conversation wandered to "tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago" with a special gratitude because this Christmas was so different, reminding us that each Christmas gathering is a gift, and that while next year holds no promises, it does offer hope.  'and hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts' (Romans 5:5).

Christmas Cards

Each December, the mail brings Christmas Cards.  Some are from family we will see on Christmas Day, or friends we may see at church Sunday or work the next day.  There is little their card will tell us that we don't already know about the year past.  Still, we are happy for each one we receive.  In addition to those, there are a significant number from those whom we have not seen in years.  The only link between us is that annual effort these dear ones make to get that card (pre-printed or customized with photo), add the address to the envelope (by hand or by computer label), insert a greeting (lengthy letter or simple signature).  

Whatever the level of creativity or volume of news, the simple arrival of that Christmas greeting represents so much. 

"Another year has passed and I am alive, whether well or feeble.  I am thinking of you as I prepare your card for delivery.  I remember fondly the times we shared together, though long past.  I am thankful for the Providence that had our paths cross and for the hope that one day we will see each other again."  

Knowing how that touch across the years and the miles speaks to our hearts is why we still send out our own Christmas Cards. It makes for a truly Merry Christmas.  Thank you.

Surprised By Santa

I hold a prejudice against Santa movies.  What does Santa have to do with Christmas, anyway?  So, when my family suggested The Santa Clause 2 for our Friday night movie recently, I was not in favor.  We had watched it several years ago.  My recollection distilled down to a middle-aged Tim Allen chasing a younger woman so he could marry and keep being Santa (the 2nd 'Santa Clause').  The rest of the family insisted it was really cute.  Cuteness is oozing out of Miracle on 34th Street, another 'Santa' movie that still goes against my grain.  Cuteness on its own does not sway me.  However, I succumbed on the pretext that I was tired and would probably sleep through it.  But a strange thing happened on the way to dream-land.  I began to see things in The Santa Clause 2 that I had either forgotten or not noticed the first time.

Such as a god-like figure (for what else is Santa?) coming to earth to find a bride to live forever with him in an eternal city of happiness (Ephesians 5:25-27, Revelations 19:6-9).  What about that North Pole?  A magical place where immortal creatures live a happy, purposeful existence mainly concerned with obedience to their Master and blessing humanity (Hebrews 1:14).  

We are shown an 'anti-Santa' seeking to overthrow the dominion of the real Santa, who wants everyone to get what they deserve -- a lump of coal -- while the true Santa 'cuts kids a little slack this time of year'.  A picture of grace (Psalm 51).  

Then there is the school principle, soon to be the future Mrs. Claus.  The offspring of two fallen parents (Genesis 3, Psalm 27:10), left with a hardened heart.  Through a supernatural demonstration of generosity to a crowd of miserable people, Santa breaks through the hardness  (Psalm 34:18, Ezekial 36:26, 2 Corinthians 5:17).  

Obviously, the analogies fall flat at some point.  The notion that Christmas would not exist without Santa Claus delivering toys is annoying.  Tim Allen still comes across as lecherous.  Yet, in spite of a very different intent, the yearning for an eternal happily ever after, for redemption from the hurts of a fallen past shines through in The Santa Clause 2.  Though rationality tries to squish it out of us, this instinctive desire for a transcendent reality is an essential part of what it means to be human, to be a creation made in the Divine Image.

And it shows up in the most unlikely places.

Light And Dark

Christmas lights have sprouted up on houses all over the neighborhood.  Except ours.  Our strand of large, old-fashioned bulbs spent three neglected years trimming our eaves until thoroughly bleached and faded by the sun.  I was finally shamed into taking them down.  Now, I am trying to convince the rest of the family that our not having lights provides needed contrast for the twinkling homes around us.  After all, if every house had lights, what would be the novelty in that?  I am not winning the argument.

The Christmas concert we attended last weekend opened with "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence".  The  Vanguard University choir filed in through the doors of St. Andrew's Presbyterian church holding candles and sang the ancient chant a cappella, including these lines:

Rank on rank the host of heaven
Spreads its vanguard on the way,
As the Light of light descendeth
From the realms of endless day,
That the powers of hell may vanish
As the darkness clears away.

The coming of Jesus that we remember each December is about light breaking into darkness.  And yet, somewhere between the daylight savings time change and early December, I notice a creeping spiritual and emotional lethargy.  Part of it I attribute to S.A.D., something I scoffed at until I had enough time trials to observe the trend in myself.  In December, I am leaving for work in the dark, coming home in the dark, and spending most of my day in a cubicle far from a window.  The extra daylight hours I productively enjoyed during the summer have gone. In our highly-regulated society, we expect trains, planes, and emotions to run according to our schedule.  But, they don't.  Therefore, we find treatments.  Yet, I wonder if this seasonal response of my body and mind to the dark is not really the best preparation for the Savior.  I understand that the time of year we celebrate Christmas is a result of melding the church calendar with pagan practice and that Christians in the southern hemisphere are getting Christmas suntans.  But, I am who and where Providence has placed me, feeling the darkening winter days and looking for the Star that will break through once again.

P.S. - I recommend the Fernando Ortega rendition of "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence" as an addition to your Christmas music library.

One Hot Sunday

On a particular Sunday when I was five or six, I was sitting next to Mom in the morning worship service at the Assembly of God church.  The song service was over and the sermon had begun.  Though it pains me to admit it, my keen interest in the finer points of theology was not fully developed and my attention was wandering.  Until the anointing fell and the shouting started, I often got, well... bored.  

Offering Envelope - before unfolding

One way I would alleviate this condition was to dissemble an offering envelope and doodle in it.  For the convenience of givers, the old wooden pews had little envelopes into which you put your cash before depositing it in the offering plate.  On the outside were places to put your name so your record of giving could be updated, as well as whether the gift was designated for something specific.  Next to the envelope slots were pencil holders which usually held those half-length pencils with no erasers.  But, since Mom was sitting right there, I didn’t think I could risk making use of these convenient art supplies.  So, there I sat, my idle mind primed to be the devil’s workshop.

Then, my wandering gaze spotted a small, red object on the pew a few feet away from me, just out of reach.  I discretely sidled over, stretched out and snatched it up.  It appeared to be some kind of fruit or vegetable, but it was unknown to me.  Naturally curious, I began examining it from all angles.  It was a little longer than my fingers, shaped somewhat like a pickle, but tapering unevenly to a rounded point from the wider end where the small, green stem was.  The color reminded me of a ripe tomato, but the surface had a waxy sheen that made the red vivid.  I squeezed it a bit and nothing came out.  It seemed to be filled with air underneath the rubbery surface, but rather deflated like a bicycle inner tube that has most of the air let out of it.  I thought this might be what tomatoes do when dried like grapes, sort of the tomato equivalent of a raisin.

About that time, Mom noticed what I was doing.  

I caught her glance and whispered, “What is it?”

“It’s some kind of pepper,” she replied, “and you’d best leave it alone.”

With that admonition, she left my fate -- and the little red pepper -- in my hands.  Whether she was simply trying to follow the sermon and was only giving me partial attention or had deliberately left an opening for me to exercise self control is uncertain.  What is certain is that I knew that pepper was a black powder that Mom liked to dump on perfectly good food.  Pepper came from little pepper corns that looked nothing like this fruity thing.  There were, and still are, lots of pepper trees in Fallbrook, many of them around my school playgrounds.  So, I knew what a pepper corn was -- though I wasn’t sure exactly how it became the pepper in the shaker at home.  It dawned on my young mind that for the first time in my short life, Mom was mistaken.  This, I was certain, could not possibly be pepper. 

Mom had turned her attention back to the pastor while I sat there wondering why she thought my mystery fruit was pepper.  As a test, I held it up to my nose for a good sniff.  It had a vaguely spicy scent reminiscent of pepper, but definitely different.  I poked my thumbnail into the skin and left a curved indentation.  I sniffed again.  It still didn’t smell like pepper to me.  There was only one thing left to do: an autopsy.  Carefully, I ran my thumbnail along the length of the ‘pepper’, and then peeled it open.  Inside the limp carcass, I saw little collections of white seeds.  Aha, this is a tomato, I thought, though the now more noticeable scent seemed to contradict that notion.  My scientific mind was racing as I considered how to present my discovery to Mom.  But, as she still seemed to be quite focused on the sermon, I thought better of bothering her.  Instead, I decided to pick the seeds out, dropping them into the hymnal rack in front of me.  It was at that moment that the hazards of improperly dissecting mysterious fruit came to light.  Perhaps it was the lingering chemicals I had released into the air, perhaps it was just a coincidence, but I had the urge to rub my eyes and proceeded to do so.  My eyes were suddenly seared with an agonizing burning sensation.  I was sure my eyes were melting.  Tears began streaming down my face.  Had the pastor noticed, I’m sure he would have been gratified to notice my fervent response to the message, unless he discovered the real reason for my emotional state.

Shortly, Mom noticed my discomfited squirming.  In a fearful, quavering voice I whispered my dreadful symptoms.  She told me to keep my hands away from my eyes, gave me a Kleenex or two, and let the tears do their work.  After a few minutes, the misery diminished to a painful memory.  By this time, the service was drawing to a close, and though a bit blotchy-faced and red-eyed, I was no worse for the wear.  On the drive home, Mom explained about peppers, a spicy vegetable that people use to add flavor to certain dishes like chili.  It was entirely plausible, but I still questioned way sane people would want their food to be so painfully hot.  More importantly, I learned that while the devil is advertised in scripture as wearing an angel costume, or roaring about like a lion, he also enjoys appearing as something more in keeping with his nature: a bright red vegetable loaded with the fires of hell.  

Too Many Books

There they sit, accusingly, on the bookshelf.  A half-dozen or more books that I have acquired over the past several months with the intent of reading them 'some day'.  These are not all the books I have accumulated this year, mind you, just the ones I haven't read, yet.  A row of shame, sitting in front of another row of books on the shelf.  My fellow book-hounds know all about double-parking books when your book-cases reach capacity.  But now I have clearly reached a tipping point, a watershed.  I am acquiring books faster than I can read them.  In earlier days, I would find a book that I was interested in, purchase it, and read it.  Or maybe two.  But now the collection of unread books is well beyond that.  I am somewhat afraid to take an actual inventory to find out just how many there are.

Impulse acquisitions.  I assume everyone makes them.  In the category of "Things we don't need, but…"  

What is it about books that when I see one, I think, 'Oh, that would be REALLY interesting'?  As I stand there at the New Arrivals table in Barnes & Noble hefting this treasure in my hand, do I even consider all the books at home I haven't yet read, that I won't have time to read if I read this one?  Including all those Great Books that are vital to my intellectual and spiritual growth?  I have a vague plan to read more of those, as well.  In the mean time, in spite of the avalanche of new media that threatens to bury traditional books, new volumes come out every year that capture my attention.  Just yesterday, I saw two more books (three, actually) referenced in National Review that I added to my mental wish list.  One thing I can say, is that I no longer read simply out of necessity, or to conquer the 'Great Books' list.  I find myself inclining towards history more and more: stories of real people, whose significance is far more intriguing to me because they walked this planet and breathed this air and lived a life with all its joys and sorrows.  People who should not be forgotten.  And that, more than anything, explains why my library will keep growing.

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving Day is less than three hours away.  A 24-pound turkey just went into the oven for its slow roast until tomorrow.  My daughters and their cousins are dancing in the living room to music by The Piano Guys.  My wife and I share tired, knowing looks across the room.  Both of us would rather they and we be in bed.  But this late-night frivolity is a rare treat for our band of happy girls.  So, we give free rein.

To prepare for Thanksgiving, Karen started wending her way through 1000 Gifts at the beginning of November; recording things she is thankful for each day.  It seems a simple thing, but practicing eucharisteo (New Testament Greek for "be grateful, feel thankful, give thanks") by a daily habit of writing down three thanks results in the accumulation of over 1000 gratitudes in a year.  While there are many, many, many things I am thankful for, I have yet to develop the habit of recording small thanks every day.  

Though I may not come up with another 997 before the end of the year, here are three simple gifts I am grateful for today.

Glasses.  At this point in my life, they are on my face most waking hours.  For many years, it was just a work thing - a necessary token of hours in front of a computer screen.  Now, any task requiring rudimentary visual acuity has me bellowing "Where are my glasses?"  So, I am thankful to have them.

Running.  Last November, I injured a ligament in my left hip.  A month ago I was despairing that I would ever be able to run without aching the rest of the day.  But, about that time, a corner was turned.  While I still have an occasional twinge,  I will celebrate this Thanksgiving with no limp and little thought for the hobbling figure I was last year.

Hot beverages.  I rarely start a workday without a proper "cuppa" tea (PG Tips) and feel the loss if my weekend date with Karen does not include a latte.   The warm mug comforts my chilled, bony fingers and nothing clears the morning fog away like a gentle jolt of caffeine.  

It is easy for me to see the flaws of life I encounter in a fallen world and take for granted the innumerable blessings that surround me.  Today, I choose to recognize the gifts of grace.

It Happened Again

I have noticed something every morning since November 6th.  The sun has come up without fail.  Yes, I was disappointed by the results of our recent election.  A cultural tipping point was reached where people voted for more government and government-defined rights (as opposed to God-given rights).  Here in California, higher taxes were approved.  Elsewhere, voters enshrined a new 'right' of marriage for any couple of any gender combination.  Our re-elected president is truly representative of a changing America.

I tend to side with the Ron Paul.  Just give me liberty as evidenced by a much smaller, less-intrusive government.  But whether renewal of liberty ever happens in the United States of America, the future is as much in the hands of Providence as it has ever been.  If we are called to live our faith in more difficult times, we are in good company.  Whenever I am inclined to pessimism (which is often), I re-read these words of Dietrich Bonhoeffer on January 1, 1943, less than four months before he would be imprisoned by a Nazi regime that would execute him two years later:

"...some Christians think it impious for anyone to hope and prepare for a better earthly future.  They think that the meaning of the present events is chaos, disorder, and catastrophe; and in resignation or pious escapism they surrender all responsibility for reconstruction and for future generations.  It may be that the day of judgement will dawn tomorrow; in that case, we will gladly stop working for a better future.  But not before."  (Letters & Papers From Prison)

Bathroom Trauma at Grandma Gene's

Bathroom competency is a key developmental marker of early childhood.  Parents dream of the day when they no longer have to worry about an 'accident'.  In the child's mind, two concerns are uppermost with regards to the bathroom: getting there on time and a toilet that works. Truth be told, even adults fret over those same things.  The quantity of emotional capital invested by both parents and progeny trying to avoid bathroom failure no doubt explains why the following events are so clear in my mind.

Our trailer park years were spent without a television.  The lack of an 'idiot box', as my Mom occasionally referred to T.V., contributed to my being an avid reader.  It also made the hour or so of television rationed to us at Grandma Gene's a coveted treat.  There were two afternoon programs I remember distinctly: Dialing for Dollars at 3:00, and a kids program hosted by Johnny Downs 30 minutes later.  One particular afternoon, Phil was napping as the time for the Johnny Downs show approached, having already slept through Dialing For Dollars.  Anticipating how grumpy he would be if he missed the entire afternoon's allotment of television, I rushed in to get him from the bedroom.  Not wanting to miss any of the program myself, I half-drug Philip out to the living room, where we stopped and stood watching just as the show started.  On the oval rug in front of us was the the Gardner's old dachshund ‘Snitzer’.  While dachshunds can be small, hyper and annoying, Snitzer was larger, older, and mostly quiet.  His favorite place was the large oval rug in the center of the living room which also happened to be directly in front of the television.

As we stood watching the black and white screen, events took a dramatic turn.  Snitzer yelped and darted for the kitchen.  I looked down and saw a stream of liquid arcing from Phil to the oval rug on the floor.  In horror I yelled, "What are you doing?"

The next thing I knew, Grandma Gene, alerted by the commotion, appeared in the doorway.  I cannot imagine how the two of us looked, standing rather stupidly by a large wet spot on the rug.  The rug went out in short order, reappearing some days later, presumably after a trip to the dry cleaners.  From then on, I made sure Philip hit the bathroom any time I decided to get him up from a nap.

On another afternoon when I was in 3rd or 4th grade, I meandered over to Grandma Gene’s after school as usual.  It was one of those warm, bright days common to Fallbrook in the late spring.  As was our practice, I entered the house by the back door which opened to the kitchen.  Oddly, no-one seemed to be there.  I called out.  No answer.  I walked through the house and went out to the garage.  Nobody.  The chinchilla side of it was locked.  I walked completely around the house and the garage.  Deserted.  Then, with a chill of fear like I’d never known, it hit me: the Rapture had taken place and I’d been Left Behind.  Though reasonably confident in my child-like faith, I had a lingering fear that due to some misunderstanding, I might be left out when Jesus returned.  Now, it seemed I had been.  Why else would the house be empty with the door unlocked?  I wandered around for a few more minutes pondering my fate.  I decided my only option was to walk home and find out if any of my family remained.  Which would not be so good for them, but at least I could share this dire destiny with someone I knew.  Before setting out on the trek for home, I desperately needed to go to the bathroom.  Though it felt odd to be using the facilities without permission, I reasoned that the place was now abandoned.  Who would care?  But, when I flushed, the toilet started to back up!  To my relief, the rising water stopped just short of running over.  Not knowing what to do and with no-one around to ask, I left things in that precarious state and trudged home.

When I arrived in something less than an hour, I found out that my sisters and brother had not been raptured either.  When Mom came home a bit later, she reminded me that I had been told to take the school bus home because Grandma Gene was out of town that day.  The next morning, we were dropped off at Grandma Gene's as usual.  Before Mom left, to my embarrassment, I heard a wry remark about how I’d left my ‘calling card’.  Still, that was a minor inconvenience in the context of my relief at knowing I did not have to face the Tribulation.

iCalendar Reminder

My iCalendar popped up a reminder that today is my birthday.  Now, did I need to be reminded?  Of course not.  So, the only reason I can think of for having that reminder is that someone else needed to know.  Since I maintain no other 'web presence' such as Facebook, it must be that the select readers of my blog needed to know that today was my special day.  Yes, I am shamelessly trolling for birthday wishes.  You understand, right?  :-)

Living With Royalty

On weeknights, I read aloud to the girls right before bed.  Dinner is over, the table is cleared, schoolwork completed, teeth have been brushed.  Read-aloud is a cozy time.  Often I perch on the day-bed in our living room with one or two of the girls joining me.  Other times I lay on the floor, where I was one eventful night this week.  But, this story is not about the delight of a good book shared with the family.

Midway through the chapter for the evening, I felt a blow like someone had slugged me in the back.  This has happened before.  Usually just once by each daughter during their childhood.  Apparently this night was Mercy's turn to find out how serious Dad was about his admonition to 'never jump on my back'.  In a less than calm manner, I grabbed Mercy by the arms, set her up on the day bed, told her that was a stupid thing to do and sent her to bed.  (Are you impressed with my parenting technique?  Of course not.)

At 'lights out' time a few minutes later, I went in to see how my little transgressor was doing.  My back still hurt, but I had walked off the anger.  My girls take discipline quite personally.  Mercy was in bed, sniffling, eyes red, tears visible.  As soon as she saw me, she turned over and faced the wall.  I fetched a box of Kleenex and lay down next to her.  The next quarter hour went like this:  I would have her sit up to blow her nose; she would lay down again facing the wall and start sniffling again; I would attempt to initiate conversation;  she wouldn't speak to me.  Then it would be time to blow her nose again.  

At last, the emotional torrent dried up and I almost got a smile out of Mercy.  But, her first sentence to me was, "You can go lay down in your own bed now."  Apparently my audience with Queen Mercy was at an end.  My services were no longer needed and I was being dismissed.  Truly, I was being punished and we both knew it.  According to Mercy's mother, this feminine instinct develops at an early age.  Keep in mind, this is a seven year old who dreads being alone in her room before she goes to sleep.  Too tired to continue efforts to sooth her ruffled feathers, I trudged off to bed and was soon asleep.  It wasn't until the following morning that I learned what happened next.

After I dozed off, Karen went in to check on Mercy and found her still awake.  They had a little chat about what had happened and why it is important not to jump on Daddy's back and why Mercy needed to make things right.

"What time does Daddy get up?" Mercy wanted to know.

Karen told her.  She counted up the hours from 10 pm to 4 am and realized SHE would not be awake when I left.  After that quick calculation, she told Karen, "You can tell Daddy I'm sorry.  You can use your own words if you want to."  

Wisely, Karen informed Mercy that was her responsibility.

That evening, when Karen came to fetch me at the train station, Mercy was perched in her middle seat in the van when I opened the door to put in my backpack.  She looked at me with a quirky smile, looked at Karen, then back to me and said, "Daddy, I'm sorry for jumping on your back."  I dutifully apologized as well.  I was back in Queen Mercy's good graces.  She more than made up for her earlier silent treatment by talking all the way home.

Grandma Gene's

Sometime after I started school, Mom landed a job at the Naval Hospital on Camp Pendleton.  That would be the same hospital in which I was born.  Or, as we used to say partially in jest, where I survived a military delivery.  Her prior service in the Marine Corps helped her qualify for this civil service position which stabilized our financial situation from destitute to poor.  But it also meant Mom had to be away from home for more hours of the day.  Which in turn meant going to the 'babysitter'.  The term 'day care' was not invented yet.  And so began a life-long friendship for Mom and her urchins with a delightful lady we knew as Grandma Gene (short for Emogene I later found out).

Grandma Gene was a plump, dark-complected woman with curly black hair who wore black-rimmed glasses.  We met her at church.  Once Mom started her new job, we started and ended our weekdays at Grandma Gene's house.  I mostly remember it being just my younger brother and I.  My older sisters must have been on an different school schedule.  Though she was older than Mom, how we decided to call her "Grandma" Gene is a mystery. 

Grandma Gene lived with her husband Ed in a small two-bedroom house across the street from the elementary school where Phil and I attended.  Ed was several years older than Gene, a tall, quiet man whom I knew lived there but rarely saw.  Her son, Don, was away at college at that time, but would appear for a few days at random intervals, usually holidays.  Don was a taller, thinner, male version of his mother with the same hair, complexion, glasses and mannerisms.  In my mind, Don is most closely linked to a life-size clay head he had sculpted.  It perched on the front porch, I suppose because there was no mantle inside large enough to hold it.  I remember looking into its sightless eyes and wondering how one made such a thing.  Don later became a missionary to the Philippines as a Bible translator.  So, even into my adult years, he would appear at random times.  We would seem him at church while he was on missionary furlough and visiting his mom.

Along side the house was a driveway that led to an older wooden structure that served as a garage on one side and housed chinchillas on the other.  The side with the garage was full of old things, dark, dusty remnants of someone's workshop.  Perhaps it was all Ed's, but the contents seemed much older.  The chinchillas were a side business intended to garner income from the chinchilla fur craze of that time.

Mornings were short at Grandma Gene’s.  We usually just had time to bolt down a bowl of cereal before walking down to school.  There was not a large variety of boxed cereals in those days, we usually had Corn Flakes or Cheerios.  We made up for the lack of pre-sweetening by ladling on a teaspoon or two of sugar.  A habit I would be horrified at today.   I remember Grandma Gene also making ‘silver dollar’ pancakes some mornings.  Try as I might, I can never seem to get my pancakes to taste like those did.

Afternoons were different.  We had about three hours until Mom came by after work to get us.  If the weather was nice, we spent much of the time outside.  Next to Grandma Gene’s house was a vacant lot with a large tree.   Hefty branches were at an accessible level for climbing.  During a winter rain storm, the largest lateral branch broke off, leaving a long scar on one side.  The branch lay on the ground for months and I was keenly disappointed when I discovered it missing.  In the spring, the weeds in that lot would reach a height that made it possible for me to hide standing up.  The long, sturdy reeds reminded me of the telescoping antennas on cars.  The top six inches were loaded with a staggered group of a dozen or so seed pods.  Countless times I would run my thumb and forefinger up the reed, plucking the pods off into a cluster that I would hurl for the delight of watching the aerodynamic pods sail through the air and arc to the ground.  

The games Grandma Gene taught us to play became an indelible part of the fabric of our childhood.  We learned card games such as solitaire, Crazy 8’s, War and Rummy.  We learned checkers and Chinese checkers. We were also introduced to board games like Aggravation and Yahtzee.  It seems odd in this day of sophisticated video games that these simple diversions should have been so captivating, but my siblings and I expended many afternoon hours quite contentedly with nothing more than a deck of cards to occupy our minds.  Philip became an accomplished card player from this simple beginning. 

  

What was it that made Grandma Gene's special?  A certainty of welcome, a freedom to be childlike within clear boundaries, her ready smile and willingness to engage in play.  Knowing how challenging it is for me to enter into my children's world of imagination and play, I distinctly recall the thrill of knowing a 'grandma' that was cheerfully willing to play with me.  Granted, she picked the games, but children know without being told when an adult is enjoying and not just enduring their company.

How to measure the value of Grandma Gene?  If I were a single parent and needed someone to care for my school-age children, I would want someone who would do what I would do if I could be there.  So, while Mom had to be at work, she could be sure that the care she would have taken with us was in the main matched by this cheery servant of God.  Seeing Grandma Gene on Sunday was like seeing a special member of the family.  I don't know how many years this arrangement lasted.  In the eternal days of childhood, it seemed like a very long time.  I never grew tired of going to Grandma Gene's. 

Fall Decor

As I strolled through our neighborhood this week, I recognized that a tipping point has been reached.  While in years past, a few home-owners have put up Halloween decorations, this year there is an abundance.  Nearly as many homes are prepped for Halloween as we will see decorated with Christmas lights in a couple of months.  I understand the concerns fellow Christians have about the practice of Halloween in its current form.  But, since we live in an area with lots of families, we have made it our habit to be home with buckets of candy on October 31st, to be a light on a dark night, I suppose.  Our decorations consist mainly of carved pumpkins leading up to the door.

While I doubt the proliferation of fake headstones and skeletons is evidence that my neighbors are becoming occultists, it makes me wonder about the importance people attach to Halloween as a celebration of the macabre.  The investment of effort and money says something.  I am just not sure what.  The situation leads me to one of those hypothetical inquiries into what an alien culture would think if they were to observe our Halloween practices.

And the saints that used to be remembered on All Hallow's Eve probably wonder, too.

Get Money

My typical week is a predictable engagement with three spheres of relationship: family, church, and work.  I know who I will see, when I will see them, what conversations are likely to be had.  The one variable is my commute on the train.  Every so often, incidents occur which peel back the thin veneer of civilization to reveal another side of life.  On one ride home this week, three people got on who caught my attention.  Two of them, larger African-American women, sat down adjacent to me.  One was pulling a two-wheeled wire mesh cart loaded with stuff.  The other was noteworthy for cropped and dyed hair, lots of arm tattoos, and music audible from headphones plugged into a Samsung smart phone.  Perhaps a mother and daughter, but hard to say.  Then, a third person, a lanky young Caucasian man in very low-riding, very baggy jeans came up to them and initiated a conversation in low tones.  All three were wearing newer clothes, looked healthy and well feed.  His first sentence caught my attention. 

"We need to get some money."  

I could only catch snippets of the rest, something to do with finding receipts and going to Toys 'R' Us to "get money".  This process seemed familiar to all of them.  The older of the two women was mostly silent.  The younger seemed to object to details of the plan, but acquiesced.  There were some other bits about needing to sneak in somewhere, but that would be difficult because of the fence they would have to climb.  It was unnerving to sit with people who, I was reasonably sure, given the slightest opportunity, would take anything I had of value to sustain their depraved and desperate means of existence.  

When my daughters want goods they do not have the funds for, they have developed the habit of saying, "I need to earn some money."  To them, there is no other way to "get" money (except the occasional cash gift on birthdays).  I was seeing first hand the moral corruption that results when individuals learn there are ways to "get" money that take less effort than earning it.

Frankly, I was relieved when they got off two stops later, leaving me with many questions: What hold did the young man have over the two women?  Did they have any thought beyond their immediate need for cash?  Do they have any sense of wrong-doing when they "get" money by lying and stealing?  What paths of experience brought these people together?  To what extent does our society's safety net of private charity and government services, both of which I contribute to, enable their parasitical lifestyle?  At what point did each of them cross that boundary into persistent, active crime?  What does the future hold for them?  

As I thought of them, I remembered the words inspired by John Bradford, "There but for the grace of God go I."  May their blind eyes be opened by that grace...

Vacation Bible School

In the days before computers, Wii, PS3, xBox, and iPod, when color television was still novel, capturing the imagination of children was less of a challenge.  My summers were spent mostly outside, because it was usually cooler than in our convection oven mobile home.  In spite of being raised in the age of image-change every three seconds, most small children still respond to stories.  A good story, told well, is still captivating.  What was true now was true when I was a boy.  I loved a good story.  Some of my most vivid story experiences happened during Vacation Bible School -- that annual ritual churches perform every summer to attract bored urchins in the hope planting a spiritual seed.  Today, Vacation Bible School has a lot to compete with.  The efforts some churches embark on to promote their particular VBS, while noble, makes me wonder about the wisdom of it all.  I have heard of families that make use of VBS as a form of summer day-care, charting the schedules of various VBS programs in their area to gain maximum benefit over the dog days of summer.  Truth be told, no one knows the 'cost-benefit' ratio of Vacation Bible School.  It is a lot of work for a lot of people, but how do you measure the value of one soul?  My first clear understanding of my spiritual need came during a Vacation Bible School.

Every VBS has similar ingredients: energetic singing, contests for who brought the most visitors, or memorized the most Bible verses, a short advertisement for the church: "We ARE here the rest of the year!".  Most important is the 'main event' intended to provide a compelling narrative of spiritual truth to the audience.  

For several summers, our little church invited Vivian Bonham for what was called a Kids Crusade.  She was a tiny, middle-aged woman.  There were a few strands of gray  in her black hair and she wore thick glasses.  But, out of that un-impressive figure came a deep, resonant voice and remarkable tales.  Vivian Bonham featured something that was uniquely hers.  Flannel and VBS have always gone together, but Mrs. Bonham Super-sized it.  She had giant easels assembled on the platform holding flannel canvasses that were at least 5 feet high and 20 feet wide.  As she told her stories, she would add characters or elements to the flannel.  Then, when one scene was complete, she would peel that canvas off to reveal the next scene.  To my knowledge, she personally painted all the scenes and characters.  The crowning moment was always at the last scene, when the story reached the height of tension.  Mrs. Bonham would have the lights in the auditorium turned off to reveal the hidden magic of her art: fluorescent paintings that came to life under the glow of black lights.  In the hush following the oohs and ah's, her quiet, lyrical voice would take the Bible narrative and personalize it for her audience.  She had a rare gift for saying 'boys and girls' and I was certain she was speaking to directly to me.  

I cannot recall the contents of a single story.  They usually featured a little boy or little girl in some adventure or dilemma, the consequence of choices they had made.  She may have written them herself.  But I remember Mrs. Bonham quietly explaining the ache and emptiness in my heart that I felt because of sin, how my wrongdoings put a wall between the Creator and His beloved creation.  Most importantly, how God wasn't willing to leave us alone and broken, but that His Son died to give me life.  A simple, old story made fresh and real by a tiny, faithful servant of God.  Someday I will say thank you.

ATM Appointment

This past Saturday was more busy than normal at our house, cleaning up after having friends over the night before, preparing for family coming on Sunday.  The kitchen was especially busy with culinary activity.  My wife thrives on cooking for company.  But, lunch time arrived and our girls were hungry after morning chores.  Now, I am not an impulsive person.  And I am cheap.  If there is food in the house, I see no good reason to pay someone else to cook for us.  But, I had errands to run and I could tell, thanks to some gentle hints from The Missus, that added activity in the kitchen would NOT be a good thing at that moment.  So, I packed up the girls and we headed out.  But, lunch requires money.  So, we had to stop at an ATM.  Automatic Teller Machines.  Available 24/7.  No appointment necessary.

Since my errands took us in the opposite direction of our usual ATM location, I stopped at one I rarely use.  For my passengers benefit, I circled the parking lot trying to find a shady spot.  In addition to cash needs, I had a check to deposit.  An accumulation of small delays that meant I was in the right place at the right time for an appointment at the ATM.

I had just finished pocketing my cash, when a middle-aged woman, who had parked next to our van while I was busy ATM-ing, came up to me.

"Sir, are those your girls in the van... reading?"

That sounds simple enough, until you understand how my admittedly paranoid brain interpreted the words coming out of her mouth while she spoke.

"Sir…"  (Why is she talking to me?  Doesn't she know this is an ATM and people don't talk when they are dealing with money?)

"…are those your girls in the van…"  (She is going to accuse me of being an irresponsible parent for leaving them by themselves.  The police are already on their way.)

"…reading?"  (What did she just say?  Reading? READING?  Oh…)

"Um, yes." I eloquently responded, still not quite sure what this was leading to.

"How do you do it?" she asked. "How do you get them to sit and read like that?"

I was caught flat-footed.  I mumbled something about limiting television and computer time and providing lots of books.

Before I was finished, she started talking again about how great it was to see them reading and how she has a sister who was, well still is, a Christian and homeschooled her three kids who are doing great.  Well, the youngest is kind of trying to figure things out, but still they are all great kids.  Then she went on about her boyfriend's niece or nephew who is constantly texting no matter where they are -- at the house or out in public -- and you never see THEM with a book.  Reading is so important, you know...

She wanted to shake my hand.  She told me I was a great Dad.  As we were shaking hands, I managed to interject that my wife did most of the work.  

"Well, you are both doing a wonderful job."  

This was all feeling rather awkward.  I was needing to get on with my day and I knew the girls, in spite of their literary pursuits, were wondering why it was taking me so long to get some green paper from the magic money machine.  I took a step or two towards the van, then this stranger said something that struck me, hard.

"Seeing that gives me hope.  I am nothing, I am a piece of s**t.  But when I see kids like that, it really gives me hope."

I was speechless, again.  Fortunately, she wasn't.

"I am going to tell my sister about you and your girls.  You are a great Dad.  You be sure and tell your wife that she is doing an incredible job and you are a great Dad."

I thanked her and said I would and got back into the van.

That encounter keeps replaying in my head.  I think of all the things I should have said: that she was more than nothing, that she was created for a purpose.  Inside that middle-aged woman is a little girl who wasn't nurtured the way my wife and I are able to care for our girls.  Whose soul has not yet been gripped by the truth that she is loved unconditionally by a heavenly Father.  Whose life is one of regret and fragile or broken relationships.  But, somehow, what she needed to hear that day had already been spoken.  I didn't have to say anything about Christianity or homeschooling -- she already had.  All I needed to do was show up with a van full of girls who are in the process of becoming and God spoke to her heart.  Somehow, without my explanation, she saw in a brief glimpse of three girls with their noses in books, the accumulated years of daily tending to the soil of their hearts.  And she somehow intuited the reason for all of it.

So often I mistakenly assume my efforts and my eloquence are the ingredients God needs to accomplish His will in my sphere of influence.  I didn't have to take the girls on my errands, or stop at the 'wrong' ATM, or take an extra couple of minutes to find parking.  But, I did. Which reminded me that, more than anything, I need to be faithful in my hidden duties day in and day out, and let God make the appointments.

The Apple Formerly Known As 'CARAMEL'

Here, Dad, you can have my apple...

 There was a missions trip fund-raiser after church on Sunday.  Food is always a good fund-raiser.  (That is another discussion all by itself.)  In any case, fall is in the air and apparently the caramel apple trees have started bearing fruit, because there was a bushel of caramel apples (or some portion of a bushel) at the goodie table.  And, of course, I'm a pushover for the 'Daddy, it is for missions' line...

Sometime later, I was handed the gift pictured here.  A dubious gift, but I accepted it as well intended.  Still, I am somewhat perplexed by why my daughters can easily eat a whole apple in its natural state, but when they acquire a caramel apple, they can't. 

Of course, while they CAN'T finish the apple, they DO manage to eat all the caramel.  Is caramel THAT filling?  And why do they think I would want their apple post-caramel?  It is kinda, well, slobbery and slimy...

Faith, Love, and and Bob's Big Boy

Last weekend, I and my brood spent the afternoon at our eldest daughter's home celebrating the first birthday of our grandson, Charlie.  Charlie seemed to enjoy himself, but did nothing to change the fundamental truth that first birthday celebrations are for the parents and probably even more for the grandparents if the truth be told.  Of course, I enjoyed my grandparent time if for no other reason than it provided a legitimate excuse to roll around on the floor like a child.

Joining us at the little gathering was one other couple, friends of Matt and Candace's, who also have an infant son.  As often happens, conversation circled around to how people met and ended up married.  So, Karen and I were able to tell our story.  Reflecting on that conversation, it occurred to me that what two people do after the wedding has mostly to do with their intent to be faithful to the vows they made.  What happens before the wedding is a mysterious intersection of two lives that is a gift of Providence.  This is the story of that gift to me, in abridged form.

I met Karen's family when I was about kindergarten age, as consequence of my parents meeting while serving in the Marine Corps and subsequently being stationed at Camp Pendleton, California.  They could have just as easily lived in Oceanside as Fallbrook and my life would have been infinitely different.  As I have shared elsewhere, it was my parents' divorce that ultimately landed me at the Assembly of God church where Karen's older brother Darwin and I became fast friends for the next several years.  Then, another drastic change and my family moved to Wyoming, 1200 miles and a cultural universe away.  I spent four miserable years going to high school in Wyoming, then worked for a year while trying to figure out what to do with life.  I regularly corresponded with my ol' pal Darwin.

Though my siblings have all remained in Wyoming, it never felt like home to me.  I always had a lingering desire to return to California.  After high school graduation, I was directionless.  I eventually found a job at the local Safeway store.  During the months I worked there, the realization that my life was going nowhere plagued me.  With no other plan than to get out of Wyoming, I conspired with Darwin to move in with him and his family.  Thankfully, it was not until years later that I would find out what angst this caused some members of his family.

I arrived back in California in the fall of 1978, still directionless and my faith at a low ebb.  In one of those silly bargains we creatures try to make with our Creator, I did promise God on the flight out that if He would get me to California, my life would be His -- as if the plan to go back to California was all mine!  Initially, Darwin and I had a vague idea that we would share an apartment.  A bunk-bed in his room at his parents' house proved a much cheaper alternative.  One of my first revelations after returning to California was that something had happened to Darwin's awkward, plump younger sister during my five year hiatus.  Karen was approaching that magical sixteenth birthday.  Her braids and braces were gone.  While I thought nothing of it at the time, I did note in my first letter home to Mom the fact the rest of the Potter family looked the same as they had five years earlier, except for Karen...

Of course, there was a paradigm shift I had to go through.  I mean, this was the pesky kid sister of my boyhood, to be avoided at all costs.  Suddenly, she was a, well, a SHE, to start with.  Very alive, suddenly lovely, and much better at initiating conversation than I ever hoped to be. 

Still, in the short term, Karen remained my friend's kid sister.  As I was living in her folks house, we talked a lot, often about our romantic interests.  She was dating someone, I was interested in someone, but couldn't really date given my lack of transportation.  Church youth groups are, if nothing else, certainly effective at inspiring teen romance.  Though without wheels, I was able to see the object of my infatuation several times a week at various church services or youth group functions.  I shudder when I recall how awkward and ignorant I was about how to behave around a young lady.

Well, this all came to an interesting twist about the time of our church's annual Valentine's Banquet.  I had no suit and still no car.  By this time, Karen was working part-time while in high school and also driving the old family Dodge Dart.  She volunteered to take me to the mall in Carlsbad so I could procure appropriate attire.  We spent the afternoon shopping and acquiring a pale blue suit along with a matching shirt and tie.  Pastels were big in those days.  After this grueling expedition, we were both ready to sit and eat.  We ended up at the Bob's Big Boy at the end of the mall.  This was still 'just' Karen, more like a sister than anything else.  I could just be myself.  And we sat and talked for hours.  Nothing seemed more comfortable and natural.

I remember almost nothing about the Valentine's banquet.  To this day, I vividly remember sitting with Karen at that Bob's Big Boy and realizing that across from me was someone whom I could spend hours with that seemed like minutes, who had no expectations for me to be more than the quirky person that I was then and still mostly am.  Little did I know, it was the beginning of a lifetime together.

The Random Behavior of Automatic Paper Towel Dispensers

If you have been in a public restroom in recent years, you have encountered the amusing sight of a person frantically waving at an unresponsive paper towel dispenser.  It is not so amusing when you are the waver.  For the most part, gone are the days of simply turning a crank-like device on the side of the dispenser to dispense paper towels.  Where I work, our restrooms and break rooms are equipped with the high-tech type.

What I find fascinating about these units is not so much when the don't dispense as they should, it is when they do dispense for no apparent reason.  This morning, for example, I went into the coffee room/break room to clean my tea mug and fix a cuppa.  The paper towel dispensed upon command.  You know, one simple wave in front of the glowing LED.  Then a few minutes later, while I was filling my cup with hot water to steep my tea, the dispenser ejected another linear foot or so of paper towel.

There must be some explanation for what appears to be random behavior: a delayed response to an earlier movement I made or perhaps the sensor is more sensitive in certain directions.  But, I don't know the explanation.  And that makes the 'automatic' paper towel dispenser a perfect microcosm of a world in which behavior of machines often falls so far short of fulfilling a promise of making life better.  I see the obvious gap between what it SHOULD do and what it DOES do, but I can't determine cause and effect.

And there is that extra length of paper towel half hanging into the sink that no-one will want to use...

Uncle Tom, Les Mis, and Eternity

I just finished re-reading Uncle Tom's Cabin for the third time a couple of weeks ago and saw Les Mis the musical (from the book Les Miserables) for the second time this past weekend.  Both are stories of men (Uncle Tom and Jean Valjean) that over and over demonstrate mercy and compassion, while they themselves are treated with injustice and abuse.  Notably, their treatment is 'lawful' by the statutes in effect in the United States and France at the time the books were written.  In what seems tragic endings, both men are dying just as they are found by those who hoped to make their earthly lives longer and better, too late for anything more than tearful partings.

Though fictional characters, both portray a higher truth of those who seek another land, who have lived in pursuit of another city without regard for earthly cost.  And why did they live this way?  An encounter with the living Savior.  And so it has been through nearly two millennia of the Church.  The sufferings of the faithful were described in advance in Hebrews 11, and summarized in verse 38 by this phrase: "of whom the world was not worthy."

Inevitably, great literature prompts self-examination. I look at my own pursuits of earthly comfort.  Oh, sure, I do my religious duty and strive to be a good husband and father.  But still, my sacrifices for the eternal are so small.  Could I, like Uncle Tom, pray earnestly for the soul of a master who was slowly killing me?  Could I, like Jean Valjean, grant my parole officer life and freedom knowing that to do so was to risk a return to bondage?  Rather, I consider myself ill-used if my job is not 'fulfilling' or 'interesting'.  I mentally begrudge my charitable giving when I think of what it could buy me.

150 years have passed since Harriet Beecher Stowe and Victor Hugo penned these epic testimonies of the responsibility of man to mankind, and of two saintly figures who valued this truth more than life.  I pray to God that should I ever have the cause to truly suffer for Christ, that I will not falter, that I will indeed love my enemies.  In the meantime, I pray for grace to raise my eyes from my mostly petty concerns and regain a vision for the image of God in each person I encounter.  From the finale of Les Mis, this powerful, unforgettable phrase: To love another person is to see the face of God.  May I see the face of God today.