Children, Government, and Business

I received two important notices recently having to do with my children.  The first came via the U.S. postal system.  It was an envelope full of information that boiled down to a threat: prove your children are yours or you won't be able to have them covered by your health insurance.  Apparently this is a new provision of the euphemistically named 'Affordability Care Act'.  I have company insurance and have never had to do more than provide social security numbers and birth-dates.  The new requirement is two forms of proof -- a tax return showing my children as dependents and a copy of their birth certificates.

Contrast this with the cheerful, colorful e-mail from Barnes and Noble announcing that one of my children in the B&N Birthday club was eligible for a free treat in the cafe.  What did I have to provide to get that notice?  Simply a first name and birthdate.  What do I have to do to redeem it?  Simply show up with said birthday club member and coupon in hand.  No other proof required.  Were I inclined, there are any number of ways I could 'game' that system.  But B&N assumes that their customers are generally honest, trustworthy people.  They believe my daughter is my daughter because I say so.

The government is not trying to win my patronage.  They already know they have a monopoly.  Theirs is a raw exercise in power and control.  Underneath it is a presumption that everyone who signs up for health insurance is prone to fraud and the truth needs to be weeded out by this faceless bureaucratic exercise.  The information I collect and send to 'prove' my children are truly mine will do nothing to change the reality of their existence or our relationship.  It is simply a large waste of my time.

Barnes & Noble on the other hand, is doing their best to convince, not coerce, me that a trip to their store will be worth my time, my daughters time and their time -- a mutually beneficial interaction.      And I can't wait to get over there and prove them right.

Snakes In The Dark

Other than headlights of passing cars and one or two other regulars who brave the pre-dawn hours to pound the pavement, I am alone as I jog.  I like it that way.  Running takes little thought and my mind is free to consider my day, my life, the cosmos.  For those who need lots of social interaction, this may sound odd, but I have never had enough time by myself to actually get tired of it.  Of course, with my family, I have never had an opportunity to test the limits of solitude.

On my route a few weeks ago, I came upon a surprising sight: a person standing in the middle of the intersection I was approaching, apparently trying to flag cars down.  My first thought was that there was some sort of an emergency.  As I drew closer, I saw under the glare of the street lights that it was a young man, quite agitated, wanting to cross the street but unable to.

He saw me and started to speak from about 30 feet away.  Something about needing to get home and his phone battery was dead.  Then he took a few steps in my direction, which put him right in the traffic lanes.  Although there is not much traffic at that hour, a car had to swerve slightly to avoid him.  I told the young man to get out of the street.  Reluctantly he came over to the sidewalk where I was standing.   He made a distinct effort to appear harmless, intentionally keeping his hands out and up, giving his name, explaining that all he had was his ID, social security card and dead phone. 

Then the story got more complicated.  He had been riding with friends who had been in a car accident.  Apparently no-one was seriously hurt, but the car was inoperable.  Rather than wait around, he had decided to walk home.   I asked where home was, and I don’t remember what he told me.  But, his aunt lived just up the hill in a large apartment complex.  Then it got really interesting. 

“I was going to walk up there, but I’m afraid of the snakes.” 

He was sure he could see snakes in the shadows, which explained why he was standing in the middle of the street where the lights were brightest.  Even standing next to me, he was agitated and kept looking around and asking, “Aren’t you afraid of the snakes?  Can’t you see them?” 

I used the excuse that I wasn’t wearing my glasses and that it was a little hard to see in the dark.  So, how to assess this situation?  Here was a troubled young man that needed to get to his aunt’s house.  And he couldn’t get past the snakes.  What else could I do?  I asked for a little more information about his aunt to gain some assurance that this part of his story was real.  Then I volunteered to walk him the several blocks to his aunt’s place.

That was one of the most unusual walks I have had in a long time.  It only took 10 minutes or so, but most of the time was spent quietly, walking next to a young man who looked furtively at each dark shadow we passed and had to be encouraged to keep walking more than once.

“Don’t you see them?”

                  “No, I didn’t see anything.”

“Are you sure there are no snakes there?”

                  “Yes.  Come on.  You are going to be fine.”

“That’s amazing that you aren’t afraid of them.”

                  “Thanks.  Let’s keep moving.  We’re almost there.”

Once we arrived at the apartment complex, he visibly relaxed.  After navigating through the buildings, we came to the right one.  His aunt lived in an upstairs unit, so we parted at the foot of the stairs.  I shook his hand and wished him well.  He thanked me and headed up the stairs.  I turned and walked briskly away, throwing a glance over my shoulder to make sure he didn’t come back down, not completely certain of my own safety.  My morning routine still waited to be finished and I was going to have to hustle if I was to make my train.

There are any number of psychiatric* or physiological explanations for his ‘snakes’, no doubt.  Drugs, head trauma, genetic disorder.  Maybe his aunt wasn’t all that happy to have him show up at 5 am.  But, all I could think of was that here was a young man, lost, afraid, in the dark.  Now, he was in a safe and familiar place.  Most of us have been there, or maybe are there now: lost or afraid or in the dark, or all three.  Physically or spiritually or both.  And aren’t we thankful for someone who comes along, the unexpected Samaritan, who takes time to bring us back into the light?

Next time, it may be me, it may be you who needs a guide.

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peduncular_hallucinosis

No Vacation Is Complete Without...

In spite of the government's worst efforts, we had (as mentioned) a lovely time on our vacation.  After many years of family road trips, several recurring features have become a predictable part of our vacations.  Here is the 2013 edition of that broad rhetorical question "Would it be a vacation without..."  (and the implied answer is "Absolutely not!").

... ice cream almost every day?  (Thank you Reimers and The Forks).
... a movie almost every night? (Why else would there be a DVD player in our room?)
... a hike that is just a bit too long, for somebody, well almost everybody, except Dad?  (Nelder Grove and Lewis Creek Trail.  Which is why we have ice cream).
... a museum docent who is absolutely thrilled to discover someone willing to listen? (Thank you to the  enthusiastic hosts at California State Mining and Mineral Museum and Mariposa Museum).
... at least one restaurant that becomes a new family favorite?  (Thank you DiCicco's).
... a few hours at the local bookstore?  (Thank you Branches Books.)

'Our' Government - Our Vacation

'PUBLIC' LAND

What we did not see on our vacation.
This was from our anniversary trip in 2011.

Unless you have been living on another planet the past couple of weeks, you certainly know about the 'shut down' of the U.S. Government and how the U.S. Park Service has been particularly aggressive in keeping people away.  Several months ago we reserved and prepaid a week of accommodations just outside of Yosemite National Park starting on September 30th.  Of course, we began hearing news about the impact of the pending shutdown as we neared our destination.  We arrived early enough on the 30th that we could have taken a drive into the park.  But, after 10 hours on the road, we just wanted to find our place and get settled before dark.

Having a great time anyway!

The next morning, October 1st, hoping against hope, we made the drive to the gate.  We could see that some people were being let through and on the advice of our host, had a destination picked out that would take us through the park.  However, our 'helpful' park ranger pointed out that there was an alternative route that was actually shorter and consequently they could not let us drive through Yosemite.  [The park remains closed as of October 12.]

We weren't as bold as some of our fellow citizens, partly because there was a line of cars still in front of us and there really wasn't an option other than to turn around.  We found plenty of other nature experiences in the area outside Yosemite during our week there and our family had a splendid time being together.  But, seeing representatives of our government actively work to keep citizens out of public land is a lesson our children will not soon forget.


POSTAL 'SERVICE'
Prominently displayed on the wall in an alcove in the post office in Oakhurst, California is the unofficial postal service slogan:

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night

stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

While on vacation, we needed to send a package with guaranteed overnight delivery. There was no Federal Express office in Oakhurst that we could find, but we did locate the U.S. Post Office. The staff was very helpful in getting our package put together and mentioned more than once that the $19.95 fee guaranteed next-day delivery or we would be refunded.  So, we paid our fee and handed over the package.  When we called the destination the next afternoon -- no package.  The tracking information on the USPS.GOV site showed it was in the main postal hub in San Diego, about 30 miles from where it needed to be.  The package finally arrived the second day after it was sent.  That is the next, next day from the original day, not the guaranteed next day -- got it?  So, we made a trip back to the post office where they happily gave us back our $19.95, after we filled out the requisite form.  This is why the postal service continues to lose money.  They delivered a package in two days for free because they could not fulfill their promise to deliver in one day.

We never found out just what it was that delayed the package.  Though hazardous weather is no challenge for the postal service, perhaps absolutely gorgeous Southern California weather is. 

Consequences of Kindness

Wanted to share two poignant reminders I have encountered recently of the truth that kindness begets kindness and our actions, no matter how small, can have unimaginable consequences.

The first is from The French Revolution blog -- which is on my blog list and a regular source of inspiration.
http://www.patheos.com/blogs/frenchrevolution/2013/09/14/most-moving-commercial-ever/


The second was on the ATT/Yahoo portal where I access one of my e-mail accounts.  99.9% of the time the content on that page is tasteless.  So, I was presently surprised by the prominence given this story:


http://shine.yahoo.com/ellen-good-news/parents-pay-forward-pumpkin-spice-lattes-221300973.html

Pay it forward...

I Went To Find The Moon

Crescent Moon and Venus - Jim Crotty
http://calmphotos.com

Out the window
the stars shown bright in the still pre-dawn.
The silhouette of the old pine
loomed black against an inky blue sky
and the hill turned gray in lunar light,
clear enough that I knew
a summer moon lurked,
somewhere out of sight.
"Go find it," she whispered.
So, I got up
and went to find the moon.

Stepping onto the patio,
and into the cool freshness,
I caught the faint strains of a cricket chorus.
And there was Moon,
straight overhead,
his full strength only half visible, yet bright indeed,
facing East to greet the dawn.
And following His gaze,
I saw the reason for His radiance.
Lower on the horizon,
fiercely outshining the distance stars,
with her reflected glory,
Venus boldly returned Moon's strong attention.

Slowly, the vanguard of Sunrise
began to lighten the sky,
till each star winked its goodbye,
and only Venus and I were left
to keep Moon company.
Then, the first song-bird trilled
the fanfare of Sunrise.
Realizing my imposition,
I bid Moon and Venus 'good day',
leaving the two companions of the night
a few more moments to themselves.

Jesus Songs - 1970

It was 1970.  I was a mere lad of 11, at that irritating age that comes to all children, a teenager wannabe.  'Teenager' was a relatively new concept in those days, and pre-teen had yet to be invented, but teenagers were cool and I wanted to be one.  See, both my sisters were teenagers and they got to do groovy things like go on outings with the church youth group.

1970 was also the heyday of the Jesus People movement.  Lots of cool and groovy things were happening, especially concerts where people sang songs about Jesus that weren't hymns in strict 4-4 time.  Musicians even used guitars and drums and had long hair and wore Levis.

Somehow, I finagled my way into being allowed to go with my sisters to one of these events.  What is stuck in my mind is not the event, but the ride home.  See, in the high-spirited aftermath of the concert, everyone was in the mood for singing.  So, numerous songs of the Jesus Movement were belted out by the bus load of energetic teens (and pre-teens in my case).   Keep in mind that in parallel with the Jesus People movement, which was viewed with an awed mix of joy and concern by the adults in church, I and my sisters had discovered AM radio and rock-and-roll.

In the dark of that bus that night, these two cultural phenomenon neatly dovetailed as the unlikely hit song "Put Your Hand In the Hand" was started by someone and everyone joined in.

That same year, another song with vague spiritual overtones performed by the folk duo "Brewer and Shipley" would climb nearly as high in the charts.  Now, in my unsophisticated mind, this song was just another example of the Jesus Movement seeping into the popular music scene.  After all, it mentioned 'Sweet Jesus' and 'Mary'.  Maybe the song was Catholic in origin?  I knew Catholics were big on Mary.

So, after the last line of "Put Your Hand in The Hand" faded away, I started to belt out, "One Toke Over The Line, Sweet Jesus".  After all, I felt I loved singing and Jesus as much as anyone else in the bus.  However, my attempt at spiritual leadership was abruptly terminated by a hissing negative comment by my oldest sister.  I cannot recall exactly what she said, but her sharp brevity combined with the stern look on her face made me realize that in no uncertain terms: I had committed a SERIOUS SOCIAL MISTAKE!

There is no place to disappear on a church bus.  I couldn't very well crawl under the seat, though I considered it briefly.  Somehow, the moment passed.  Whether there was any more singing, I don't remember.  Nor do I remember anything else about the ride home other than an overwhelming sense of mortification at my own ignorance.

Exactly when I discovered the meaning of "toke" and learned that "Mary" was shorthand for MARIjuana I cannot say.  What I can say is that I was really excited to hear the Doobie Brothers version of "Jesus Is Just Alright" a couple of years later, that is, until someone explained to me what a 'doobie' was...

Be Still

For decades of my adult life, I have tried to do the right things that I thought would please God.  Now, I am simply tired.  Tired of trying to please God by aligning my church involvement to fit a  denominational (or better yet 'non-denominational') flavor of Christianity.

You'll be a better Christian if you speak in tongues.  No can do.  Tried real hard and even faked it once to get out of an extended edition altar call.

You'll be a better Christian if you are a small group bible study leader.  Have done this and was thankful for the experience.  But I did find that most people, including me, just need honest friends, not another Bible study.

You'll be a better Christian if you go door-to-door witnessing.  Hated it.

You'll be a better Christian if you help us perform our slick, seeker-sensitive Sunday service.  Almost as galling as the slick business presentations at work.  Style over substance.

You'll be a better Christian if you are the patriarch of your family and a leader of a house church.  Way beyond my capabilities, but still gave it a shot.  So funny -- in retrospect.

You'll be a better Christian if you go on a international missions trip.  My trips outside the U.S. have been to Mexico and China and Wales.  Only one of those was explicitly a 'mission' and it was the one with the least relational impact.

I am not saying these actions of faith are not right for some believers some of the time or even right for many believers most of the time.  But I can say they were often not right for me.  At this point, I need a break from doing.  I just want to be.  To "be still and know" God.  To just sit in church and listen.  I want to be able to hear from GOD, not the din of well-intentioned people who need me to behave a certain way to affirm that their local program is the right one.

Christianity is about denying yourself and taking up your cross and following Christ.  And I have done the denying part for decades -- putting time and money into activities I only marginally wanted to participate in because I thought that was the right thing to do.  But, was I really following Jesus?  Maybe.

My most 'Christian' moments have been when God has dropped someone in my path who saw something of God in me (nothing less than a miracle) and asked a question.  And I responded.  A tiny seed was sown.  Only eternity will tell if it mattered.  But I experienced a sense of discipleship.

I have seen church leaders who waste the money that people have given, who spiritualize poor decisions as 'God working all things together for good', who are terribly nasty to each other at home, then paste on a smile for Sunday, who agree to do one thing then do another, who maliciously impugn the reputation of those who don't agree with them.  Where is truth and confession and forgiveness and grace and discipleship in all this?  I don't have the answer.

Conversely, I have blessed friendships with fellow believers that are immeasurably valuable to me.  Friends who I know would literally give me anything they had if they thought I needed it.  Who show Christ to me.  They are a treasure.

But, I intend to stop trying to impress God and his followers with my visible works and just be faithful to serve in the places I know I am called: my job and my home.  And let the Father who sees the secret things of the heart handle the rest.

Hoots and Coons

I run in the dark.  Mostly alone until the summer nights bring out wild things not seen during cooler months: owls and raccoons.

I am not fond of raccoons.  My first jogging encounter with a coon was just a few strides from my front door.  The large raccoon was ambling across the intersection when we saw each other.  Used to the response of coyotes which, once spotted, lope off into the brush, I simply kept going in the coon's direction.  Rather than retreat, it fluffed out its fur, bared its teeth, and hissed at me.  I picked up my pace and got past the raccoon red zone, not wanting to find out just how aggressive a dog-sized raccoon would be.  As I glanced over my shoulder, to my relief and surprise I saw it head down the storm drain opening in the curb.  The raccoons I have seen since are smaller (cat-sized), running in clans of three or four and not nearly as aggressive, but often use the storm drains as an escape route.  I wonder just how many live below our street.

Sometime last summer, an enterprising group of raccoons found the cat door to our garage.  The first time or two we saw the cat food bag torn open, we assumed the cats were getting a little impatient in the morning.  Then, my eldest daughter happened to be up late one night when the raccoons paid a visit.  She heard odd noises in the garage and went to investigate.  Seeing the little bandits, she  grabbed her air-soft pistol and chased them out with an unending volley of plastic pellets.  After that, we resorted to storing the cat food in an industrial 3-gallon plastic bucket with a threaded lid.  This worked well as long as the cat-feeding crew put the lid on correctly.  After a few incidents of the bin being tipped and cat food strewn across the garage floor, we finally got all hands trained on proper bucket sealing.  Still, the coons had formed a habit and had to be chased off a time or two more that summer.  We thought we were done with them, but they apparently were just on a seasonal hiatus.  At least twice in the past month, the cats' water dish has been fouled with cat food.  And we know which nocturnal creature loves to wash food before eating it...

While raccoons are bold pests that I could do without, owl sightings are a welcome, rare treat.  Typically, as I stride along, a silent shadow will swoop into my peripheral vision and alight on a street light.  If I shield my eyes just right, I can see the owl perched on top.  Their comfort zone, however, is less than the distance from the lamp to the ground.  Invariably as I pass underneath, the owl will fly off.  It is eery to experience the total silence of an owl in flight.  The wings of the ubiquitous black ravens that are about the same size can be heard some distance off as they beat the air.

In our area, there are barn owls and great horned owls.  Only once have I seen a great horned owl.  I was able to get close enough to see the trademark tufts on its head.  It was larger and darker than the barn owls and just as silent when it majestically soared away.

My most recent encounter was remarkable.  I was jogging down the last hill before home.  As I approached the intersection,  I caught a flicker of movement and saw the silhouette of a small animal near the curb on the far side of the street.  In reminded me of a rabbit.  But, as I drew closer, wings came out and it flew just a few feet up to a split-rail fence where it remained as I drew closer.  I stopped on the opposite side of the street.  Not wanting to spook the bird I circled out across the street until I was past the intersection.  There was something on the ground the owl did not want to abandon.  I moved closer.  Once within about 30 feet, I stopped.  The owl would look at me, then back at the ground, then all around again.  A step or two closer.  Then we stood looking at each other in the monochromatic light of the sodium lamp for a few more timeless seconds, his eyes dark in a white face.    Of course, there is no way to know what is going through a bird's mind at a time like that.  Though owls are linked with wisdom, they do have bird-sized brains.  Still, I can imagine this barn owl's train of thought:
"Oh bother.  I suppose that fellow across the street is just going to stand there gawking as long as I am here.  Doesn't have the good manners to leave me to eat my breakfast in private.  Just have to return to it later, I suppose."
 Then he spread his gray and white wings and lifted off into the dark.

Family Reunion

The Lore Family reunion is not a grand celebration of a brilliantly famous and successful clan.  It is a gritty gathering of survivors and over-comers.

It is a story of small-town life in rural America with most of its pitfalls and a good number of its charms.  It is a story of some who have left to find their way in more promising places, to escape the burdensome intimacy of knowing nearly every face you see in the store, the gas station, the doctor's office.  It is a story of others who stayed and planted roots deep in their home town.

It is a gathering made possible by the determination of a husband and wife, Floyd and Julia, to wrest a living out of the rugged Wyoming prairie using little more than their own two hands.  Who had eight children in the depression-era 1920's and 1930's.  Who worked hard and lived with quiet dignity until a tragic accident abruptly and prematurely ended Floyd's life in 1946.

It is a gathering of those who remain of the eight children to reminisce, to be thankful, to simply be.

It is a gathering of the next generation, who knew little of Grandpa Lore, but much of Grandma Lore.

I am of that third generation.  As I spent time this year with cousins and aunts and uncles, I realized how little I know about them and, for the first time, how important it was to me to learn more.

What I learned on my summer vacation

On a last minute whim, the clan hit the road for a whirlwind trip to Wyoming for a family reunion.  By whirlwind, I mean driving 1200 miles in 22 hours to get there, spend a couple of days, then drive 1200 miles home with one overnight stop.  Here are some things I learned or was reminded of.

1) It is really hot in August as soon as you are 30 minutes east of the Pacific Ocean.  Example: it was over 100 in Las Vegas at 9 o'clock at night.

2)  Gone are the nights when vast stretches of asphalt could be conquered in uninterrupted hours of quiet driving while the rest of the family slept.  Dad, to his dismay, now needs to make bathroom stops at least as often as the girls. Does this qualify as Too Much Information?

3) The United States is a very large country with lots of empty space.  Some of it even habitable.

4) The drive from Provo, UT to Park City, UT to get to Interstate 80 is gorgeous, especially compared to driving through Salt Lake City to accomplish the same objective.

5) Children can be civilized for long stretches in a van if you keep them fed, watered and relieved (see #2 above).  It also helps to listen to stories.  A lot.

6) Seeing someone after 20, 30, or 40 years says "Time is precious" loud and clear.

7) Family, even the curmudgeons of the lot, matter more as Time (see above) goes by.

Utah's Best Music

Our family has fond memories of Utah.  Of sweating in Zion National Park on family vacation; of stops at obscure bed&breakfast locations at the approximate midpoint of the 1200 mile trek to and from Wyoming where my Mom lives.  But until a few months ago, other than geography, Utah held no other interest for us.  Then, friends of ours told us about this musical group with the unlikely name of "The Piano Guys" and that we "just had to check out" their video on YouTube.  Generational note.  When I hear 'YouTube', I think "biggest digital dumping ground of wasted time and mediocrity imaginable"; when my children hear 'YouTube', they are filled with anticipation.  Still, we all gathered around the computer to view the Piano Guys signature video.  It is hard to describe.  Five guys playing a piano. I mean, the whole piano.  Not just the keys, but plucking strings, using horse-hair strands from a violin bow to play the strings, smacking the sides.  It was truly playing the entire instrument.  Not long after this discovery, one of our daughters found out they were coming to California.  So, after months of waiting, we got to see them at the Grove in Anaheim last Friday.  They were great, the venue was full of enthusiastic music fans of all ages, and they finished with that signature number.  Somehow, our girls - the biggest fans ever - managed to be first in line to get autographs.

Check out The Piano Guys.  Something different, something worthwhile in the sphere of 'entertainment'.  It is still out there.  People creating beautiful music for the love of music.

Ordinary, Extraordinary

Not wanting to belabor just how ordinary I am (I doth protest too much, no doubt), but I'm not done.  Earlier this week, we finished the BBC Jane Eyre (1983).  There is a scene near the end of the story where the indomitable St. John is attempting to persuade Jane to join him on the mission field of India as his wife.  Not for love, but for service.  While the movie is superb, the book is sublime and highly recommended.  This from chapter 34 which was included almost verbatim in the movie:

"Jane, I go in six weeks; I have taken my berth in an East Indiaman which sails on the 20th of June."

"God will protect you; for you have undertaken His work," I answered.

"Yes," said he, "there is my glory and joy. I am the servant of an infallible Master. I am not going out under human guidance, subject to the defective laws and erring control of my feeble fellow-worms: my king, my lawgiver, my captain, is the All-perfect. It seems strange to me that all round me do not burn to enlist under the same banner,--to join in the same enterprise."

"All have not your powers, and it would be folly for the feeble to wish to march with the strong."

"I do not speak to the feeble, or think of them: I address only such as are worthy of the work, and competent to accomplish it."

"Those are few in number, and difficult to discover."

"You say truly; but when found, it is right to stir them up--to urge and exhort them to the effort--to show them what their gifts are, and why they were given--to speak Heaven's message in their ear,--to offer them, direct from God, a place in the ranks of His chosen."

"If they are really qualified for the task, will not their own hearts be the first to inform them of it?"

I felt as if an awful charm was framing round and gathering over me: I trembled to hear some fatal word spoken which would at once declare and rivet the spell.

"And what does YOUR heart say?" demanded St. John.

"My heart is mute,--my heart is mute," I answered, struck and thrilled.

I cannot count all the times I have heard similar messages in my years within the Church.  Though often stirred by such appeals, there has never been a time where I felt that my own heart was receiving a call to trek to some distant land as a messenger of Good News.  

And subsequently feeling, of course, that I was a substandard Christian for not having the slightest desire to leave the comforts of America for a foreign culture.

When it comes to the missions call, my heart is mute.  Some would say that the need exists is call enough.  Yet, I know within the bounds of my own neighborhood are as many untouched by the Truth in Scripture as any thousands of miles away.  God will reveal in His own time whether I have deceived myself out of fear or if truly the call is a unique, personal, and fit for only a few...

Ordinary Me

The concept of ‘finding oneself’ is, I suppose, plausible enough for someone so deluged by expectations of who they 'ought' to be in their formative years that they arrive at adulthood hopelessly muddled.  I, on the other hand, am well past my formative years and have had sufficient time to distinguish between the ‘me’ I am and the ‘me’ others see.  And there is the rub.  Having “found” myself quite some time ago, I have not fully accepted what I teach my children: that God made me who I am.  On purpose.  For a purpose.  An astounding number of 'Christian' books in the 'self-help' genre fill the 'Spirituality' section of Barnes & Noble.  My suspicion is that most are consumed by people who, like myself, have discovered 'me' and want to be 'not me'.  Perhaps not entirely transformed, but certainly, like plastic surgery, we yearn for a nip there and a tuck here in our personhood to make us more and less of who we are.  

I need here to distinguish between character and personality.  Character is what I do to abide by timeless moral principles, personality is how I reflect the inclinations and aptitudes that are somewhat hardwired, somewhat shaped by experience.  It is admirable to seek to improve character, a task that is never finished.  On the other hand, to try to remake a sparrow into an eagle is an exercise in despair.

My personality is marked by introversion, brooding thoughts, a preference for solitude to crowds, procrastination, a dread of meeting strangers, and can endure long conversations with only a very, very few choice people.  (You know who you are).  I would rather read than do just about anything else.  I enjoy my day job, which consists primarily of determining how to make data flowing through the circuitry of our corporate information systems more accurate and timely.  It is an enterprise both profoundly perplexing and profoundly dull to many and I have long since given up trying to explain exactly what it is I do to earn my bread.

So, is this all that God intended when He was assembling me, this ordinary life?  Because in the bulk of my experience as a Christian, I have given lots of lip service to the idea that God's love is not based on what I do, while at the same time admiring the spiritual achievements of others and feeling that 'ordinary' just doesn't measure up.  I want to be numbered with the wise, mighty and noble, rather than the foolish, weak, and lowly.

This dilemma was captured well in a recent World Magazine article.  Given the response to the article, I am relieved to find that I am not the only ordinary person in Christendom.

It's A Man Thing

After years of being the lone male in the household, I now have the pleasure of regular manly company with the frequent visits of my son-law and grandson (along with my daughter and granddaughter, of course).

Having been a boy once, but never having the experience of raising a boy, I am finding out some splendid things by having my grandson over so frequently.  One is that we 'get' each other in a primal way.  That is, we understand the pleasure of simplicity that often eludes encounters with the opposite sex.  Let me say right off that the complexity of femininity is not something I want to give up, it is just that guys relate at a different level.  Perhaps 'relate' is too strong a word.  That implies some purposeful interaction.  Male bonding is more like awareness or co-existance.  Especially if we have eaten recently. Why disrupt peaceful digestion?  Although my son-in-law and I will occasionally use post meal time to solve all the world's problems, as men often do in their spare time.  If only we were in charge...

At long last,
we have conquered
the 'monster'.

While Charles could spend all his time at our house under the smothering attention his bigger sister enjoys from the aunties, he has shown a marked preference for hanging out with Grandpa.  As soon as he darkens the door, he toddles my way on his less-than-2-year-old legs with his arms held up in an unmistakable request.  And I like this.  Because, you see, when I am with Charles, I don't have to keep up with the limitless capacity for banter that my daughters and grand-daughter exhibit.  Charles and I are both quite satisfied with the grunt-and-point method of communication.  Most of the time, we just walk around looking at stuff in the house or the yard: pictures, plants, the cats.  Occasionally we spend time on the play set going down the slide or swinging.  Or, we may kick or toss a ball around.  Or, most recently, ride the vacuum.

Now the aunties frequently swing by and offer to take Charles off my hands.  As they have been - and still are - the target of much parenting in these  formative years, they are eager to test-drive their own child management skills.  However, Charles almost always refuses to budge.  Which, quite naturally, warms my proud grandpa heart.  Because, you see, this is unforced affection.  No 'give Grandpa a hug' coaching necessary.  He just likes me.  Maybe because I have tamed the vacuum cleaner, but there is no way to know.  One thing is certain.  I am going to enjoy each moment.

The Odd Life of Every Family

Friday night movies at our house have been dominated for several months by history, starting with the Civil War and moving slowly forward.  We decided at the beginning of the school year to do this for two reasons: First, not nearly enough good movies crawl out of the Hollywood swamp to supply a new movie every week (astounding considering over 700 movies were rated and released in 2012); secondly, we have watched most of the content in our small library numerous times.  This semi-educational approach allowed us to set expectations that movies can be more than simply 'entertaining'.  Of course, most history headlines are full of conflict, so among our choices are Gettysburg, Gone With The Wind, All Quiet On The Western Front, War Horse, and A Bridge Too Far (the latter being a bit intense for the younger set).  

Naturally, Dad could thrive on this serious weekly war diet.  The rest of the family, not so well.  In the search for a true family movie, last week we found a gem: The Odd Life Of Timothy Green.  In fact, we enjoyed it so much we watched it again this week with our extended family.  An excellent review is here.  There are other reviews that snipe at the movie for being 'unbelievable' or 'smarmy' or 'simplistic'.  I suspect these same reviewers have long since forgotten childhood or harbor some resentment about their own family life.  To vastly oversimplify the reaction to the movie in our home, the parents loved it for the parenting angle while the girls loved it because Timothy Green is an endearing kid.

So many realities about family life were captured in The Odd Life Of Timothy Green.

• The searing pain of childlessness.
• Learning to love your child for who they are.
• Enduring comparisons, by yourself and others, of your child, your parenting, your metrics for 'success' to those who are seemingly doing it better.
• The disappointment of crushed expectations.
• How parenting raises the specter of the gaps in your relationship with your own parents.
• Facing your inadequacy to be what your child needs most of the time.
• The unique opportunity for love that we call adoption.

Leo Tolstoy opens the great novel Anne Karenina with this famous line: "All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."  It seems to me that is the essence of what 'Timothy Green' captures.  There is no end to the number of ways that families can mess up and find unhappiness and bitterness.  But as TOLOTG shows, those same moments are an opportunity for applying the simple ingredients that make happy families alike: to love, to forgive, to never give up.

The movie uses as a thematic wrapper the mom and dad explaining to adoption authorities why they should be allowed to adopt.  In doing so, they are telling the story of Timothy Green, his impact on them and their efforts to be good parents.  At one point, the barely credulous official asks, "So, what would you do differently?"

"We would make better mistakes," was the answer.

That is the essence of parenting.  In all the accumulated experience of raising multiple children by God's grace, my progress as a parent is best summed up by this ambition: that I will make better mistakes.  And, perhaps I should add the hope that our little miracles will become all they are meant to be, in spite of our best efforts.  

An Inconvenient Death

One of the reasons I ride the train is that it is reliable.  It almost always runs on time.  In a given year, there might be a couple of delays.  Impressively, mechanical failure of the train is rare.  Typically during the winter, we get one bad storm that leaves so much water in the low-laying areas that the train has to be cancelled or run at precautionary speeds.  The other reason for delay is death on the tracks.  Several times during my years as a passenger, trains have been delayed by collisions with people.  The people always lose.  I have been on a train when a person was struck.  So has my wife.  It is usually not an accident.  What despair could cause a person to throw themselves in front of a multi-ton locomotive hurtling along the railway at 60 miles per hour?

The train I ride from work was delayed last week by a death at another station further north.  What was most troublesome was the callous tone of the remarks I heard among other passengers.  One would think the person died specifically to disrupt their day.  

“Serves them right for being drunk near the tracks.” 

“They could have picked another train.”

In this case, it appeared to be an accident, although we will never know.  I was left to wonder what internal mechanism people use to value one life over another.  Why is it that when a total stranger dies all the way across the country in a horrific explosion, we empathize, but if the death of total stranger a few miles away disrupts our schedule, it is annoying?

Blogger Interrupted

Our family, up until a month ago, shared two computers and I had my very own delightful little 11.6” MacBook Air.  It is an ideal portable writing station that I could use at home or on the train.  Then, the 6 ½ year old MacBook shared by the younger girls developed a serious problem: restarting all by itself after about 10 minutes of use.  I checked out the symptoms and was able to repeat it by logging into a Flash-heavy web site.  The fan kicked on and shortly thereafter the computer restarted.  Not a good sign.  Now, I could have dropped more money and time into the old machine. But the short-term fix was to pull the hard drive, copy the data onto another external drive, and pass “my” laptop on to the girls - at least until the end of the school year.  So, I am back to the same place I was before I started blogging: using a work laptop and a flash drive as my writing tools.  I could go on about the things I miss about the Air, but this is doable.  No more excuses.

March Madness

Nearly every March for a decade or more, I indulge in a sports activity with a long-time friend.  Like the NCAA tournament, it does include a ball, but our game uses one of the 12 to 16-pound variety with finger holes in it.  We go bowling.  Alex and I have known each other since he was fourteen.  He turned 37 this year, but the Alex I know is essentially unchanged from what I suspect he was like at eight or ten.  He has simple thoughts, simple interests.  I don't know what his malady is, other than he seems to have been blessed with a dip in the fountain of Eternal Youth.  Alex is physically growing older, but he will never grow up.  Alex is one of the most cheerful people I know.

I met Alex when he showed up at a youth function at the church I was attending.  I was one of the adult volunteers.  That night, Alex was eager to demonstrate his knack for shooting a basketball from half-court.  Alex did not then or now have the coordination to play competitive basketball, but he had the unique ability to lob in half-court shots more often than anyone else I knew.  Alex and his mother began faithfully attending church.  I would often give him a ride to youth functions where Alex would make time for us to try half-court shots.  For a few years, his life was a simple routine of school and church.  Somewhere along the way, I found out when his birthday was and that bowling was his favorite past-time.  With my brilliant grasp of the obvious, I decided to take Alex bowling for his birthday one year.  Before I met him, Alex bowled regularly and would rack up close to 200 points a game the first few times we went.  My scores were less noteworthy.

A couple of years after he graduated from high school -- although I am not sure what his graduation meant, exactly -- we moved to another town and began attending another church.  Rather than let distance be an obstacle, Alex would call every so often to check up on me and tell me how people we both knew were doing.  He would also tell me about his struggles at work.  There are many programs for limited-ability adults to gain employment, but the complexities of pleasing managers and coworkers often stumped Alex who didn't understand why people weren't always nice.  Over the years, a pattern developed.  I might not hear from Alex for months, or even all year.  But without fail, sometime in the middle of February, the call would come.  Alex would never ask me directly to do anything, but he would always let me know his special day was coming up.  

And so began our March tradition.  Bowling once a year does not develop any appreciable skill.  Over the years his lack of practice has brought him back down to my level where we consider breaking 100 an achievement.  But, it isn't really about the bowling.  The bowling is just a way for Alex and I to hang out together, for me to be reminded of how important it is to be a consistent friend.  When next March rolls around, and sports fans are watching college basketball, I will be looking forward to another day of camaraderie at the bowling alley with Alex.

Unintended Environmentalist

As I walked up the steps to the second floor entrance of the building I work in, a dark blotch on one of the steps caught my eye.  I looked down to see a brown, rather ordinary moth.  Not exactly like the one pictured here, it had a darker, coffee-colored tint and a thin orange line on the edges of its wings.  Why I didn't just walk on is a bit of a puzzle.  In any case, it occurred to me that this moth was going to get squished sitting there.  I have a couple of motivations for not wanting that to happen.  One is that I don't like unnecessarily squishing creatures in general.  (What constitutes a 'necessary' squishing of one of God's creatures is a subject for another time).  The other is I really do not like the sensation of squishing something under my foot.  Of course, snails are THE WORST.  You know, the crunch and slide feeling when that happens.  Don't you?  Of course you do.  Ick.

So, with roughly equal measures of compassion for the moth and for fellow humans who prefer not to squish them, I gave the moth a gentle nudge.  It fluttered off in that ungainly way that moths do.  However, as I cannot fly at all, the fact that the moth can even get airborne is a cause of wonder.  Just as I turned to continue up the stairs, a small bird swooped down, snagged the moth, and flew back into the tree it had come from.  I have seen hawks flying around with prey in their claws and I know from watching that excellent Pixar nature documentary "A Bug's Life" that birds do eat bugs.  This was my first experience with it in action.  Now, it very well could be that the moth would have met a similar fate without my "help".  But, as I thought about that sequence of events, I wondered: how often do I truly know how to do good?  How often do my attempts at fixing a problem have unintended consequences?  A small thing, really.  A moth, which in the best of circumstances may live a few months, plucked out of the air and gone.  Then I also remembered, my life, too is only a few drops in the span of eternity and I need wisdom to make the most of my days (Psalm 90:12).

Coconut Cult

It started out simply enough.  A handful of unsweetened, shredded coconut tossed by my wife into her morning smoothy.  It had to be healthier than the sweetened coconut from the bakery section of Albertson's.  Besides, other than an occasional sip, I didn't drink her smoothies.

How did I live without it?

But, soon I noticed other things.  How coconut would crop up in conversation.  The remarks about how robust indigenous peoples of coconut-laden Pacific islands were, their ageless skin and longevity and low cholesterol levels.  Little brown bags of coconut sugar appeared, nudging out the C&H sugar I had grown up with until it vanished from our kitchen cupboard.  I knew we were committed when I was given the task of storing 5-gallon tubs of coconut oil in the garage.  Olive oil and butter, which had supplanted Crisco and margarine in the murky past, now found themselves usurped by this new sovereign of saturated fats.  

All positive symptoms of health and well-being were attributed to this influx of coconut in its various forms.  Any deficiencies in health, quite naturally, were rooted in a lack of coconut intake.  Anointing with oil, with its ancient history of medicinal and spiritual powers, was revived as a lost art.

Soon, our home was a depot supplying jars of oil to other believers.  Clandestine meetings to transfer the goods became common.  We were part of an intricate network of coconut consumers with our own special language and group norms.  New recipes and home remedies were a constant source of delight.  We pitied the un-initiated while simultaneously seeking to bring them into the fold.

The sign that we were members of the coconut elite was the introduction of coconut flour.  No longer satisfied with freshly ground wheat flour, we had to use coconut flour. Not really flour at all, coconut flour is the meat of the coconut smashed beyond recognition.  In this pulverized state it can be used as a replacement for flour.  In theory.  

Gathered at the Mighty Coconut Shrine

I began to feel I was missing something.  That perhaps our club was a little too exclusive and demanding.  Yet, how could I deny the truth?  My doubts were always countered by reams of facts, cross-referenced and hyper-linked, presented by experts in authoritative books and professional web sites.  My good cholesterol was up, the bad was down.  Over time, the temptation of banished foods dwindled.

Just when my conversion seemed complete, someone had the courage to call a spade a spade.  Or, more accurately, to call a coconut a nut.  An out-of-town friend made a few astute observations about the ritualistic behaviors of our 'coconut cult'.  After recovering from the shock of his apparent heresy, I timidly admitted my doubts.   In spite of surviving most of my 53 years without relying on the miracle nut, I had fallen prey to orthorexia!  And so, the scales fell from my eyes.  I have now entered weekly reparative therapy at In-N-Out Burger.  Freedom never tasted so good.  

STORM WATCH

A recent cold rain reminded me of the one special Southern California storm I experienced in my childhood.  It was December, 1967.  Our family was still in that first, tiny trailer.  One morning, early for a school day, Mom woke me up, telling me to come look at something.  Once out in the living room with my little brother, I saw that she had roused my sisters, too.  We gathered at the large front window of the trailer.  

"Look," she told us, “It’s snowing."  

In the dim glow of a nearby street lamp, my wondering eyes saw puffy bits of white gently falling.  There was no wind.  The falling snow muffled the sounds of morning.  As it grew lighter, we saw that everything was covered in a blanket of white: streets, trailers, cars, trees.  For Mom, a native of the state of Wyoming, a little snow was no cause for concern, so we proceeded with the usual business of our morning.  We marveled at the whiteness as we piled into the car.  I don’t remember feeling unusually cold.  Children have a different thermostat than adults.

Mom dropped us off at Grandma Gene's house as she usually did on school days.  It turned out that Grandma Gene would have us all day, for school had been cancelled.  Mom found that amusing -- canceling school for a few inches of snow.  It wasn't long after she left for work that my two older sisters and I headed outside to explore.  My trusty PF Flyers were not snow-proof, but this was a chance in a lifetime.  We had wandered a few blocks from Grandma Gene's when something slammed painfully into my back, nearly knocking the wind out of me!  I had been struck by a well-aimed snowball.  This was no fluffy powder ball, but a hard-packed slush ball just short of being solid ice.  We saw a boy I didn’t recognize laughing as the three of us whirled around.  There was just one of him, and my sisters in those days were rather protective.  They gave him a stern warning and he skulked back to his house.  

The thrill of hiking in snow wore off quickly when my shoes started soaking through, so we headed back.  At Grandma Gene's house, there was a better surprise in store for us.  As we tromped in, she handed us cereal bowls and told us to go outside and collect clean snow.  Perplexed but obedient, we came back into the kitchen with our bowls mounded.  She then ladled a creamy, faintly yellow liquid over our snow and passed out spoons.  For the first time in my life, I was having ice cream made with snow!  Something commonplace for those in more frigid climates was entirely novel for me.  I will always remember how delicately sweet and smooth it was compared to store-bought ice cream.

In spite of the magical quality of that day, we were still in Southern California, short miles inland and a few hundred feet above the moderating influence of the Pacific.  Soon, the snow started melting.  School was back in session the next day.  I was left with the memory of two very different uses of snow: as a weapon or as an impromptu dessert.  With that memory came a simple lesson: Storms will come.  And when they do, I can harm others through mindless self-absorption, or I can seek grace to be a blessing to others.

The Wonder

This time of year is 'Heartbreak Hill' for homeschooling.  Yes, the academic year is a bit over half complete, but strewn along the marathon trail are the well-laid plans of late autumn, now forcibly adjusted to the imperfect mix of teaching and children and curriculum.  So, it was timely that at a recent gathering of our homeschool support group, the topic of discussion was 'encouragement to finish well'.  As the evening went on and different fathers and mothers shared, I had a sense that there was an elusive truth yet to be spoken, one that we needed to hear.

The glaring fact is that while the dads like myself do their best to support the often invisible, overwhelming task, it is the moms who carry the load day in and day out.  More than anything, weariness is the badge of honor which these mothers attempt to conceal.  And so it was fitting that a mother, just as we were about to wrap up the evening, shared these thoughts, as best as I can remember:

I never want to lose the wonder. 

I never want to lose the wonder, the realization of the awesome gift I have been given in my children and the chance to teach them at home.

I get to be the person who listens to my child when they read for first time, to be there for so many first things.

There are mornings I wake up so tired my eyes feel like they have sand in them.

After over 20 years of doing this, you would think I, we -- I could never do this without my husband -- would have it figured out, but I have never felt more slammed than in the past few months.

Some years I don't know if we have gotten a lot of homeschooling accomplished, but we have done a lot of living.

But we serve a good God and He gives us grace.

I have a 4 year old who is discovering so many things for the first time, and a 26-year-old who wants to know how to train their own 2-year-old.  And all the others in between.  The demands of parenting only get more complicated as your children grow.  But we serve a good God.

From eternity, our God chose our children and your children and said "I want this one to be with you, and this one to be with you, and so on."  Because He knew just which family our children needed.

This is my prayer, that I never lose the wonder of the awesome gift God has given me in my children and the privilege of teaching them to know Him.

And that was the truth, the benediction, the Good Word we needed to hear that night.