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...