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.

Arachnus Deathicus

These sultry days of late summer bring out spiders.  I know that.  It happens every year.  The local BIG brown spider (sorry, no specie specifics) starts stringing webs from our eaves around dusk to catch their nightly meal.  I have learned to share the property with these fascinating web architects during their short season.  There are just a handful of locations they use, and once established will be there every night for a few weeks, patiently constructing their webs.  Where they are the rest of the year is a mystery that I probably do not want to unravel.

My noble 'live and let live' attitude towards spiders is a facade, however, for the deeper aversion most people feel towards these eight-legged creatures.  I was out on my morning jog recently and IT happened.  I plowed into the gauzy, clingy strands of an unseen web to the tune of that faint crackling noise of snapping web threads.  Instantly, I started flailing to get the fragments off, but uppermost in my mind was the question: WHERE IS THE SPIDER?????  To early morning commuters passing by, I must have appeared to be having a seizure of some kind as I beat at my head, shoulders and arms in a frenzy.  Then, much to my relief, in the yellow glow of the street light, I saw a small shadow drop to the ground and scurry away on its eight whole legs, as glad to be away from my thrashing as I was to see it go.  The rest of my jog was made with an extra degree of alertness and ended without further creepy encounters.  I will be glad to run in the cold of winter when the spiders are gone...

Update: In my haste to get this posted, I neglected to include a link for the inspiration for title of this post, from that delightful animated hero movie, Megamind.  Arachnus Deathicus