tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-169383162024-03-12T21:42:15.401-05:00Subtle Musings...our journey toward a more sustainable life.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger524125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-17521104479459303122023-12-26T14:21:00.002-06:002023-12-26T14:27:02.099-06:00The Best of 2023 - #1 (New Zealand, first impressions)<p>When we rolled out of the Auckland international airport, we woke up to a gray dream. Anna noticed it first. The highway's side-streets were littered with lava stones and feathery evergreen trees, the sort of landscape for which I think she was destined. We were riding a large double-decker bus into the heart of the city, our backpacks slung against our knees and our heads weary from so much traveling.</p><p>Still, it was beautiful. Achingly so. </p><p>The clouds lifted in various parts over the hills, and wisps of rain made the city feel so fresh after so much dank air that is the purgatory of international travel. We had no idea where we were truly headed. Serpentine roads took us past rugby pitches and soccer fields, through commuter tunnels and past billboards that were just familiar enough: large media promoting their broadband, cell phone companies, and sports cars. The language was the same, but none of the brands or logos made sense. </p><p>In front of us were a wall of hotels and business suites. The sun would break through occasionally, and off in the distance you could catch a glimpse of the wide ocean. <i>The Pacific</i>. We had done it. Twenty some hours of traveling, and we had finally landed in a land we circled first in our imagination.</p><p><i>New Zealand!? </i><br /></p><p>Why not? I mean if we had the chance to go anywhere in the world, I mean, anywhere, why not go to the one place that seemed almost unobtainable, a land further than most maps would even chart.</p><p>But, here we were. Auckland. A city resting in the Pacific. A city for adventurers and travelers. Sticking up towards the upper end of the North Island, Auckland is a harbor for harbors. Sailing ships and big merchant vessels festooned the boardwalks around the city. Life radiated up and out, volanic hills circling the city like an emerald version of Rome. From here you could launch out west towards Sydney or northeast towards the other Polynesian islands - Fiji, Somao, Tonga. </p><p>The bus brought us to the base of the Auckland Sky Tower and city center. What terrible good fortune! Someone, we had managed to take the one shuttle destined to land us right at our first hotel's doorstep. And after bumping our way through the Sky City Hotel lobby, trying to track down an ATM, we made our way to <i>The Grand</i> by SkyCity.</p><p>Even better, the check-in counter let us into our rooms at the ridiculously early hour of 8:30 am Auckland time, something like a day and a half ahead of our where our bodies had left. They most have seen the desperation in our faces.</p><p>Languishing for rest, they gave us two key cards, and we checked into our room on the sixth floor. We were determined to keep ourselves up for another few hours at least, determined to beat back the effects of jet lag. So after dropping our bags and taking a quick shower, we headed back out to the street. </p><p>The air in Auckland in winter seems clean, cleaner than most ofther cities I can remember. And while big, it's nothing obnoxious. The city seems decently sized for being the biggest commercial and economic center in New Zealand. But, what smells I did notice were - easily - the food.</p><p>Down the way was a coffee shop selling the things you'd see in any shop around here: cappuccino, latte, but also this. A short black. A tall black. The place we eventually stopped must have featured a bit of the tall black. Whatever it was, it was good. So good. The deep, smooth, rich flavor of European coffee without a hint of something bitter to ruin it all. The kind they pour into white, sturdy mugs and that you take into your hands like a sort of sacrament.<br /></p><p>Even better, the place we landed for breakfast gave us our first introduction to just how rich and fresh the food in New Zealand is. It's like it's all farm-to-table fresh. Ironically (or maybe not surprisingly), we had chosen the "Federal Delicatessan," a knock-off of a New York big-counter place, full of clanging plates, fried potatoes and creamy spreads of lox on toasted bagels. I opted for the pastrami plate (the <i>"Mish-Mash"</i>), full of those crispy potato chunks along with charred cubes of pastrami and two perfectly over-easy eggs, their orange yolks ready to burst over the plate. I picked up the "yellow" mustard and drizzled it over the potatoes and hash, not aware that the label actually read "yellow curry mustard." It was sweet and pugent, good and spicy with just enough zest. The same went for the ketchup, just enough different than anything you'd find stateside to make us realize we were someplace wonderfully new.</p><p>Anna's salmon lox bagel (<i>"The Best Ugly Bagel"</i>) was equally delicious, her face softening as she closed her eyes after the first bite. We knew we were in for a treat. We knew we had landed someplace special. We knew we were home. </p><p>If New Zealand was one of the best breakfast plates I'd ever had and all on a random whim and chance drop-in, well, we were going to be okay. In fact, we were going to be in love.</p><p>And such is the first memory I want to capture from 2023. The one I had waited for so patiently. The one I hung so much of that word "hope" on. New Zealand, you did not disappoint. And this will not be the last time you make the list. <br /></p><p> <br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-48176727766423221342019-06-03T12:35:00.000-05:002019-06-03T12:35:08.223-05:00Dirty Kanza 2019 - Somewhere in Middle America
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Legend</i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
There’s a scene in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Force Awakens</i> that’s worth noting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
pair of young, would-be heroes have just escaped a handful of dangers and are
now on course with a destiny larger than either could have imagined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fin and Rey are about to face down not only a
menacing new threat to the order of the universe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are also about to face down their own
fears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They find themselves tiptoeing up
to something massive, something demanding.<br />
<br />
<br />
There they are – standing in front of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the</i> Han Solo himself, when Rey asks with something of awe in her
voice, “The Jedi were real?”<br />
<br />
<br />
“I used to wonder about that myself,” says, Han, “I thought
it was a bunch of mumbo jumbo, …”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then
he pauses, turns away from them and reminds himself, “the crazy thing is … it’s
true … all of it.”<br />
<br />
<br />
And in that scene, you have the essential allure
of why some 2,600 cyclists from all 50 states and 26 different countries descended
upon Emporia, Kansas this past weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
are those who have experienced firsthand the trials and tribulations … who have
faced it down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They lean over to you
before the race and offer one little bit of advice, “don’t go too hard too
fast.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
And there are those like me and my two friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The newbies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The rookies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The riders who find
themselves tiptoeing up to something massive, something consuming, … something
that will alter us.<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Event</i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
The Dirty Kanza is no longer just a bike race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it never it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s an event, an experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
As managing director and lover of this area of Kansas, Jim
Cummings intentionally wanted to create something that would stretch people and
push them to their limits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, that’s
the tag line for the 200 mile version.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Go find your limit</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See what happens to you when you find
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See if you learn something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See if you can find a way to push beyond that
limit and find something more to make it all the way back to town.<br />
<br />
<br />
Jim Cummings is the event’s Han Solo, gruff and tender in
equal turns, he had already told me everything I would need to know about this
event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had put it all out there, in
interviews over the last few years, in the riders’ mandatory meeting the night
before the race, and in everything that went out to us as participants.<br />
<br />
<br />
This race is an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u>endurance</u></i>
race.<br />
<br />
<br />
It will test you.<br />
<br />
<br />
You are responsible for you.<br />
<br />
<br />
We are not.<br />
<br />
<br />
This is a self-sustaining ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
But, what Jim didn’t say in all of his talk is what might as
well have been said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s what I would
figure out about three quarters of the way through my ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“No one is going to be
out there to give you a ride back, so you better figure out now what the hell
you’re going to need to get back home.” </i><br />
<br />
<br />
Everyone goes deep in Dirty Kanza.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The pros.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The endurance nuts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The woman six months removed from chemo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The guy doing the 200 mile edition with only
one leg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
You add it all up – the hills, the gravel, the miles, the
sun, the isolation, the wind, the deprivation – and something is going to start
gnawing at you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something on you or in
you or underneath is going to give way.<br />
<br />
<br />
If you’re lucky, your bike will hold up.<br />
<br />
<br />
If you’re lucky, you won’t have a mechanical out there,
rendering your bike into a rather heavy walker for miles on end.<br />
<br />
<br />
But, even if your bike holds up, something will happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A blister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A lack of water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe even a
hallucination.<br />
<br />
<br />
Yeah, it gets that bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
<br />
<br />
All you have to do is ask my friend, Mallen, but I’ll get
that later.<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Three Friends</i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
Mallen is who I blame for all of this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s the one who came up with the idea that
Brian Bales should register for the Dirty Kanza 2019 lottery, and Bales in turn
roped me into the foolishness.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tip #1 – when an old
college friend who flirted with the idea of riding professionally and who has
continued to push himself to the extremes physically, suggests you enter an
endurance event with him, maybe think twice about it.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Mallen was a beast even when I first met him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a freshman at DePauw when I was a
senior, and I was amazed at his girth, his strength.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He came to play football in the trenches of Division
III.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, he discovered a love for
cycling and transformed himself from a linemen into a hulking coil of muscle
and speed, what is known in cycling terms as a “sprinter.” He went off to
Belgium after college to train with the “Euros,” the guys who eat, sleep and
you know what this stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was there
he learned the art of elbowing for wheels and grinding out 1000 watt pulls to
lead out sprint trains.<br />
<br />
Mallen’s the kind of guy who when he does something, he
doesn’t do it in moderation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He does it
thoroughly and well and calculated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
his day job, the place he’s known as Matt Allen, he runs numbers and uses his
particular gift of obsession to analyze data trends for a tech company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In his training rides, he prepares himself by
putting himself up against the limit and then doing it again the next day.<br />
<br />
<br />
Hands down, Mallen was the most prepared of the three of
us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was the only one who would try to
tackle the full 200 miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And his goal?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beat the sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Get back to Emporia in just under 17 hours and earn a badge of honor,
both literal and figurative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
He had a mission, and nothing was going to stop him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not even that buffalo out there on the
prairie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later.<br />
<br />
<br />
Bales is about as considerate a person I know, and that’s
saying a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bales is the kind of guy
who will give you the shirt off his back and then ask if it’s the right
size.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
He’s a doctor, but don’t let that fool you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By this point in his life, he could easily
have set himself on course for a life of ease and comfort, but instead he
continues to see his calling as a doctor as his opportunity to give back, to
instruct, and do the next good thing.<br />
<br />
<br />
Here’s what you need to know about Brian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Several months ago he seriously messed up his
back riding in the bed of a rickety old truck somewhere off in a less
privileged part of the world, giving medical care to a community that otherwise
wouldn’t get it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ruts and bumps of
that distant place twisted his paraspinal muscles and enflamed nerves deep near
his spine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
It got better.<br />
<br />
<br />
Then it didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
He had to tone down his training for the Dirty Kanza, and
maybe he would have been all right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But,
Bales you remember is not the sort of guy who will think only of himself.<br />
<br />
<br />
So, there he is the night before he’s to spend over twelve hours
driving in a car, and he’s in the emergency room giving care to the patients at
Vanderbilt’s hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a guy
needing to be moved from the medical stretcher to a bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And no one is around at the moment to
help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, there goes Brian – lifting the
patient.<br />
<br />
<br />
And there goes Brian’s back.<br />
<br />
<br />
Two hours later, he’ll run home just long enough to throw
his prepacked bags into his truck and grit his bike over the edge of his truck
only to drive five hours up to South Putnam High School where he will meet with
a wince and a hug at 5:30 am in the morning.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tip #2 – if you’re
going to do Dirty Kanza, you might as well do it with friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re going to need you, and you’re going
to need them.</i><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Journey</i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
Why do we do these things?<br />
<br />
<br />
What’s the point?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
It’s stupid from one perspective.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three former athletes traveling out to the
middle of nowhere in America, driving over 700 miles or more, all for the sake
of spending an entire day on a bike to go literally nowhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously, that’s what you do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you’re successful you end up in the exact
same spot you left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don’t do
anything out there during the ride except turn some bike pedals over in circles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not even environmentally friendly,
regardless of what you tell yourself.<br />
<br />
<br />
But you do it for the deeper journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
You do it because when you get that email from the race
promoters, the one that says, “Congratulations, you’re entered for Dirty Kanza
2019,” something happens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a
clarity that emerges for you, a purpose to get you through a winter in Indiana,
something to peg yourself to mentally and physically.<br />
<br />
<br />
You do it for the simple fact that the tediousness of life
demands we find new things to surprise us and challenge us.<br />
<br />
<br />
And you do it for the opportunity to share the journey with
those around you.<br />
<br />
<br />
I am pleased that I crossed that finish line on Saturday.<br />
<br />
<br />
But, I am grateful that Brian was there awaiting me, already
having packed up his bike and his day as a result of that poor back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am grateful he kept bringing me ice-cold
rag after ice-cold rag until my socks were socked through and my body had
cooled.<br />
<br />
<br />
I am grateful for the street vendors who doled out five <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">al pastor</i> tacos complete with barbacoa
just past the Episcopalian church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am
grateful for the couple, one from Costa Rica and the other near Reynosa, who
offered up chairs next to them in the shade as Brian and I ravenously ate our
food.<br />
<br />
<br />
I am grateful for the trip out to IHOP the night before the
race and the chance to sit around and talk about the good old days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am grateful for trying not to choke on my
harvest grain pancakes as Mallen relayed the time he and Bales built a
four-foot snowman in Bob Dinn’s room back in the fraternity house at Delta
Upsilon – lugging heaps of snow in fifty-gallon trash bins up a flight of
stairs.<br />
<br />
<br />
I am grateful for the guy who rode up next to me just before
the first checkpoint and told me he had just been cleared by his doctor to ride
outside again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had broken his pelvis
some months ago, and here he was on his second ride out doors in the past week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And all he had to do was go another 50 miles
to finish this one.<br />
<br />
<br />
I am grateful for that vista on top of some hill I had to
walk to get to the top of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am grateful
for the immediate friends I had around me as we all took out our phones and
snapped pictures of endless green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve
never been somewhere so high up where no matter where I looked, I couldn’t see
a water tower, a petrol station, or some highway running through the land.<br />
<br />
<br />
And I am grateful for that guy at mile 82 who pulled up his
truck at an intersection so he could give out free water and cans of beer for
those truly in dire straits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
On the way home, Brian and I listened to a podcast on Fresh
Air about the “stressed years of our life,” the reality of anxiety and mental
health issues that seem to be overwhelming our culture and even our colleges
these days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, to be sure, it is a
crisis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I know firsthand the
importance of taking all of that stuff seriously.<br />
<br />
<br />
But, part of me can’t help but wonder if a significant
factor in our lack of mental health these days is our overwhelming fixation on
what is right in front of us (which is often the screens on our phones) and on
working towards some result.<br />
<br />
<br />
Kanza, as Jim Cummings says over and over again, is about
the process, the journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kanza is about
doing something so out there that it forces you out of your mental space, out of
the four inches between your ears and into something that will assault you but
also empower you … and excite you … and awe you … and curse you … and challenge
you.<br />
<br />
<br />
The psychotherapist on that podcast said that the hardest
thing is when we lose hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we are
unable to see anything before us that is hopeful, that is inviting, that is
beautiful, we can’t help but become worn down and fatigued by the weight we are
carrying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tip #3 – Go find hope
somewhere, however you need to find it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
doesn’t have to be some stupid bike ride out in the middle of nowhere, but do
something you love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Keep finding some
vehicle and road that will take you into a future where you can see promise and
where you can feel the connection of community.</i><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Race</i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
Oh yeah, this is a bike race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
It’s kind of hard to forget that when you’re sitting on your
bike surrounded by about 750 others and Jim Cummings is counting down the final
ten seconds before you roll out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you
do lose track, just look down and take a glance at your heartrate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will likely be elevated.<br />
<br />
<br />
One of the legit contenders for this year’s 200 mile version
said his goal was to stay “as bored as long as possible.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should have plastered that immediately in
front of my eyes for the first hour of the ride.<br />
<br />
<br />
I, however, made the quintessential mistake in bike
racing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Go out too hard too fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be a hero early and a zero later.<br />
<br />
<br />
Shoot, though, it’s hard not to get swept up in those first
forty miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hard not to hang onto
wheels as others drift off the back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll
tell yourself you’re playing the game right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You’ll tell yourself this group will pull you along and make it so much
easier going into the headwind.<br />
<br />
<br />
But, unless you’re insanely fit, you’re not going to be able
to hold wheels, especially when the gravel gets worse (and it will) and the
hills start coming (and they will).<br />
<br />
<br />
The first forty-five minutes I essentially did a crit race
to start Kanza<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tip #4 – Don’t do
that.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
I eased off finally and settled into a more realistic pace,
latching onto wheels as they came up from behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were still cruising, and we were crushing
the miles, even the disastrous sections of road that were torn up by
recreational vehicles and whose patches of gravel were seemingly dropped
randomly from a helicopter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>True story,
some guys told me about a dude who literally cartwheeled over his bike off into
a ditch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Said he tried to bunny hop a
rut in the road, missed his mark, and jackknifed his handlebars – turning him
into a real-life rag-doll, spinning over the gravel into the grass.<br />
<br />
<br />
Brian passed a guy with a broken clavicle.<br />
<br />
<br />
I did the same later on.<br />
<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, this whole time, I just prayed I didn’t
flat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A flat spells bad luck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many flats makes for an incredibly hard day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so I went back and forth with myself in
my head as the miles ticked by over this rough stuff.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“It’s okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s just a sandier road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re good.”</i><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Shit!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re screwed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good luck catching up with these guys again.”</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Somehow, my Donnelly EMP tires held up, and they
should.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The EMP is the airport code for
Emporia, KS – the tires were built specifically to ward off the sharp edges of
the “flint” stones.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tip #5 – Get yourself
a good set of tires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, even more
importantly, just pray that you don’t flat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Seems like all the pros flatted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Kanza is like anything else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
better prepare, but nothing can prepare you for what is really going to happen.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Halfway through the race, I was making good time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rolled into the first and only checkpoint
in about three and a half hours – having gone 54 miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was averaging 15.7 mph and crushing Dirty
Kanza.<br />
<br />
<br />
I had no idea what sort of suffering awaited me in the
second half.<br />
<br />
<br />
By 11 am, the sun was near zenith, and it was getting
hot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drank a full 32 oz. Gatorade at
the checkpoint, downed another half bottle, ate a payday and swallowed four
Endurolyte pill plus two shots of pickle juice to ward off any cramps down the
road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
I would have been wise to drop three more such caches down
the road at 20 mile intervals.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tip #6 – It is
practically impossible to overhydrate for Dirty Kanza.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drink until you feel like a tick on a
bloodhound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then drink some more.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Honestly, miles 54 through 64 weren’t that bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We started to climb some steeper gradiants,
but around mile 65 were turned westward for a long, lonely stretch of hills and
headwind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s probably where I first
started to feel the small stabs in my quads and calves, the early indications
of dehydration.<br />
<br />
<br />
By the time we turned south to head back towards Emporia, I
knew I was going to have “issues.”<br />
<br />
There is a lonely stretch of road some thirty miles west of
Emporia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are old rock fences where
farmers have pulled sharp flint out of the fields, and grass along the side of
gravel roads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, there ain’t much
else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every five or six miles, you might
happen upon a dip in the road where the water sustains a few shade trees.<br />
<br />
<br />
Out there in one of those shady spots is where I laid
down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not ashamed to say it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pulled off my helmet and sunglasses, my
gloves, my jersey, and I just laid in the cool, soft grass for five … ten …
maybe fifteen minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I listened as
other riders went by, their voices barely audible over the gravel and their
high pitched hubs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew whatever prize
I was chasing, nothing was worth heat stroke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
<br />
<br />
I got myself cooled down, climbed on my bike and started
slogging up the endless gravel that climbed before me.<br />
<br />
<br />
People rode by in ones and twos.<br />
<br />
<br />
We turned eastward, and I pulled out my Red Bull, downing it
in four large gulps.<br />
<br />
<br />
I crushed the gravel too at this point, hammering my way past
some of the same people who had just passed me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>On the flatter sections, the stuff that reminds me of Putnam County’s
gravel, I churned out 17 to 18 mph easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I hammered past three guys standing under another shade tree, and
thought, “I know what they’re feeling.”<br />
<br />
<br />
Around mile 75, the road turned north again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is when my body started giving out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a long climb in front of me, and if
I managed to hold my body just right and keep my cadence right around 85 rpm, I
was good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, I had to go deep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I churned my 32 rear cog, but had to do so at
60 to 70 rpm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My left quad seized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It went pancake flat, and I could see quaking
underneath my skin.<br />
<br />
<br />
But, I made it to the top, damn it.<br />
<br />
<br />
And then I saw the next hill to the east.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Stretching off into the unforeseeable future.<br />
<br />
<br />
I tried to find anything out there that spoke of
civilization.<br />
<br />
<br />
Nothin’.<br />
<br />
<br />
Mallen would tell us later on this is where he cried.<br />
<br />
<br />
He got to the top of one of those long, gnarly hills where
all you could do was pedal and bake under the sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was certain he would climb to the top only
to see it descending before him, carrying him back to town. <br />
<br />
<br />
But, oh no.<br />
<br />
<br />
All he saw before him was another hill he’d have to climb.<br />
<br />
<br />
And another.<br />
<br />
<br />
And somewhere out there too is where Mallen hallucinated.<br />
<br />
<br />
He said he was riding along when all of a sudden a bison
jumped out of the ditch and started coming after him.<br />
<br />
<br />
Yeah, a bison.<br />
<br />
<br />
So, what do you do when you’re thirty miles from civilization
and a bison is chasing you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
Naturally, you stand out of your seat and sprint as fast as
you can.<br />
<br />
<br />
It was only after he threw his body into this vicious effort
that his sanity reminded him that there was no bison behind him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He returned to his normal effort, strangely
wondering if that wasn’t in fact a bunch of twigs in the ditch.<br />
<br />
<br />
I would pay so much money to see video footage of my friend,
Mallen, sprinting away from an imaginary buffalo thirty miles west of Emporia,
Kansas.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tip #7 – If you see
bison chasing you out on the course at Dirty Kanza, you might want to take a
break.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
When I would finally cross the finish line some four hours
later from that vista, I would tell Jim Cummings, the founder and masochist
behind Dirty Kanza, that there wasn’t anything out there “but pain and beauty.”<br />
<br />
<br />
And I would cross the finish line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
I would cross after walking several of those hills that
Mallen kept pushing himself up one after another.<br />
<br />
<br />
I would cross after riding the last ten miles through Kansas
farm fields that had been flooded and were baking in the sun – the smell of
that pond near my house in Colony Woods filling my nostrils, rank and summery.<br />
<br />
<br />
I would cross after counting up to 60 in my head, breathing
in through my nose and out through my mouth, and doing that for the last five
miles that seemed to never end.<br />
<br />
<br />
I would cross not really sure if I was proud of my time … or
if I would ever do it again.<br />
<br />
When it comes to a race, it wasn’t really my best.<br />
<br />
<br />
When it comes to a journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was worth every moment.<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Epilogue</i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
The night before the race, we slept in the Wyatt Earp Hotel
& Inn just off I-35 near Lebo Junction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There’s not much out there, and our sleeping was meant to be functional
and short before the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My sleep was
not heavy.<br />
<br />
<br />
Two doors down from me, Brian slept a good sleep even though
his back would soon re-awaken him to what lay before him out there.<br />
<br />
<br />
But, deep in his psyche, way down there where the good stuff
happens, he was dreaming that he was running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was running like he remembers many years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was smiling as he was running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A<br />
<br />
And he was free.<br />
<br />
<br />
Sometimes we must put ourselves through much in order to
reclaim what is core.<br />
<br />
<br />
That’s what I learned.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tip #8 – Go find your
limit.</i><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-70735430872670755092019-01-10T20:21:00.001-06:002019-01-11T09:04:28.032-06:00Galileo, Mr. Rogers & Learning to Love My Gay Neighbor<b><i>We're Sorry Galileo</i></b> <br />
<br />
Think about this for a moment. The Roman Catholic Church didn't publicly acknowledge it was wrong in its condemnation of Galileo until 1992.<br />
<br />
1992.<br />
<br />
He died in 1642, living out his last few years under house arrest.<br />
<br />
That's three hundred and fifty years. Finally, <i>three hundred and fifty years </i>later Pope John Paul II worked up the courage to offer a papal "our bad" (not a direct Latin translation).<br />
<br />
Now, let me ask you this: in those three hundred and fifty years between 1642 and 1992, did the Church's unwillingness to acknowledge the truth of Galileo's theory and findings keep the earth at the center of the universe? Nope. Of course not.<br />
<br />
The perception of the Church didn't nullify the truth of the reality. <br />
<br />
So, maybe there's another question in here. Maybe the other question is this: what makes us hold on so tightly to some ideas? What makes us cling to some traditions so strongly?<br />
<br />
Well, I know the answer to those questions because that's part of my story, and I'll get there in a moment. But, first I have to talk about Mr. Rogers.<br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Mr. Rogers</i></b><br />
<br />
By pretty much all measures, Mr. Rogers is about as good as you can do when it comes to accepting and loving others. Having experienced firsthand the reality of being taunted and teased as a child for being sickly and pudgy, Mr. Rogers set out to make sure that didn't happen for other children. Formed and fashioned by the work of Dr. Spock, Erik Erikson and others, Mr. Rogers wanted to create a world where children especially could be free to express how they truly felt, to have their thoughts and emotions verified, and to know that they had value inherit within them. What he said to Michael Keaton in a 2004 documentary captures his worldview:<br />
<br />
<i>"You know, I think everybody longs to be loved, and longs to know that he
or she is lovable. And consequently, the greatest thing we can do is to
help somebody know they’re loved and capable of loving.”</i><br />
<br />
So, when Mr. Rogers set out to create a "neighborhood" for children to enter and learn and grow, he set out to make it an inclusive space, a place of differences that were seen, valued and loved.<br />
<br />
That's why he sought out singer and actor Francois Clemmons. Fred wanted Francois Clemmons (that's Officer Clemmons to you and me) to be seen as an African-American man who was to be valued and respected. At first Francois resisted, knowing how law enforcement officials could be seen by kids like him from neighborhoods like his back in urban Ohio. But, Fred Rogers insisted. Fred intentionally wanted people to see Officer Clemmons as a person of dignity and worth.<br />
<br />
All of which is great.<br />
<br />
Except there's more to the story. There always is.<br />
<br />
It turns out Francois Clemmons was also gay. He tried to be otherwise, fit himself into a marriage that ended in heartache and frustration, tried to fit the mold others thought he should be in. And, while Mr. Rogers was willing to push certain issues, this one was maybe a bit too much for a new show. There was too much on the line. So, Mr. Rogers politely asked Francois to keep that one little fact about his identity from the public and the press. No need to raise too much of controversy.<br />
<br />
So, for many years, Mr. Rogers went around telling all sorts of people "I love you just the way you are," but Officer Clemmons had to listen to him say that and wonder, "Yeah, but what about me?"<br />
<br />
<b><i>Mr. Rogers and Me</i></b><br />
<br />
Turns out Mr. Rogers and I share a few things in common, I mean, besides the fact that he too was a Presbyterian minister.<br />
<br />
You see, for a number of years, I found myself trying to hedge my bets and have it both ways. I liked to see myself as open and accepting, but when it came to taking a stand on affirming gay and lesbian individuals, well, that was a bit controversial. That was a bit too risky. That's the kind of thing that can blow up your church. That's the kind of thing that can drive people away.<br />
<br />
There's this moment, though, in the most recent documentary about Mr. Rogers' life where Francois Clemmons realizes his friend, Mr. Rogers, really is <i>seeing </i>him and loving him. Mr. Rogers says that line again to end one of his shows, "I love you just the way you are." But this time Clemmons realizes his friend, Mr. Rogers, is talking directly to him. And with a heart that is full (and eyes that are teary), Francois Clemmons recalls how incredibly powerful and life-giving it was to have Mr. Rogers tell him this. It opened up a wealth of dignity within the man's soul. <br />
<br />
Somewhere over the course of the last five or six years, my own heart has changed. Little by little and bit by bit, any and all insecurities I had about acknowledging the dignity and worth of someone who is gay or lesbian has completely disappeared. In truth, it goes back even longer than that. I was blessed to know some really incredible people in my time at DePauw, including some of my best friends and fraternity brothers in Delta Upsilon, who eventually opened up about their sexual identity. And in recent years, I've been blessed by some of the most amazing people who have been bold enough to share their own stories with me - men and women who tried like Francois Clemmons to put themselves into a mold that wasn't ever going to fit. It changed me to hear them relay their stories of struggle, of hope, of praying, of yearning, and of eventually coming to see God's love for them unconditionally.<br />
<br />
I don't even know how to explain it. It just happened. I just found myself sitting there one day with this deep awareness that I had no problem loving and accepting the person sitting in front of me for who she was ... for who he was. Honestly, it felt like grace. It felt right.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Our Traditions Are Valuable</i></b><br />
<br />
But, let's get this straight. I'm not perfect, and I'm not pretending that I'm settling this debate. I've spent many years wrestling with the "issue" of homosexuality, and I think I know why. This is the part that goes back to Galileo and the Roman Catholic Church.<br />
<br />
My church family growing up has meant the world to me. It was there in ways I can't begin to describe. I can't imagine where I'd be without that community of pastors and mentors and families who were there to support myself and my family during tough times. And, to feel like I would be betraying that family ... like I would be walking away from that tradition. Ugh. That was tough. That tradition was stability to me. That tradition was my home spiritually, and I don't say that lightly.<br />
<br />
But, at some point, my worldview changed. I wasn't looking to change my worldview. At least, I don't think so. Maybe Galileo wasn't either. <br />
<br />
But once you see something, you can't unsee it, as the saying goes.<br />
<br />
Our understanding of human sexuality is changing. It has changed. That's happening right now in our lifetime. And I believe the deep invitation coming to us from Jesus is to not shy away from those questions but to enter into them more deeply ... more humbly ... more humanly. In other word, more like Mr. Rogers.<br />
<br />
<b><i>One Last Word from Mr. Rogers</i></b><br />
<br />
Now, though, there's one last word for me to remember here. This one is really important. Mr. Rogers was right in that interview and what he said to Michael Keaton. The fact of the matter is that each and every one of us wants to be seen, to be valued and to be loved. That goes for ... each ... and ... every ... person. Including my gay neighbor. But also my neighbor who still finds it hard to see this matter differently.<br />
<br />
In the end, "the greatest thing we can do is to help somebody know they're loved and capable of loving."<br />
<br />
~Wes<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-71731867657162536322018-11-23T19:44:00.003-06:002018-11-23T19:44:34.119-06:00My First Black Friday: "Save yourself" at Menard'sKeep this in mind.<br />
<br />
There's never been a moment in my life when I've thought, "I can't wait until Black Friday." Never.<br />
<br />
Everything about it is diametrically opposed to my worldview and ethics: rampant consumerism, bait-and-switch ploys that hamstring the economically impoverished, and - most importantly - early mornings. Plus, large groups of people. That's the deal-breaker for me. I once abandoned a New Year's party in high school because the house - by my own estimation - was beyond capacity. I pushed my way through a huddle of sophomores in the entryway like a salmon swimming upstream. Keep this image in mind. It will come around again.<br />
<br />
So, I'm not sure what foolishness overtook me yesterday. With some prodding and enticing from my brother-in-law after our Thanksgiving dinner, I agreed to go with he and his wife and my father-in-law to Menard's this morning. Drew, my brother-in-law, waved his iPhone in front of me at the dinner table, complete with the Menard's 6-hour Black Friday promo. Maybe it was the cordless tire compressor. <i>I could really use one of those</i>. Certainly, the barn door hardware was part of it. $39.99! 50% off! And, I really needed to get a ceiling vent for our bathroom.<br />
<br />
Sensing my weakness, Drew threw his upper-cut. "We can get Square Donuts" on our way. I'm a sucker for donuts. Every time.<br />
<br />
We circled back to the topic of our Black Friday trip as we said our goodbyes for the night (Drew conscipiously avoiding the words "Black Friday" I now realize). We agreed upon a time. I'd pick my father-in-law up at 5:30 am. We'd meet Drew and his wife at 5:50 and be in Terre Haute by 6:15. I'd be eating donuts by 6:15 am. <br />
<br />
The donuts is probably why I woke up ready to go at 4:30 am. Definitely.<br />
<br />
Sure enough, we get to Drew's house at 5:50 am. His car is running, and we're back on 40 heading west bound while Brazil quietly rests. There's hardly another car on the two west bound lanes, and we start joking about how we'll get there to find like ten people in the store - just a few retirees and insomniacs. <br />
<br />
Just past Rose Holman I make some joke about the Terre Haute Air Show. That was one of our last forays over this way, and it was a madhouse. Traffic backed up for hours, poor planning, and - again - crowds: all the makings for frustration. <i>How silly that was of us! Man, I'll never make that same mistake again. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Meanwhile, we were driving into a trap. Everything was about to go sideways.<br />
<br />
First of all, there was no Square Donuts. Of all things, some family had the nerve to honor this cultural holiday by - you know - sleeping in ... and enjoying a quiet morning at home with their family. I know this because I called the Square Donuts number and was told such.<br />
<br />
No worries, though. We were still in a jovial mood. Pretty soon, we would be leisurely browsing the aisles of Menard's - picking up our two-pack of Stanley tape measures (25' & 30'). Pretty soon we'd be listening to the "save big money at Menard's" jingle in a cavernous retail store practically all by our lonesome.<br />
<br />
This next thing is the best part.<br />
<br />
We're approaching Menard's, but not quite there. Off to our right is a darkened retail store, one I had never previously noticed. But for whatever reason, the entire parking lot was full. Holly, Drew's wife, says, "That's funny. Trader Buck's flea market sure looks busy, but the lights aren't on."<br />
<br />
Then it hit us. Trader Buck's wasn't busy. Menard's was BUSY! In fact, Menard's was so busy that not only was its parking lot already full, so was Verizon's and La Isla Mexican and Trader Buck's and the U-Haul drop-off place tucked back into the alleyway. <br />
<br />
It was a trap! But before we knew it, we were following a line of cars pulling into Menard's. Dazed and confused, Drew, who was driving, bypassed two customers pushing two over-loaded carts. We nearly hit an Amish woman carrying an armload of Mason jars. Eventually, after driving out to what I can only describe as the place where Clark Griswald parks the station wagon at Wally World, we realized we needed a plan. Joe, Drew's dad, volunteered to drop us off. He would sacrifice his Black Friday deals for us. Heck of a guy that Joe Cooper.<br />
<br />
But first, we drive past the front of the building. I'm not sure why. Someone said something about needing to see how long the lines were. Unfortunately, we were duped it this moment. The lines looked extremely reasonable. So, Joe dropped Drew and me off.<br />
<br />
The moment I set foot in the store, I knew we had a problem. The place was teeming with people. All the carts were gone. And there was "caution" tap strewn about the front, directing the herds of customers through two designated checkout lines.<br />
<br />
Drew and I regrouped in the tool section. By this point, I literally could not think of any one single item I had planned to purchase. Not a one. I stared blankly at the tape measures in front of me. <br />
<br />
Thankfully, Drew still had his iPhone and Black Friday promo. I pulled up the pictures, recovering my wits and made a B-line for the cordless tire compressor. I turned to Drew like a man desperate to avoid a coming plague or zombie acopalypse, "Where do you think the barn door hardware is?" A man rolled a cart past me with what had to be a three foot slab of summer sausage. Scores of people had oversized dog beds hanging over all sides of their carts. I resorted to my salmon-swimming-upstream strategy. I stuck to the side aisles, slipping through the masses gathered around the dog toy section. Up in front of me - near where the barn door hardware was supposed to be - there was something resembling the beer line at a Colts' game. I would discover only after what was causing this human whirlpool: Menard's had dropped whole pallets of Chinese electronic items on its sales floor to lure its Black Friday shoppers into a feeding-frenzy of heavily discounted junk. That is, of course, except for the barn door hardware. That was a steal!<br />
<br />
I made it out alive. Never mind that Drew and I got separated. He nearly got suckered into the 5-foot high blue-tooth speaker. Thankfully, I pulled him out just in time, and I found a sales clerk. "Where are the shop-vacs? The ones in the promo," I called out over the blue-tooth record players. "Down there, aisle 35," he replied. "Look for the plywood section." Naturally.<br />
<br />
Now we came to a critical moment. Up to this point, everything we had accumulated we could carry with our own two hands. Shop-vacs, though, are large. So are pancake air compressors for $74.99. Same with rolling tool chests. <br />
<br />
Drew put his stuff on top of the tower of shop-vac boxes. I knew what he was looking for: a cart. Good luck with that! <br />
<br />
I'm afraid to admit this, friends. Here is your first peek into some of my darker recesses. There I was in aisle 35 with my brother-in-law and the prospect of this casual morning turning into my final hour. I'm sad to say I could not be my brother's keeper. "Drew, I'm going to go see if I can check out. I'll be right back. And I'll bring a cart if I find one." That last part was definitely a lie.<br />
<br />
I wove my way towards the front, hoping I'd find some lonely sales clerk with one of those Star Trek-like scanners, eager to check me out. Ever the idealist. Of course, nothing. I looked around me and saw a sign pointing towards the appliances. "Checkout line," it read with an arrow pointing back to some forelorn distant corner. <br />
<br />
Do you know that part in <i>A Christmas Story </i>when Ralphie realizes the extent of his predicament - a Soviet-era bread-line stretching beyond sight?<br />
<br />
Now I must tell the second awful thing about myself. <br />
<br />
I saw a man struggling to keep command of his two carts near the fake Christmas trees. A ten-foot gap opened between he and the two women in front of him. <br />
<br />
Yes, I did precisely what you are thinking I did. I was THAT guy.<br />
<br />
But, I was also THAT guy who happened to be only forty feet from the checkout clerk. <br />
<br />
Five minutes later, and I was unloading my meager gatherings (one cordless compressor, one box of barn door hardware, one pair fur-lined Thinsulate gloves, and one 50' Stanley Fatmax garden house. The garden house was totally an impulse buy.) Shell-shocked, I never even thought to look for the ceiling vent, the only item I truly needed.<br />
<br />
I asked the two women in front of me what time they got there. <br />
<br />
"2:30," they said. <br />
<br />
"What! Are you serious? How much sleep did you get," I asked. <br />
<br />
"Three hours." <br />
<br />
"You're nuts," I said.<br />
<br />
Says the guy who just cut two hundred people to buy an armful of goods.<br />
<br />
And who never did get any donuts!<br />
<br />
Yup, folks. This is me. And this is us. Welcome to America. Home of <i>the </i>Black Friday.<br />
<br />
By the way, I just checked. Barn door hardware. $39.99 online. Same price as I paid this morning.<br />
<br />
Laughs and memories for next year's Thanksgiving, though: priceless.<br />
<br />
Wes <br />
<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-91442571096909339982017-04-02T21:41:00.002-05:002017-04-02T21:41:37.590-05:00Calling All Inter-generational MissionariesMy sister sent me a message the other day through Facebook. Somehow, she had caught a glimpse of my friend, Josh Husman, doing his thing on Facebook Live. Josh and I go way back. We met each other at DePauw. Josh stood with me in my wedding. And, to top it all off, we were also part of the greatest Fuller Theological Seminary flag football team ever created, although the actual documentation on this achievement seems scant. Then again, we did have an Armenian track star lining up for us at wide-receiver, so there is that. <br />
<br />
In any case, there was Josh on my computer screen, dressed in his hipster cardigan, standing in front of an elegant and sharp looking backdrop of neon tube lights. Around him were the obvious displays of a modern worship band: a drum set, several guitars in their stands, microphones, and a keyboard. I may have even spied a banjo. <br />
<br />
Josh's story is an incredible story. In five years, Josh and his fellow servants have seen a church grow from a small plant meeting in an out-of-the-way office building on the north side of Indianapolis to a congregation with four weekly services. Oh, and it's also moved from that little office building all the way up to the heart of Carmel, Indiana, taking over an old Borders Book Store. Inside it is now barn-wood and stainless steel and Kuerig machines and Ikea tables. <br />
<br />
Most church plants don't make it. Like 80% fail. But, this church - Mercy Road - is more than making it. It is flourishing, and it is flourishing largely because it is engaging younger people. Gen-Xers like me, to be sure, are coming to church. But, primarily, they're hitting it big with Millenials. I know Josh well enough to know it's more than just a young church. Tom Abernathy goes to his church. Yup, that Tom Abernathy. That old dude from IU Basketball's glory days. Still, Mercy Road trend's young. You don't go there if you like choirs and robes. <br />
<br />
Which is pretty much exactly like the church I serve, aside from the barn-wood and the worship band and the the neon tube lighting. We pretty much trend young, if you count 60 as young. Oh, well, I guess we do have a Kuerig machine. We even have two! And we have a projector. <br />
<br />
Anyhow, this explains why just after lunch, I found myself traveling up the road with three of my church family members up to Autumn Glen, one of our resident local assisted-living communities. <br />
<br />
Allie Peabody lives in one of the smaller condos at Autumn Glen. She's been back there now for about six months, and normally she would make the short trip to our church on Sundays. However, a few weeks ago she took a weird step, damaging a ligament in her foot. She didn't think much of it at first. Allie is tough, and if you want proof just ask her about the time she coordinated a protest to get a "STOP" sign installed at a local intersection. She mobilized a crew, got everyone into action, and after the local authorities saw she was serious, they relented to her request. But, time and age have a way of presenting challenges that are even too tough for people like Allie. <br />
<br />
At least, that's what I'm learning now as a pastor to Allie and others like Allie. Like John McKee, a ninety-year old man who has worked harder and longer than I can even begin to imagine, who still walks his yard to pick up the sticks before mowing his lawn for the first time in the spring. John is the sort of guy who puts us young whipper-snappers to shame, but recently his back has laid him low again. He looked me in the eye today and told me he is thinking about going in for his third back surgery. He's had four bypasses by the way, too. One time they even went ahead and just replaced a whole artery in his neck because the old one was growing useless and constricting the blood flow to the width of the lead sticks in a mechanical pencil. So, yeah, individuals like Allie and John, they've seen a thing or two.<br />
<br />
When you sit with older individuals these are the stories that will come up. It used to make me squirm a bit, but I've since grown to see that there is holiness even in this liturgies of illnesses and aches. Besides, if mortality proves true, there's a good chance I'm headed down this road too. i<br />
<br />
More importantly, if you sit long enough with the Allie's and the John's of this world, you also begin to hear and see another story unfolding, a beautiful and deeper story. That's precisely what happened as I sat with Allie and a few others in the library room at Autumn Glen. We moved past the aches and pains. We moved back in time. Allie started telling me about killing chickens once a week for the family dinner, lopping off their heads and plucking out all those feathers. You saw this fire called dignity start burning in her eyes.<br />
<br />
To my left, Juanita took up the slack and added her own story. For a year, she would take the bus all the way up to Indy, get off at the bus stop and walk thirteen blocks to her employment only to do it all over again each afternoon as she headed back for Coatesville. So when Juanita tells me about her aching feet again in the future, I'll think twice before I write her off. I can't say I've walked those thirteen miles in her shoes.<br />
<br />
There are times I'm wise enough to shut up and just listen, and what I begin to hear is of a generation that isn't so much demanding respect as wondering how precisely the world has moved on so quickly.<br />
<br />
But, as I watched these four individuals come alive in that library, this other thought really took control of me. <br />
<br />
Josh's church needs our church. <br />
<br />
And our church needs Josh's church.<br />
<br />
For whatever reason, ours is a culture that compartmentalizes almost everything. Advertising and marketing trends break us into generations. Churches often follow suit. Hands down, though, the healthiest young people that I know are the ones who are gaining wisdom from their elders. Likewise, the healthiest senior adults I know are the ones who are actively interested in what is really happening in the lives of young people. I don't mean harping or bemoaning on what is wrong with young people. That is a different thing. No, I mean those older adults who are still young at heart and longing to pass on their wisdom and love to the next generation.<br />
<br />
I am reminded of a couple Anna and me met while we were out in Pasadena. We were going to this hip church, for - you guessed it - young people. Hey, we progress in stages, okay. It was called Warehouse, and by intention it was the exact opposite of the morning service at the big church. No choir, no pews, no hymn books, and no grand stage. Everything was stripped down, and to suit the younger audience, church started at 6 pm in the evening. Young people like Anna and I didn't start filing into until 6:05 pm at the earliest of course, and when we did, there was a worship band leading us through a series of songs to ease us into the service. <br />
<br />
Near the center of the aisle, though, in the middle of the congregation at Warehouse, there was this older couple, probably in their mid-70's. He was tall with nicely parted hair and khaki pants and loafers. She wore casual but classy clothes and often had bracelets or jewelry around her neck. They stood out among the crowd, and at first I wondered if they had accidentally walked into the wrong room, as if they had come for a Primetimers Bible Study, but took a left where they should have taken a right. <br />
<br />
Not at all. They were here, I came to find out, because they believed it was important to be there for the next generation. They believed it was important to see how young people were connecting with God and to be there to support this next generation in their faith.<br />
<br />
I don't know that they would have put it this way, but they were inter-generational missionaries.<br />
<br />
We need more inter-generational missionaries.<br />
<br />
We need mature, older Christians willingly stepping out of their comfort zones to befriend and encourage younger Christians. And we need younger Christians to embrace ministries of help and service to older adults. We need younger Christians to embrace opportunities for friendship and to claim a mentor in their lives.<br />
<br />
We need to find each other because each generation has so much to give to the other. We need to find each other because separated as we are, all of us languish. But, perhaps most importantly, we need to find each other because the future of the church in America may just depend upon it.<br />
<br />
Josh's church needs our church.<br />
<br />
We need Josh's church.<br />
<br />
Let's hope we find each other. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-57984150698390753372016-07-24T21:24:00.002-05:002016-07-24T21:24:45.202-05:00Community: "To Boldly Go ..."I'm more of a Star Wars guy myself. That means something if you are a
fan of science fiction. That's all you need to say to some people for
them to get you. For there is a difference, you know, between Star Wars
and Star Trek. It's hard to pin down exactly what the difference is.
Maybe Star Trek is a bit more for the technically inclined. Maybe Star
Wars is more for those deep into Jungian psychology. Ask my wife, and
she says there pretty much the same thing. She's probably right, but -
please, oh please - don't try to tell that to a Trekkie or a guy wearing
a Storm Troopers costume at Gen Con.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, Star Wars guy that I am, I still couldn't resist seeing the new Star Trek movie that just came out: <i>Star Trek Beyond.</i>
I read a few glowing reviews, and those endorsements combined with near
record heat temperatures made the cool movie theater seem like a
perfect place to spend a Sunday afternoon. Turns out it was a great
choice. It turned into one of those moments that mirrored and clarified
my life in the way that sometimes only fiction can. <br />
<br />
Without
giving away too much of the plot, the story begins in a rather
unexpected place for James T. Kirk and his crew: boredom. Well, not
just boredom. There's also a bit of relational strain among the captain
and his crew. The life of space adventurers is supposed to be
glamorous, adventurous, difficult, sexy, challenging, and rewarding.
Sure enough, when we first meet James earlier in the series, he's a
young, hot shot. He's Tom Cruise in <i>Top Gun</i>: brash, daring, and
ambitious. But, the James we meet in this film has been at the helm of
the ship for awhile. He's been into the depths of the universe. He's
faced his fair share of challenges, and - for better and for worse -
things have become ... well, routine. Or if not routine, than ... well,
complex. Difficult.<br />
<br />
The same is true for the rest
of the crew. The thrill of venturing into unexplored territories and
uncovering new mysteries is also, so we learn, coupled with the
realities of relational difficulties. Sure, the crew of the USS
Enterprise is boldly going where no one has ever gone before, but
they're also having to live in close quarters. There's the rub. For
communities are made up of individuals, and individuals are prone to
testing each others nerves from time to time. Couples have their spats
on board the Enterprise. Some wonder if it might be time to jump ship
for another adventure. Some even find themselves wondering if what they
are doing really is all that important. It does, after all, feel like
things are becoming a bit "episodic" as James puts it early in the
movie. Everyone seems after awhile to playing the role of their
typecast.<br />
<br />
Of course, the movie is tapping into
something all of us have felt at one time or another. Stay anywhere
long enough, and you'll come up against this. Doesn't matter if it's a
job or a marriage or a church or even in a family. At some point, if
you commit to the work of community and unity, no matter what it is, you
will face these challenges. <i>Is it worth it? Maybe there are other adventures out there for me? Perhaps I need a change of scenery for my life?</i><br />
<br />
It
is precisely here that I need to keep remembering that this place
called struggle and that town called boredom is not a trap. It is not
something to escape. It is the place we learn to die to our obsessive
need for the "new" and "promising." And it is the place where we begin
to invest ourselves into something that goes beyond us. It's where we
have the choice to really be invested in our real community, not just
some false or self-fabricated notion of what we want our marriage or
church or school system to look like. Here we come to what Walter
Wangerin Jr. refers to in his great book on marriage as our reality, the person or place or community we are actually called to love and not just some wistful notion of what we wanted to love. <br />
<br />
I
know I'm not alone in my experience of this step in "growing up into
Christ." Like many of my friends who are truly trying to root ourselves
here in Greencastle and truly seeking to make this place a better
place, I know that the so called easy option of moving onto another
church or community is a short-cut that doesn't really go anywhere.
It's a "chute" that can actually lead us to regress.<i> </i> <br />
<br />
Personally,
I'm facing it as a pastor. Eight years into providing ministry to this
place, I've been here long enough to see incredibly moving moments of
grace, of healing, and of new life. For all the bad press ministry gets
about over-work and little pay, nothing in my mind can ever compare to
the unbelievably gift it is to hold a four-month old child in my arms
and proclaim the absolute depth of our faith: God has uniquely made and
knows this child, and God lovingly has already prepared everything
needed for this child's life and salvation. Nothing can surpass the joy
of being so close to both God's glorious love and the precious, tender, vulnerable
reality of being human.<br />
<br />
But, of course, eight years
also can make you realize that you're no longer the savior and that
despite how present God is in this community, that doesn't mean that
miracles are happening at every turn. No, some challenges - like the
perpetual weeds in parking lot - seem to always linger and
refuse proper treatment. Relational strains occur. The easy work has
already been done. It becomes challenging not to typecast people. <br />
<br />
Now, what is left is the hard, important and daily
work of community. Or, as Henry Ford says it, "Coming together is a
beginning. Keeping together is progress. Working together is
success." So it is that truly good pastoring, I'm discovering, is just like any
other work of community. Perseverance and grit and steadfast love are a
lot more important than passion or feelings or thrills. <br />
<br />
Here, too, is the genius of <i>Star Trek Beyond</i>.
When we are faced with these moments of boredom and strain, we have a
choice. We can flee the boredom for something more attractive. We can
pine for a new job. We can subtly start looking beyond our marriage for
something to satisfy us. We can begin to think that our better life
lies in some community behind or before us. OR we can make a
re-commitment and double down on being a part of this marriage, this
community, this job. <br />
<br />
Of course, the beauty of movies and
parables is that they give us images to locate these types of moral
decisions, and Captain Kirk's decision is clear enough. Is he going to
be a member of this ship? Is he going to remain committed to his crew?
Will he go down with this ship even if it means giving up his own
freedom and future opportunities? Will he continue to boldly go into
that place that is even more unknown, challenging, and at times
significantly more frightening than the depths of outer space: deeper
into community?<br />
<br />
The deep satisfaction at the end of this
movie is the firm reminder that the investments we make in each other
and towards something bigger than ourselves are of extreme worth. They
do matter! The ship must be staffed. The crew needs to continue to do
its job, no matter how mundane the job. The crew must persist in its
bold hope and belief in its mission - especially when the threats of
evil and crushing nihilism seem just too near and overwhelming.<br />
<br />
Community matters.<br />
<br />
Unity matters.<br />
<br />
Being an invested member of life and living for others matters! It is how we truly mature in Christ Jesus.<br />
<br />
It takes great courage. Tremendous courage. Heroic courage, even. The type of courage that is big enough for the big screens, even if most of us do it in homes and churches and jobs that aren't going to make the big screens.<br />
<br />
Kudos
to all of my friends out there with me who are making those courageous
decisions to double down on being invested in this particular place of
Greencastle. I see you in the struggle. We're all in it in some way.
And I just want to say it's worth it. It's definitely worth it.<br />
<br />
~Wes <br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-32336371440780864252016-04-03T20:11:00.001-05:002016-04-03T20:11:01.201-05:00Colonial Williamsburg<div><br></div><div>"We're really doing it," I said to my kids while leaning over Anna in the fifth row of the Jamestown theater. It was copying a great line from Dumb & Dumber, the only appropriate way to emphasize this momentous occasion, a family trip we've been talking about since last year, a trip to Colonial Williamsburg. </div><div><br></div><div>We had discussed making the trip this past fall, but once that didn't work out, I made sure to get it on the calendar for this spring. By mid-February we finally had our lodging taken care of, thanks in large part to my in-laws and a time-share exchange program they've held onto through the years. About a month ago, I started researching things-to-do while here, and three days ago, we set out about 9 o'clock in the morning from our home. For the trip out, we took it in stages, traveling all the way down to Beckley, WV the first day and covering just over 400 miles. By sheer luck, I managed to book a room at a Holiday Inn that was a mere 1/2 mile from a West Virginian attraction we knew absolutely nothing about. But, just prior to leaving I made a call to a kind couple in our church to see if they woulld keep up the rhythm of our Sunday morning Bible study in my absence. They were happy to do so, and in the course of our conversation, he revealed to me a lovely little place called Tamarack, a type of artisan and craft market right near Beckley. That was the lovely little find that mere 1/2 mile from our hotel. So, after grabbing dinner at Panera and relaxing in the pool Thursday evening, we took our time getting on the road Friday and spent part of the morning strolling through the wares at Tamarck.</div><div><br></div><div>Friday's drive was a bit shorter, but seemingly more difficult. We had to push through the steeper climbs of West Virginia, crawling up and hurtling down as we marveled at the earlier ancestors who pushed over these passes on foot and on horseback. By mid-afternoon, though, we were driving on the outskirts of Richmond, and we ended up at our condo at the exact hour of check-in.</div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Truth be told, Anna and I have actually been here before, although it seems like ages ago now. The day after we were married, we landed on the runway of Newport News airport and spent the next week (our first together) at the Marriot's Manons Club just on the western edge of Williamsburg. This time we are on the eastern side of the city, and we traveled with more cargo this time, of course. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Today, we set out early after packing our lunches. My goal: tackle Jamestown first thing, eat lunch in the cargo on our way to Colonial Williamsburg, buy tickets for Colonial Williamsburg and Busch Gardens, and then spend an hour or so getting our bearings in the streets of Colonial Williamsburg. Surprisingly, things pretty much went exactly as planned, and except for the fact that we didn't pack enough warm clothes, we had a great first day out exploring. We stepped aboard a replica of one of the three English vessels that landed on the James River back in 1607. We toured the simulated Jamestown fort, including a lively conversation with a well-informed and engaging blacksmith. We witnessed another pair of colonists fire off a few rounds from their muskets. We walked through a simulated Powhatan camp, with their more "integrated" living systems - much more to Anna's liking. And we stumbled upon a few wild Wellsummer rooster that immediately brought back memories of good ol' Thatcher.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Colonial Williamsburg turned out to be much more fascinating than anything I had envisioned, and I'm already looking forward to returning tomorrow. We stepped off the shuttle into the heart of the city, and immediately climbed the steps into the Magazine, the munitions storage on the opposite side of the courthouse. Up in the Magazine, an period-actor dressed in the style of a British soldier gave us the tid-bits and history of arms development in the colonies, and he happily answered Wyatt's question about the efficacy of the bayonets by saying that they were quite effective, especially because their triangle shape made for wounds that "would not easily close." </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">From there we walked about the streets, pausing at the gallows and much longer at the colonial garden. Anna and Elise already have plans to return there first thing tomorrow, and we took many pictures of old ingenuities that Anna wants to employ in her own garden.</span></div><div><br></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">Lastly, I persuaded everyone to go listen to James Madison in the Hennegan theatre. There were dubious, and I'm not sure the kids enjoyed his whimsy and whit. But, Anna and I thoroughly enjoyed this man's ability to so thoroughly immerse himself into the language, the thinking, and the times of America's youngest years. Plus, his description of the challenges of creating a just democracy without inevitably succumbing to either the tyranny of an unruly populace or the soul-sucking decrees of a heavy-headed empire seemed only too relevant.</font></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">We are eager for tomorrow's trip back to the Colony. The fireworks start at 10:15 am with a public protest on the Capital steps regarding the imposition of taxes from the ruthless British parliament!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Until then ... We return to our rest.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Wes</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-59012613832130690862015-10-01T13:25:00.006-05:002015-10-01T13:25:51.468-05:00The Future of MinistryJohn the Evangelist had a revelation while serving a sentence of exile on the Patmos.<br />
<br />
I think I just had mine in the parking lot behind Marvin's in Greencastle. <br />
<br />
I just got off the phone with a former mentor of mine, Rex McDaniel, a Presbyterian minister who is on the cusp of retiring and "near the promised land" as I joked with him. After a bit of catching up, I asked Rex how ministry was going. <br />
<br />
His description of his church's position and his own floored me with its relevance for my own life.<br />
<br />
Rex has been in ministry since the mid 70's sensing a call to love others in the name of Jesus when the Church in American still believed it's best years were ahead of it. He grew up as a pastor out on the East Coast in the 1980's and early 90's, watching his congregation and his family grow with the suburbs surrounding them. Then, in the late 90's he returned home to Southern California where he has been the pastor for Calvary Presbyterian Church in South Pasadena for over fifteen years now. He came as a wise and experienced minister; the kind of man aptly capable of steering the ship of a large Presbyterian congregation that had enjoyed decades of life as a congregation. The narthex of the church is lined with the pictures of former ministers - all men - who have stood in that same pulpit before Rex, like mighty captains overseeing and steering the vessel of the church: sitting on committees, preaching on Sundays, visiting the sick, launching new programs, being the public face of the church in the community.<br />
<br />
That role of being pastor to the flock and minister in the community is a role that Rex has enjoyed. He wouldn't say this about himself, but I can: he's done well in his role. Calvary Presbyterian Church has been blessed by his ministry. And, as Rex himself said, the church has been very good to him as well. By that he means not just that specific congregation in South Pasadena. He means too the overall mother Church and our denomination. Because Rex was able to minister at least in the waning days of Christendom, he's been able to enjoy the benefits of having cultural relevance. He's been asked to join Rotary Clubs and Kiwanis meetings in each place he's served. He's been granted special discounts from time to time. And, most importantly for a man on the cusp of retirement, he's been blessed with a pension and retirement plan that far exceeds what most Americans can expect these days, not to mention an incredible condo facing the idyllic scenery of the Rose Bowl of all places. Rex, true to his name's sake, has a regal future in front of him, and he knows it.<br />
<br />
But, he also knows this. <br />
<br />
It's not going to be this way for me or for those in my generation. <br />
<br />
The game is ending.<br />
<br />
Time is running out.<br />
<br />
And here is how Rex knows this is true.<br />
<br />
For several years, Calvary Presbyterian Church has been running a preschool on its campus. This preschool is a shining light in the community. It has a waiting list and families in the area are eager to get their kids into it. For years, though, very few of the families who have children in the preschool actually come to Calvary Presbyterian Church on Sunday. That's nothing new. But, this is. <br />
During the week, Rex and the rest of the ministry team at Calvary hosts a mid-week chapel service for the preschool. In the past, it's just always been there, and nothing much was made of it. But, as Rex said, in the last few years, more and more parents are insisting that their kids not go to the chapel service. They're afraid that their children will be force-fed some type of doctrine. They are convinced that the church will be bad for their children.<br />
<br />
And this is the change. <br />
<br />
It's been happening so subtly, it's hard to really believe it's true. <br />
<br />
But here we are. <br />
<br />
There was a time when church life served as a type of center for American families along with the local school, sports teams, and civic life. Back in those days, in the 1960's even up until the 1980's, if you were a middle class family, church was likely a part of your weekly rhythm. <br />
<br />
"Now," Rex admitted to me, "the idea of a Lord's Day worship rhythm for families isn't even something they are considering." It's not even on their radar.<br />
<br />
Not that Rex and Calvary haven't tried to make it more appealing. They, like so many other churches, have tried to make the packaging more appealing to the customer. They first tried a blended style of worship and brought in the guitars and more expressive means of worship. They then went full bore and completely contemporary, a move that has helped bring some passion back to the congregation that is already there. Only problem is it hasn't actually brought in anyone else from the wider community.<br />
<br />
No matter how attractive and appealing Rex and Calvary try to make Sunday morning, it's just not something many people in Southern California are interested in.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
Here's the analogy that helps me conceptualize what is happening:<br />
<br />
When I was growing up, I used to eat all kinds of sugary-cereal. Coco-puffs. Lucky Charms. Fruity Pebbles. You name it, I probably had it. And every time I went to the grocery store, that's where I wanted to go. I wanted to see Count Chocula and Tony the Tiger.<br />
<br />
Now, when my wife takes the kids to the grocery store, they hardly even set foot in that aisle. My wife bee-lines it to the value boxes of Raisin Bran or Grape Nuts, picks up the goods and gets out of their as quick as she can. Or, she doesn't even make it that far. She goes to the new organic section and picks up something that is healthier.<br />
<br />
She knows that those "other" cereals are not good for our kids, or at least not as good as they could be. So, she chooses not to expose them to what she calls the sugar of "white death" or tries to expose them to healthier dietary options.<br />
<br />
Don't you see this is precisely the same shift that has occurred in how our culture views Christianity these days? <br />
<br />
I doubt there are many here in our community who believe that Christianity is an out-and-out danger to their children, but I can assure you there are some. <br />
<br />
But, even if that isn't the case, there are many more here in our community who might feel like what the Christian faith has to offer may be good ... it's just not as valuable as ... well ... developing those skills that will make your child attractive to a good college, becoming an honor student at school, or developing some musical or athletic potential. Besides, there is something to the whole realm of faith that can be a bit too fanatical, as we've been rudely reminded of in recent weeks with the onslaught of visiting "street preachers."<br />
<br />
Far more important to most parents these days is whether or not their kids get into a preschool like Calvary's got than finding a church community like what Calvary offers.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
There's more. <br />
<br />
There's another reason why Rex isn't so sure guys like me will be able to go the distance like he has in ministry.<br />
<br />
In this modern reality that Rex is seeing so clearly, the question isn't, "How can we get people to come to our church?" It's "How can we equip our members to go out and be church where they are?" <br />
<br />
For so long, big, mainline churches like the Presbyterian Church have operated on the assumption that if they just open up their doors, people will eventually find their way to their parking lot and into their pews. <br />
<br />
Those days are long gone.<br />
<br />
The problem, though, is that big, mainline denominations don't make the transition from "come-to-us" to "go-to-you" easily. In fact, they often don't make it all. And that's precisely the tension Rex feels as he prepares to bless his congregation for the last time and ventures into retirement. He's not sure Calvary Presbyterian is going to make it.<br />
<br />
He can see that promised land where the church has to be willing to give up its very identity, but the church still has a lot of core members who aren't ready to admit that. That core group is still chasing a fantasy ... an illusion ... a memory. They still harbor the prospect of getting back to "1962 Calvary" as Rex describes it.<br />
<br />
So there's this impasse. Maybe there's a reason why Moses and his generation couldn't make that trip on into the Promised Land. The transition is too severe. The death and rebirth too demanding.<br />
<br />
Churches like Calvary and Greencastle Presbyterian are not going to find their way by going backwards in time. <br />
<br />
But, it takes a type of rebirth entirely to give away that image in favor of going out to be in the midst of the wider community. <br />
<br />
It takes becoming a culture of Christian missionaries living as a minority within a dominant secular America. <br />
<br />
And for me and my generation of ministers, it's going to mean giving up on a lot of those assumed cultural privileges that Rex readily admits are nice but never guaranteed for those who walk by faith. That nice pension may not be there. The prospect of watching a church grow through the decades with the minister is highly unlikely.<br />
<br />
More likely, the time will come ... and perhaps not very long from now ... when I will have to find a way to return to the ways of Paul, to become a tent-maker of sorts and find another occupation, to find a means of supporting myself so that my work isn't about helping navigate a large, mainline vessel of a church. Instead, my work will become a means of earning what is necessary to support my family, to live in a place, and to do the work of Jesus Christ in a more incarnational way.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
And all that from one phone call in a parking lot from behind Marvin's.<br />
<br />
The Lord works in mysterious ways.<br />
<br />
Wes<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-66761792311324414712015-08-12T21:02:00.001-05:002015-08-12T21:03:49.057-05:00This Year's RemodelThere are three significant challenges that invoke fear and trepidation in the souls of human beings.<br />
<br />
The first is to scale the heights of Mt. Everest.<br />
<br />
The second is crawl through that secret, bug-soaked passage way Indiana Jones had to traverse in <i>The Temple of Doom</i>.<br />
<br />
The third is for a married couple to try to build a house together.<br />
<br />
Anna and I are not quite ready for the Everest of home building. So, we're taking smaller and smaller steps towards our dream, inching our way towards it. We're starting with smaller peaks, something more in line with a 14,000 footer out in Colorado.<br />
<br />
One room at a time. That's been our motto so far, and it's served us okay in this old farmhouse. We've made some improvements, and haven't died in the process. Neither have we strangled one another. <br />
<br />
First the kitchen. That was probably five years ago. The guy we call Builder Bob helped us do that remodel. Okay, he pretty much did it all, and I managed to botch the mudding and sanding job. But, it's better. And the roof has only leaked twice when it has rained. <i>But those were really heavy rains!</i><br />
<br />
Sometime last year, we started on the front entryway room to our house, and this time my father-in-law helped me frame up everything. I even did a pretty good job of putting up the drywall and applying the first coat of mud last fall. I even sanded the mud a few times, but - as Joe has told me many times - sanding is a fine art. Too much and you're back to square one. Too little and you've got the imperfections equivalent to bad teenage acne. I have yet to learn the finer stroke required of a true craftsman.<br />
<br />
Nonetheless, I really did intend to paint the room - imperfections and all. <br />
<br />
Well, winter moved into town, and more pressing things took over: gathering and splitting firewood, swim season, espn.com. <br />
<br />
Undeterred, Anna and I were determined to continue on with our home improvement projects. This summer, we had one clear goal: do all that was truly necessary to turn the backroom into a fully functioning bedroom for Wyatt, motivated as we were by the recurring bloody-scratches on my son's arms and wailing pleas of help from my daughter as my son struck back in retaliation. Apparently, the ages of 9 and 7 are the limit for how long a brother and sister can stand being in the same room together. <br />
<br />
<i>Are we going to tackle the backroom?</i> Anna and I would ask each other.<br />
<br />
<i>Yes, we have to, right? </i>Checking each other to see how long we could dance around fully committing.<br />
<br />
But, no, we had to. We just had to. There's just something wrong about putting your first born child in a room that routinely grows frost on the windows in the winter. And that's the good season. I won't tell you what grew in there during the summer.<br />
<br />
So I thought we were together ... all up until the point when I was 3/4 of the way into the demolition of the room, and Anna came with her mother to assess the job and to conference about our next steps. It was clear enough to me. We were going to do all the walls, tear the whole place apart and gut the ceiling before putting insulation back in.<br />
<i><br /></i>
But, as I started to explain this to Anna's mom, Anna said, "Are we sure?"<br />
<br />
I may have looked at Anna with a furrowed brow, which she must have seen because she went on:<br />
<br />
"Well, I'm just saying our track record for getting things done isn't all that great. <i>I mean we still haven't finished the front room</i>." <br />
<br />
What was this?! A chink in our collective marital armor? A frayed edge in our loving and tight bond?<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
Thankfully, fools rush in.<br />
<br />
We're getting closer. I won't jinx ourselves by saying that we're done. But, definitely we're closer.<br />
<br />
Tonight we bought carpet for his room that will hopefully be delivered and installed sometime next week.<br />
<br />
After Anna's moment of probably justified pessimism, we did go on and tear the whole thing back to studs. I put in all of the insulation in the walls and the roof. Drew and Joe helped us hang the drywall from floor to ceiling, and I even managed to at least sure up the outside wall for the time being without making things look too bad. Okay, the cedar trim boards are definitely a bit askew. Shoot, though, who honestly looks at the back of our house.<br />
<br />
Plus, we've finally figured out that I'm never going to actually finish a drywall job. I swallowed my ego and called up some other guys to come do it. Lo and behold, they've even got the first coat on everything, and all while not muttering too much about how it's so hard to do a job once some poor sap like me starts it out wrong.<br />
<br />
Maybe we can even say that we've managed to make it up the Pike's Peak of home remodels? <br />
<br />
That's something, right?<br />
<br />
Tell me that's something.<br />
<br />
~Wes <br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-56284551586602255702015-08-11T20:36:00.000-05:002015-08-11T20:36:42.982-05:00Pressing & ReceivingWhat a gift vacation was! It's hard for me to receive such obvious gifts of grace, which in large part was exactly what this vacation was. By my mom and Denny's generosity, my family was able to go on a trip that we wouldn't have otherwise taken: seven full days down in a wonderfully spacious and beautiful home overlooking the Gulf of Mexico on St. George Island. The word "bestowed" seems appropriate for the time we had. Denny and my mom's generosity bestowed on me opportunities to rest and play in God's incredible creation. Denny and my mom's generosity bestowed on me opportunities to be fully attentive to my children. Denny and my mom's generosity bestowed on me quiet mornings on third level decks sitting in beach chairs drinking coffee and reading the Gospel of John.<br />
<br />
For one week, in other words, I lived as if grace truly mattered and in the awareness of love and benevolence.<br />
<br />
So ... I return to work yesterday ... and once again I am pressing. Actually, it started even before that. I figured this would happen, and it did. By early evening on Sunday, I was beginning to stress. For one entire week, my mind would casually drift into the evening, laughing and playing card games with family. Sleep came easily. Then Sunday night came. At 2:00 am in the morning, sleep was no longer a gift. It was a necessity that was relentlessly outdistancing me. <br />
<br />
My mind was astir. Now that I was to return to work, I was falling into an old trap I've fallen into so often as a young pastor: the trap of what Parker Palmer calls functional atheism. For one full week, I had lived in the awareness of grace and blessing. But, now it was time to return and prove to others that I am capable of doing my job. More than capable. I want to prove that I'm successful. I want others to see that I'm worth their investment. I need to demonstrate to others that I'm not just some sorry sack of a pastor. Gosh dang it, I'm a Management Fellow from DePauw University. I've been trained to justify my worth.<br />
<br />
In other words, it only took a mere six hours for this sin-sick soul to completely forsake the reality of grace and to step full-heartedly and foolishly right back into the strictures of the Law. <br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
Almost ten years into ministry now, and you would think I'd have figured this out. But like the old Caedmon's Call song, I'm right back at the first day of school. The very thing that so fully won me over to Christ - the incredible freedom that is ours in his name - is the very first thing I leave as I step out the door to do ministry in Christ's name. Foolish man that I am! Who will save me from this endless backsliding into the need to perform and justify?<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
There's a little book Jonathan Carroll once gave me when I first started in ministry down in Owensboro, Kentucky. It's called <u><i>The Art of Pastoring</i></u> by William C. Martin, and it - like the vacation from my mom and Denny - is a gift. I consider it a gift "bestowed." At the end of this gem of wisdom, Martin writes this about pastoral work:<br />
<br />
"Yours is a difficult, impossible, frustrating, and spirit-killing profession if practiced without simplicity and freedom.<br />
<br />
"Practiced with simplicity and freedom it is a noble, rewarding, delightful dance with the Spirit of God and with the souls of people. I pray for all pastors, everywhere. You are so deeply needed in our world. <br />
<br />
"Be yourself. Be gentle. Be happy." <br />
<br />
How true those words are! And how strong those two currents rush within me as I enter back into pastoral work! <br />
<br />
No sooner do I set foot back on the land of our home than I find a river trying to pull me away from simplicity and freedom. And so I step into my work with a stiff back and depressed vision of the world before me. Perceived slights and spirit-killing attitudes of judgment seep into my heart and thereby poison my attitude. So, I miss the joy of a community right around me that is alive and God-blessed and unique and holy. I feel drawn to go down the road called blame, and to linger in back-alleys named resentment and envy.<br />
<br />
But, by God's grace, I do feel that other stream. Perhaps not as strong at first. Maybe not a rushing river. Maybe it's more like a gentle stream leading on into the overgrowth and the shadows of the woods. "Come to the water," the voice of this stream calls. "Let mercy and gentleness lead. Don't worry about performing or controlling or protecting. Dance. Listen. Love the world around you as if it were God's holy place. For it is. The Word has become flesh and dwells among you. So be yourself. Be fully yourself even when doing so feels woefully inadequate in worldly terms. Be yourself even if in your simplicity you look the fool. Be yourself even when that noisy rush of competition and performance threaten to drown out love and peace.<br />
<br />
Life is not something to be mastered.<br />
<br />
It is a gift. <br />
<br />
It is bestowed.<br />
<br />
It is, therefore, to be received. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-10049906866932391982015-06-24T20:59:00.001-05:002015-06-24T20:59:36.707-05:00Summer 2015Several years ago, we posted a picture of our new family dog on our family blog. Her name is Ada, a hulking English Mastiff, weighing no less than 80 pounds when we first took her in. As soon as we posted Ada's picture, one of my friends posted a comment on that photo, "Nice looking dog, but are you guys crazy?"<br />
<br />
Apparently we were. Or, at least a bit naive. Okay. Very naive. <br />
<br />
Four years into being Ada's owners, we have learned just how naive we were. But, maybe we are just the type to learn our limitations by audacity. Besides, isn't that the American way? Go big or go home. Shoot for the moon. Buy an 80 pound English Mastiff.<br />
<br />
It's not that we've completely failed Ada. She's got a good enough home with us. We keep her outside now most days, and she has free reign of our property - instinctively barking off most intruders real or imagined. She still greets us when we come home from a day in town by galloping towards the woods - barking for all the world to know that this is her home. Her protectiveness of us has been a good thing on occasion, but we should have known it was just a matter of time before her zealousness got her in trouble.<br />
<br />
Just before Memorial Day last summer, Ada decided our postal carrier needed to be chased off our property. Her bravery led her to hurtle out of our yard into the street, her barrel-chested mass bounding towards the old white Jeep. The Jeep won of course, trapping Ada's rear left paw beneath its front wheel and causing a significant gash in Ada's foot. Anna and I were mortified, and - of course - filled with pangs of guilt and shame. Ada's foot stood as immediate confirmation of how inadequate we are as dog owners. With our emotional tail between our own legs, we limped into town with our bleeding she-beast of a dog, watching the blood collect on the front mats of my truck and Ada's maple brown eyes softly saying nothing. <br />
<br />
It's been over a year now since Ada's foot was mangled in an instant only to be tenderly treated for months. People still ask us often, "How's Ada?" We pass off some story about how she's doing better, and in a way she is. I had my doubts she would be able to keep the leg, let alone be able to walk again. She does walk, runs even. But, the wound is still there, and not just as a visible scar. No, the tender parts are still pink. We do our best to treat it still. <br />
<br />
It's not just that we let our dog get hurt. It's that Ada's injury serves as a symbol of everything we've tried to do here ... on our farm ... in this place ... as a pastor ... as parents. I could go on.<br />
<br />
Of course we were idealistic when we moved here, but time has also proved that we weren't just naive about what it takes to raise and care for an 80 pound dog. <br />
<br />
If you would have asked me seven years ago what I would imagine our life would "look" like here, my mental image would have been far different, far rosier. <br />
<br />
I would have pictured a nicely painted home, a well-kept yard, a garden that flourished in the summertime, and something along the lines of - oh, you know - the grounds of Versailles. Okay, so maybe that was being a bit too optimistic. But, certainly I thought the clean, orderliness of suburbia was what we were headed for. It was, after all, what I was accustomed to.<br />
<br />
If I were to snap a photo right now of our place, clean and orderly would be the last two adjectives you would choose to describe the photo. The heat, humidity and rains of June have turned our yard and garden into a endless explosion of weeds. The front of our house is already weather-worn and badly in need of a new coat of paint.<br />
<br />
We used to walk by several homes south of our little apartment in Pasadena that were picturesque and beautiful. There was one not far from us that was a smaller, one-story ranch house with the front and back yards landscaped in an Asian style. A very nice looking older gentleman was often out in the yard, trimming his hedges or tiding up his landscape. I think I imagined something like that, but I never accounted for - oh, you know - raising my children, pastoring a congregation, and still wanting to maintain an active lifestyle of fitness and recreation. One of those things alone would have been sufficient to occupy even my best efforts. But, for better or worse, Anna and I aim big. And when you aim big, you get weedy gardens and mistakes and setbacks. <br />
<br />
But, it's good. Even as the weeds steadily reclaim our gravel driveway and the forest threatens to pull our barn back down to the earth: it's good. If my idealism has taken a few serious blows to the chin, so has my pride and that is no doubt a good thing. Besides, in the failures and setbacks, I've begun to realize that life is still okay, even when it isn't perfect, even when it is messy. Maybe most importantly, I've got a deeper sense of what the "good life" looks like - the kind that was woven mysteriously into this God-given creation, not just the one the type that is marketed by lawn fertilizers and home improvement stores.<br />
<br />
And - I have to say - I kinda like <i>this</i> good life: the fireflies that float like soft sparks above the grass as the birds sing their final anthem for the day, the yarrow that bursts with color, this hay and clover that overtake the eastern edge of our property where the deer cross. I like its abundance and its messiness; I like the way that life always comes back in this place. What else is grace, after all, but the repairing of our mistakes and the healing of our wounds by the emergence of new life? <br />
<br />
At night now, Ada comes walking towards me in the early cool of the evening, still as regal and majestic as ever, even if she does carry a visible wound. She lays down in the grass. She stretches out her front legs and crosses her paws, and lays there - her head erect, her eyes scanning the horizon. In the twilight she is beautiful, even if she isn't perfect. Yup, she's very much our dog. The good Lord willing, she will be for sometime.<br />
<br />
~Wes Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-46330928353338508742015-02-14T18:21:00.001-06:002015-02-14T18:21:54.790-06:00Ashes to AshesIt is a fiercely cold day with a northerly wind howling through the pine trees outside this window. A long spell of frigid temperatures is moving in tonight, so - naturally - some archaic instinct is pulsing strong in my mind, and I have been hard at work cutting, gathering, and splitting enough wood to make it one more week. That has become my rhythm: one week of heat at a time, a dangerous game I'm playing - driven both by my desire to be done with winter and with my unpreparedness for it in the first place. <div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div>Motivated by the promise of heat streaming out of the floor vents, <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I took my chainsaw back into the in-law's woods today where a massive section of red oak had fallen to the ground across a hiking path. And, nearby, lay another nice section of cherry. The work of earlier fierce winds had done their tasks, pulling from the trees these key pieces. They lay half buried beneath leaves, the presence of fungi on their bark the evidence of earth's decay already at work. Despite a few soft spots, though, these were valuable finds. One full tank of gas and about an hour in the woods with Ada gave me more than enough wood to try and carry out. The cherry alone nearly filled up the back of my truck's bed, and - besides - I'm still holding out hope this will be the last of the truly frigid weather.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Cutting, gathering, and splitting wood always tears my body down. Invariably, I take two or three Tylenol after it's all done, and tonight is no different, the muscles in my lower and mid back protesting from their overexertion and my poor lifting technique. Yesterday, it was the same as I tried to split the rest of what was a small pile of wood in our yard. They were large chunks, and many required not just the splitting maul, but also a wedge. It was hard work, which explains why I quickly got rid of my jacket, placing it on top of the wood burner. I didn't imagine the job taking that long, but dusk quickly turned to night, and I was still pounding away on the logs before me. Thoroughly exhausted and ready for a few of those Tylenol, I went back to the wood burner to retrieve my coat. Strangely, as I lifted it from the top, I noticed a bright orange glowing within it, mystified for a few brief seconds. Then, it hit me. My coat was on fire. I dropped it on the ground and proceeded to stomp on it with my heavy boots, thinking it just a small ember. But, still the glowing orange persisted. I stomped for several more seconds, picked up the coat, and noticed a rim of burning, bright orange now with an even larger diameter. That was that. The fire was pretty much out, but the damage was extensive, a hole the size of a softball on the back left shoulder. It isn't my nicest coat, but it is my best one for doing work outside. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Joe and Lisa dropped by later on this afternoon to pass along some Valentine's candy for the kids. They stayed in their Jeep as we told them the story of the coat incident near Ada's doghouse - myself wrapped only by a thick Patagonia fleece in the place of my more trustworthy field jacket. Joe wondered if Lisa remembered that time when all they found of a coat was the zipper! Apparently, I've still got something to salvage. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">We've got enough to get by ... for now ... unless it gets truly cold. But, that's how I tend to operate in this season of winter: eeking by and always looking for when I can put the winter coat away for good.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">~Wes</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-32479206726061890682014-12-21T20:49:00.002-06:002014-12-21T20:49:34.899-06:00MidlifeI don't know what to make of it,<br />
or where to turn.<br />
Depletion and disjointedness:<br />
the indexes of middle-age.<br />
<br />
These too:<br />
The tired eyes. The over-indulged belly.<br />
The limitations felt and no longer trespassed:<br />
Weak knees, aching backs.<br />
The first failings of the memory -<br />
a name<br />
that tumbles<br />
like a marble inside my mouth and fails<br />
to fall out.<br />
All proof the tide has turned,<br />
and will not go back.<br />
<br />
All that is left is<br />
the denouement:<br />
The other side of possibility;<br />
foggy and confused;<br />
the facing of sin<br />
no longer as enemy to be vanquished,<br />
but the steady presence,<br />
the partner sitting on the sofa across the room,<br />
arms folded,<br />
knowing and fully known;<br />
and despite my protests,<br />
now part of me in ways I cannot know.<br />
<br />
So infected, I come to see,<br />
my struggles not will make me free.<br />
<br />
Marked as I am, there is only<br />
the waiting now. <br />
No commodity can save me.<br />
No move to a nicer neighborhood.<br />
No putting my kids in the right schools.<br />
No resolutions.<br />
No new job.<br />
<br />
No mortal help will walk into the room,<br />
only what might come by transfiguration,<br />
and grace,<br />
like celestial heralds under the cold, open sky.<br />
<br />
Only the possibility of a greater power,<br />
lifting up within and beneath my bones,<br />
of a story tied deep into the fabric of creation,<br />
Apocalypic tales<br />
dancing in old men's heads<br />
Strange visions<br />
of risings,<br />
and glorious tellings<br />
beyond all hope,<br />
that second life<br />
that will not wane<br />
nor tumble<br />
nor be snuffed.<br />
Only life,<br />
complete and full.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-55609629830128555342013-12-10T15:58:00.003-06:002013-12-10T15:58:58.935-06:00And How Do You Go Back?From time to time, I turn to the novels of Wendell Berry. It's habit of pleasure, but also of guidance - an opportunity to measure my life against a vision of America Mr. Berry presents that seems both entirely foreign to me and entirely attractive. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yesterday, I turned to <u style="font-style: italic;">Hannah Coulter</u>. The title itself is fairly misleading. It has to do with a fictional girl turned woman in the made up small town of Port William, Kentucy in those years before and after World War II. However, as Mr. Berry is like to say, the story is of all of one piece with a whole host of stories. Hannah Coulter's story is inevitably tied to the Feltner family, the Catlett family and a dozen other families that make up the small town. He cannot tell hers without touching a strand of an intricate and beautiful web that is moved in whole. <br /><div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Those of you who have read Wendell Berry know his dominant theme in all of his stories is community: both the strength of the fabric prevalent throughout America in small towns once upon a time and now as threadbare as quilts from a lost generation. You know the strength of his novels are in his ability to make this world come alive, and his weakness as an author is when he idealizes this whole and tightly knit world too strongly, making it seem too much an Eden born again. Surely, I can't help but argue, things were never that perfect, that whole, that seemingly good. And if there was a time when communal life existed in such a way, it only increases my melancholy.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My dad tells me about his childhood in little Amboy, Indiana. I get the sense from his memories there truly was a wholeness there. Surely, if you were to visit Amboy today, you would see it as a dead town, an isolated desert, one of hundreds lying off some road in an Indiana county. But it allowed my dad to have an identity through relationship, through family. It allowed him to be the boy in the "Kendall & Son" service station. It allowed him to play basketball with the neighbor boys under the park lights. It held him within a fabric, and I know his heart is still drawn to those memories.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I understand, then, why Wendell Berry writes his Port William stories - resurrecting the older ways when home and economy were not enemies at war but faithful and necessary partners. </div>
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We are so far, though, from that land of Port William imagined by Wendell Berry, about as far now as my dad is from the Amboy, Indiana of his youth. </div>
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Yesterday, I made my way back up to my own hometown that I eventually left. As I did, I stopped at a Dick's Sporting Goods store just south of the place I grew up, one of the large commercial centers built solely to house the products of a goods & services economy. There was, of course, nothing communal or local or domestic about the place, and could just as easily have been found near our old apartment in Pasadena, California as it was near Zionsville. Not ten miles from where I grew up, I entered a vacuous building filled with more goods and items any small town would ever need in its lifetime, and there I stood roaming through it feeling both vacant and alone. When I finally found what I was looking for - gloves for my kids - and found my way back again to the check-out registers, I found fifteen or so perfect strangers, all of us alike in our motivations as consumers and yet completely unknown from one another. I made eye contact accidentally with a woman, and then turned my gaze quickly downward, intuiting that I had broken some unspoken rule of this new world. It is a world of technology, mechanization and accessibility, and it seems the strangest at those points when we are forced into some type of relational act: the awkward waiting in line behind or beside someone, the point when the exchange has to take place between the employee and the customer. It is no secret that plans are already being put into place to eliminate this last bit of humanity in the whole exchange. We can already get pretty much anything we need or want without any real sort of community. For some things we don't need any at all, and the only question is whether this is at all healthy or sustainable environmentally, let alone what God has decreed.</div>
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But, this is my problem: I have no clue how to return to that world Mr. Berry paints for us. It seems a reality too much squandered and abused. It seems a way of life that has vanished, a native language dead without any ancestors. I don't even know if it ever was a reality, and that increases my melancholy.</div>
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How do you build community when you are - after all - a child of this autonomous world? How do you begin to forge a life of "membership" unto one another and unto the whole of a place? What does that look like? And will my wife and I truly be partners in our home and life together unless we truly share some common work? </div>
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Finally, I am left to wonder what is worse. To be held, even choked perhaps, by the closeness of the small town America of yesteryear, a place plagued by buried secrets and systems of inequality like the Jim Crow South of Wendell Berry novels? Or, is it better to live and be so able to freely move in this new modern, global world that we must face these new enemies that are so clearly the ills of independence: isolation, anxiety, fear?</div>
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Mr. Berry, of course, can't answer that question for us. He suggests many times that Port William and little Amboy, Indiana, never will be the same. And that if they do appear again, it will be when God's Kingdom itself comes in full, or - as he says - Port William descends out of the heavens as the new creation, and we are waiting for it like a bride awaits the bridegroom. That, I suppose, is why I lean in that direction myself with faith and with hope.</div>
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Wes </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-20010379819957311592013-09-16T21:00:00.001-05:002013-09-16T21:01:46.482-05:00Early FallI remember when we painted these walls. Going on four plus years now. The room was littered with dry wall mud that had been carelessly splattered upon the old wooden floor boards. The old trim around the windows was dark and archaic. It seemed a relic from a distant era: the time of horse-drawn carriages and grand oil paintings brought over from the old world. <div><br></div><div>I really didn't want to spend my evenings painting this old house. I was just getting settled in at the church, and after spending the days in town I wanted to be able to be home with my family. The trouble was my family was living in the basement of my in-laws, a situation that was not sustainable for any of us. And through some strange means of transference, it was made known to me that I would go in the evening to finish whatever needed to be done in order for my wife and two kids to move in with me come the spring time of 2009. </div><div><br></div><div>I wore old Columbia hiking paints and thermal long-sleeve shirts as I worked, the bright lights of spotlights shining upon the walls. To those passing by my nocturnal work, I surely must have seemed a deranged loner, or perhaps an eccentric artistic type. I could care less what I looked like, though. I worked in the audio isolation of my iPod, kept company by the great American voices rock and blues. I fell in love with BB King during those nights, learning something of persistence and effort as I painstakingly first scrubbed the woodwork down with TSP, applied a primer coat of Killz and eventually went back with two coats of Graceful Willow. Semi-gloss, of course, for the trim, and flat for the walls.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm ashamed to admit it now, but it was the first time in my life where I was truly having to work for something. This house, whatever it was, would have to be made better by my work, my effort. Some men seem born for such work, and embrace it wholly. Not me. From the first it seemed a burden, even a type of cursedness, as though God had relegated me to this new situation on account of my earlier failures and laziness. But, I came to enjoy it and discovered in it some lessons about myself as well.</div><div><br></div><div>I learned, for one thing, the sense of honor a man can have in working for his family, I mean actually doing something practical and tangible that can house and benefit his spouse and children. I remember many nights when the hours stretched on and on and my annoyance started to grow that I would focus on the quality of my work as a discipline of love. I would paint the beautiful trim work with their hand-hewn accents and grooves with delicate care, and as I did so, I imagined doing my work with a chivalrous mind and devoted heart. This hour I spent on the trim, I told myself, would be done for my wife, so that she could have and appreciate a bedroom that was carefully cut when it was painted. Thankfully, I can look at the trim even now and see the care that was taken. I am fairly surprised that I found calm enough within myself to do the job that well.</div><div><br></div><div>But, maybe more importantly, I learned that a man must work hard enough some times that he reaches a point of exhaustion and failure because that same exhaustion and failure can lead him beyond himself. It was an unending task to paint this house, and even after I finished a room, it was clear that decades of use and deterioration were not going to be overcome by a few weeks of washing and painting. No amount of effort would bring completion. As I wrestled with the enormity of the task, I was driven to plead with God. And I was humbled enough to ask for help from members of the church. Sometimes help appeared even without my request, which always seemed like such obvious grace that I fought to hold back tears.</div><div><br></div><div>A friend of mine that I know speaks often of the value of work, how it gives a person self-confidence and worth. Looking at the trim still shining from the lamp's light, I know he is right. There is something of me in that work. But, I'm aware enough to know that whatever improvements have been made to this home have come by more than just my American can-do attitude. In the end, I was blessed with the awareness of family and community there to support me. I can see it very tangibly in the bookshelves John Anderson masterfully built and installed in the corner of the room where I type. And I can think of the folks who showed up when I had the sense to finally ask. </div><div><br></div><div>Wes</div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-66581771029749548692013-07-09T14:24:00.000-05:002013-07-09T14:36:19.034-05:00The Elephant in the African Brush<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoRUM3meVJPWgBgPGGpasI4gPynp8Z5Vbbzf10BYLdYlM1sjVWYyTVqn6S-xOJXzvVxHBLGhiLWCDy1y0cShAAP2e0RjSCFFndSBSgwloByIt0phMXDtRCY1Zk2MsA6qOjr_PF/s1600/Photo+Oct+26,+1+50+24+PM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoRUM3meVJPWgBgPGGpasI4gPynp8Z5Vbbzf10BYLdYlM1sjVWYyTVqn6S-xOJXzvVxHBLGhiLWCDy1y0cShAAP2e0RjSCFFndSBSgwloByIt0phMXDtRCY1Zk2MsA6qOjr_PF/s1600/Photo+Oct+26,+1+50+24+PM.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With various stories floating around the last few weeks regarding President Obama's trip to South Africa, I've been reminiscing about our Wabash trip last fall. I also discovered a poem I wrote on the plane ride back from South Africa. I doubt much of it will translate, but hopefully the theme will come through. I was inspired by the awesome experience of this elephant above appearing out of the brush in a wild game preserve. This formidable animal came striding towards our open-top transport vehicle, stood in front of us a moment - just long enough to define our place. Then the elephant moved on. I was immediately struck by its silent determination and subtle yet profound strength. It immediately became a symbol of the King and the Kingdom of God to me, something that would not be "denied or dismissed." I was also impressed by the liquid sorrow of the elephant's eyes and the thousand-creased skin. It's face seemed a representation of all the tragedy I had witnessed and heard of in the heart of South Africa.</span></div>
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<i><u><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Bull
Elephant in the African Brush</span></u></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Out of
the bush it strides, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> in mass and alone;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It
twinges and stretches,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> its tusks turned and tilted,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> its almond eyes crying inside its </span></div>
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leather-patched, hardened hide.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The bull
alerts itself and its predicament,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> fanning and fronting to its onward
course,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> not to be deterred.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It
strides past the seven-mile cesspool,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> walks its way through the saffron
and dust</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> of the stricken-street,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Walks across the squalor and shambles,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> of zinc and tender dry </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> sticks stacked as refuse and
refuge,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Across the further lands of Cape Town's mall,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> past the merriment and morbidity of the
system</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> the Xhosa serve,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Of spinning wheel and </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> hanging indulgence,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> of Waterfront and white.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It walks
beyond the unspoken, unseen borders</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> of every shantytown</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> that mars and marks the African veld,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Past the teeming tarnish,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
troubled and troubling </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Gehenna of Khayelitcha,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It sniffs
the poisoned, polluted air - </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> surveying, assessing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Wonders</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> at its expanding and expansive
tenement, baking </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> in the valley beneath the dialectic </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> of Stellenbosch,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> and soteriology, and sin,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then
turns its head </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> towards its beckoning point,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> to its home-bound boundary</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Of which the whole creation waits and
groans,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And
strides again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Forward. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Upward.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Onward.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It
marches on past the tourists and the tribal troubadours,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Past Zuma's cronies and capitalists,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Past the Afrikaaners turned aristocrats.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Past the twenty Rand trick,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The sex-inducing blonde,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The soul-worn umfundizi,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The medicine man who stares out</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> his Rustenburg shack</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> with his ailing eyes,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Enchanting his inadequate summons of
salve</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> While his daughters' daughters wither and
die.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It
marches past the bishop holding his</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> creamy, careful hands</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> palm flat upon the screaming, scalding</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> skin of another shanty girl -</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Riven and riddled by men and disease,
raped by father</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> and gold and market and </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> the million greeds that yawn
across the never closing market</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> from corner to continent,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> from godless domains</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> of powers and principalities</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Entrenched as postmodernism's modern gods.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Its eyes
cry in silence - probing to the depths</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> the degraded humiliation,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> the deplorable degrees of devastation,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And
marches somehow onwards still. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It pulses
and pushes its Herculean </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Strength,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> not to be denied or dismissed,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> but persistent and proud.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So goes
its will; its might,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> under the African sun and </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> across the </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> aching, ailing earth,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">crying silently its</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Song,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Groaning
for creation's renewal,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> which has been promised</span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> and foreseen. </span><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: #0400; mso-bidi-language: X-NONE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: #0400;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-59530699453697739462013-07-06T16:13:00.002-05:002013-07-07T13:49:20.268-05:00JulyAnna is in the kitchen this lazy afternoon, and the sound of vegetables hissing in hot sesame oil just began. She is dead-set on making an Asian dish she's had targeted for over a week now. "Bound and determined" is how she described her intentions.<br />
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Through the open windows of our bedroom window, I can hear Wyatt and Elise running around the neighbor's yard, likely playing "guns" or "sneak game" with the two neighbor's grandchildren. It has only been in the last few weeks that our kids have begun playing with the two boys when they come out to visit grandma and grandpa. Anna and I have been grateful two new playmates have been found, especially as it affords us personal time. It is no less satisfying for Wyatt and Elise, and they come home to dinner after an hour or so full of stories and flush faces.</div>
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We've celebrated our nation's independence largely with a relaxation in our individual scheduled activities. Anna is done with swim lessons and practice, at least for this week anyhow. The kids too are done with their weekday trips to the pool. And, I have emerged from a week as a camp director for 32 Junior High kids down at Camp Pyoca in southern Indiana. We were therefore more than grateful for two extra days off this week, and we've spent them mostly ordering our home as well as our rhythms in our home. </div>
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I don't know how many times we've rearranged rooms and furniture in this old farmhouse, but it is up to at least a dozen times now as we try to find the perfect balance between our growing possessions and our finite space. Ever the optimists, though, we feel we've finally found the best arrangement to date with the kids back in the room just off the living room. We are also working to turn their old bedroom into a schoolroom for the coming year. We don't know why we didn't try this layout earlier, but improvements only come by mistakes and many attempts.</div>
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Without the demands of coaching, church, and extracurricular activities for the kids, our days have been more stable, and we've been able to actually sit down to dinner several times in recent days. We've also managed to get back to some good, although challenging rhythms of bed time routines. Add that to our new "manner list" on the fridge, and we're slowly eeking out some order and normalcy in our home. Well, as much order as one can expect for a family of four living in a century-old house with a huge dog, chickens, and eleven acres of lush, vibrant woods, lawn and garden. Much of our efforts in this place go towards stemming the tide of chaos. But, what else are our 30's supposed to look like?</div>
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Thankfully, our extended family chipped in on the Fourth of July, part of an agreement to band together once a month at one of our homes to check off old projects and tackle new ones. Our list for the day included taking down a Locust tree near our garage, painting up some trim on the inside, and odds and ends that never got checked off my "honey-do" list. Per usual, I decided to jump right into a job without applying much critical thinking, which nearly resulted in me dropping a fifty foot Locust tree on our house. Thanks to Grandpa Joe, one Bobcat, and one steel cable the crisis was averted, and we ended the evening in good humor eating hamburgs, coconut cream cake, and watching modest fireworks exploding in the late day air.</div>
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Hopefully, the next couple weekends will give us the chance to get up and see my extended family. It has been awhile since I've been able to see my mom & step-dad, my sister and her girls, as well as my step-mom and dad, and I'm excited to catch up with them. It seems like these summer days are endless with darkness staying away until late in the evening, and yet the days themselves are just not numerous enough.</div>
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Wes</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-88823275023235513472013-05-31T23:57:00.000-05:002013-05-31T23:57:37.276-05:00Fur EliseSomewhere between Wyatt's birthday and today, Elise has grown. I know this as fact. <br />
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On the other side of our garage, out near the old concrete pad that we use for composting and yard waste, I set up a zip-line about a year ago. It starts about six feet up in one of the two remaining Chestnut trees and runs about twenty yards down to a lesser tree. I built it in my typical fashion - hastily and in a moment of foolish determination. I salvaged the runner chain we had used for Ada at one point in time, a thick, metal cable about the width of a drinking straw. Then, in the late afternoon, I hacked away a few branches, pulled out a drill and bits and began burrowing holes into the meat of Chestnut flesh. About fifteen minutes after Anna said dinner was on the table and about five minutes before the day lost the last of its light, I had managed to sink two hooks into the opposing trees and had made the metal cable a tight string of tension balancing above the ground.<br />
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The kids love the zip-line, and return to it fairly often - often enough to renew my sense of pride and fatherly satisfaction every other week or so. When Elise made her first maiden voyage across the airy-expanse, she dangled and zipped the whole way, her feet never coming anywhere near the ground. We had to improvise and arranged for a bucket to be placed on the other end, so that when she finally came to rest, she could tip-toe her way back down to earth, releasing the handles with a snap. For the most part this worked, well enough at least.<br />
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Today, though, she didn't need the bucket. Now that I think about it, she hasn't needed it for some time. Not since Wyatt's birthday at least. That's the last time I can remember her pointing her toes to the top of the bucket turned upside down - searching for a landing pad with her arms still stretched vertically, her body a dangling ornament. Now, her legs float down to the ground and land softly on the grass near the other end.<br />
<br />
But it's not just the zip-line that proves her growing. For the last few days, Gramma Lis has been working on a nightgown for Elise, a garment she was constructing in her basement. I knew of this project, but thought little of it. It is not unusual for Gramma Lis to arrive late in the day with her own projects, although hers are better planned and not as hard on the body - typically new pajamas or dresses or shorts for the summer. I thought this nightgown would be like the old pajamas, simple pieces sewn together from Anna's old t-shirts. It was hardly that. <br />
<br />
From her neck to the tops of her toes, Elise came out of her room dressed for bed in a soft, white gown with braided cuffs just past her shoulder, a braid of her pinned back to the right side of her head. To top it off, she had put on a string of fake pearls around her neck.<br />
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She approached me in a manner that I can only describe as beloved and sure - walking towards me without saying a word and then standing assuredly as I lay on the couch, her chin just slightly turned up, her hands at her side, waiting to receive a gift. It was a gift I freely gave. "You look beautiful, sweetie. Do you like your new nightgown?"<br />
<br />
Still silent, she stood looking at me directly and smiled and nodded a yes. I said, "Let me give you a hug before you go to bed." <br />
<br />
Now, when she knows that she is lovable and feels special, she welcomes my offer and allows herself to be held much longer than is normal. She is normally too busy or too distracted by some insect or drawing to sit long with me. So, I treasured this hug - holding her in my arms and knowing that she was content to be held the same, knowing that life only gives such gifts for only the shortest season. <br />
<br />
How many more years until I am a nuisance in her life? How many more years until I become painfully human? I care not. That is for another time. Today. Well, today she knows that I love her, that she is loved by me not for her appearance but for being Elise. She knows that she is lovable. And it stabs me with joy and pain to know she knows that. Don't we all want to know that?<br />
<br />
What manner of man am I that my God is this good to me, that I might see blessedness sweep into the room and stand before me as I lay upon a couch? Ah, I tremble. I tremble.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-92202021936907337772013-05-28T16:47:00.001-05:002013-05-28T16:47:22.185-05:00Early Summer VacationMy vacation ends today, a wonderful and much needed period of refreshment - including a great three day trip to Brown County, IN. We spent most of it at home, though, working on little side projects and tending to the yard and garden. We ate lots of ice cream; We enjoyed lots of fresh strawberries coming on strong in our garden. Wyatt caught a few fish. I put another 150 miles or so on my bike. We spent about five cumulative hours in the indoor water park at Abe Martin Lodge located in Brown County State Park. We bought both edible and inedible keepsakes from the tiny stores in Nashville: peanut butter and Jack Daniels fudge; a double espresso and mocha creation known as the Sledgehammer; new belts and wristbands and barrettes of leather. Anna and I built a see-saw for Elise's seventh birthday. And we had two large family meals. The first for Elise's birthday consisting of steaks marinated in rosemary and garlic as well as broccoli salad and completed by a white cake and white sugar frosting topped with more of those fresh strawberries. The second on Memorial Day consisting of a full ham brined along with roasted cauliflower and fresh salad with pineapple, crystallized ginger and shaved almonds. In other words, we lived bountifully and heartily.<div>
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Our trip to Brown County began on Wednesday, as we packed up Cooper's big suburban and wound our way down into the first hills and hollers of southern Indiana. Last year, we made a similar trip around the same time of year: near the close of the school year but before the intensity of summer swim lessons and summer church programming picks up. But last year we tried the hero's route: camping the first two nights and finishing off the trip in a rustic cabin where we could finally shower and enjoy at least marginal air conditioning from a window unit that buzzed and hammered its meager production. We learned our lesson from that experience, having arrived home even more exhausted than when we left and certainly at the point of getting on each other's nerves. This year we choose the assurance of fixed accommodations and the easy entertainment of the water park in the lodge. How much does peace of mind cost? About $100 dollars more a night than tent camping is about where I would put it.</div>
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And so, even though the days were full, they were also tremendously enjoyable - giving ourselves over to only one thing at a time, moving from rest to recreation to work to feasting to rest again. It is how I imagine life should be much of the time, and I am left wondering why mine is not more so. The secret o' life, as Mr. Taylor says, "is in enjoying the passing of time," and that's what the greatest gift of this vacation was ... enjoying the gift of each day, singularly and simply.</div>
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Wes</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-63807363014974261702013-05-20T00:44:00.005-05:002013-05-20T00:45:27.619-05:00Late May<br />
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Late May. This is when life begins to feel like the initial plunge upon a roller-coaster. You know, the one after the gears methodically pulled you up the steep incline - seemingly never finding its way to the top only to find yourself cresting the summit and immediately jerked along, ready or not. Not too long ago, we were pulling ourselves through the last stages of winter, hoping for some return of green and life. The cycle of school and jobs was becoming monotonous, and Anna and I were looking forward to being outside: riding my bike, working in the garden, spreading mulch, beginning new crafts. But now it has all hit us full force, and our hopes and the land's required tasks are only outpaced by the wild exuberance of our yard, the grass refusing to be tamed, the garden now filling out with food and weeds. Today, Wyatt and Elise picked three handfuls of strawberries, and there will be at least a few buckets worth this year.</div>
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We are trying our best to stay ahead of nature's relentless encroachment this year. We've already laid down five or six bucket-loads of mulch in various places, aiming to keep some of the weeds at bay. A few weeks back, I finally dug out the rest of the old fence line in the blackberry bushes, pulled out all the dead canes, and tried to eliminate the wild rose bushes creeping in at the eastern end of the row. Joe and Lisa seized upon the chance to further tame the madness and have mulched the area with load after load of grass clippings - a resource in abundance after the long and very wet spring.</div>
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Even earlier than that, back when the trees were still naked in winter, Anna had me trim some of our fruit trees, hoping to force more of its energy and nutrition into a smaller, yet hopefully healthier crop of pears and apples. We've put mulch down around some of those trees, planted a new Bing cherry tree for Mother's Day, and marveled at the few small peaches already coming on Elise's tree in only its second season. I would say we are cautiously optimistic we may actually have made positive steps with the orchard this year.</div>
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Anna just finished her first year of homeschooling Wyatt, as well as occasional instruction for Elise throughout the year. They spent the last few weeks exploring the Roman Empire, including playing dress-up and play-acting in a toga. Wyatt has been fascinated with Roman history, although perhaps not near as much as he has been with firearms and more modern weapons. He has entered the stage where he is bound and determined to rid our property of all invaders, or to sneak around our place, running from tree to tree only to take aim at one of us or an unseen danger with whatever instrument of justice he is carrying in his hand.</div>
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For her own part, Elise is walking the yard carrying a stick - having decided it is a necessary deterrent to our last remaining rooster, a small black and white bird the kids call Zebra. I guess a stick will do the job. It wasn't my first choice. Last Sunday when we came home from pizza up at the Cooper's, I handed Elise her plastic Lightsaber to fend off the rooster's aggression. I watched with delight as she repeatedly chased the bird back into the black raspberry bushes - swinging the Jedi weapon wildly and free.</div>
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I begin a week of vacation today. We have plans to travel to Brown County State Park on Wednesday and to spend at least two days there, perhaps three. We've bypassed the heroism and ruffian ways of camping this year, having booked a room in the lodge with comfortable sleeping arrangements and immediate leisure with an indoor water park. </div>
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I'm feeling a deep desire to get away and so am excited for the trip ahead. I'm also looking forward to reconnecting more with Anna and the kids knowing there are large parts of them I've missed in recent months. </div>
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On the other hand, I'm mindful of about twenty-five projects that I have not yet finished around this house, and another fifteen that need to be started. That's the part that feels like I'm on the downward descent of what is sizing up to be a wild ride this summer.</div>
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And somewhere in the clutter of the garage is my bike ... okay, bikes: the two machines of liberation I continue to exhume from the clutter - pushing away out onto the open road. I have some hope to ride in RAIN (Ride Across Indiana) again this summer, and if I am to do that, I will need to increase the amount of time I'm already spending on a bike, which - frankly - sounds both too strenuous and selfish.</div>
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Wes</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-38420725633607317792013-03-05T20:28:00.011-06:002013-03-05T20:46:48.444-06:00A Modern ParableRosa was sitting two seats to my left, a beautiful Latina woman whose face glowed with a smile. She was the outsider in more ways than one. There were about forty of us huddled together in the basement of United Presbyterian Church. Forty Protestants slumped into folded plastic chairs around small, circular tables. Every other person in the room was caucasian. Most were of retirement age and sported thin grey beards meant to connote dignity and wisdom. The women wore a lot of make-up; the brave ones with brighter shades of lipstick - tiny flashes of the more risque. A few had on colorful scarfs, worn in protest to the last dead days of winter. <br />
<br />
In the middle of the table sat a small plate of chocolates, which most at the table had denied in order to maintain a Lenten discipline or their blood-sugar levels. The chocolates seemed a bit extravagant. I guessed that Rosa put them there, that they were her gift to this cadre of servants of the Word. I took a small rectangle of milk chocolate and bit into the heart of the candy. Then I took another wrapped in gold foil, unwrapped it quickly and indulged myself before the telling silences of those sitting around the table. Then I turned to Claire.<br />
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Claire was sandwiched between Rosa and myself. For ten minutes I had sat next to her and had heard not a single word or noise. Turning to her, I could see she had the sanguine look of the gracefully aged, or it could just as easily have been the first sign of Alzheimer's. <br />
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"That's a great shirt you have there, Claire," I said pointing to the Wabash College t-shirt partly hidden beneath her knitted sweater.<br />
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Claire's face came alive. "You know of Wabash." <br />
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"Oh yes. I have just finished participating in a program at Wabash that lasted the two years. It's a great school."<br />
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"My son goes there. He's a junior." Invigorated by attention, she shot back her own question, "And where do you live?"<br />
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"Oh, I'm from Zionsville, on the northside of Indianapolis. But, now I live in Greencastle ..." I paused to see if she would make the connection. "That's where DePauw University is, just down the road from Crawfordsville," I continued, fully expecting the acrimony of rivalry to creep into the conversation. But Claire's eyes remained light and warm.<br />
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"Do you like it there?"<br />
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"Yeah. I do. It's a sort of home-coming for me. I went to school there. What about you? Have you grown up here in Bloomington?" <br />
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"Yes, I have. Been a member of this church here for thirty-two."<br />
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"That's great."<br />
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"I like it." As she says this, I notice Rosa leaning into our conversation.<br />
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"Hi, I'm Wes," I say, stretching my hand across Claire's plate, offering a distinctly American gesture.<br />
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"I'm Rosa." She rolls her 'r', letting it fall into my ear in pieces.<br />
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"And are you from here," I ask her in my own form of Hoosier hospitality, inviting her to step forward with her history in her own way at her own pace. If nothing else, we know how to be considerate, painfully so. But before she can answer, Claire interrupts. <br />
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"She drives me around. Gives me rides."<br />
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Rosa blushes, a warm blush of gratitude and love, not humiliation. It is clear she considers it an honor to be a part of Claire's life. And her community.<br />
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"I make the bean dip for today," she says motioning to a round tray conspicuously vibrant at the end of two long tables. <br />
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"Oh, that was good." I am eager to make her feel welcome, eager to let her know that I know what it is like to be an outsider in this room. "Is that a family recipe?" The moment the question leaves my lips, I realize how quickly I've begun to jump to stereotypes, and my eyes fall to the ball of tinfoil I'm rolling between my thumb and forefinger. But, thankfully, stereotypes are also lost in translation.<br />
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"No. It's just refried beans ... two types. I mix them together. You know?" She is searching to see if we are indeed communicating. "I mix them together and put them on the platter. Then, I make guacamole. Then I put sour cream and taco seasoning."<br />
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I smile and take the next step. "That's your secret ingredient, huh?"<br />
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"That's why it's orange. Do you notice?"<br />
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Even if I didn't (and I didn't), I am compelled to agree, certain now that she has offered this food as a gesture of her love and respect.<br />
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"Then, I put cheese. And also green and red peppers."<br />
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And I tell Rosa that I especially like the peppers. This is not a lie, and I look over again at the beautiful, bright, crisp red and green, the red as red as the t-shirt under Claire's sweater. <br />
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"Did you make the guacamole?"<br />
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"Yes. Do you like?"<br />
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"It's great. I love guacamole. In fact, I was thinking that I would just go ahead and take home the rest of that guacamole with the rest of those chips."<br />
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For a moment, this immigrant mother from Queretaro, Mexico and this replanted Hoosier from the suburbs of Indianapolis actually begin to find common ground. I ask Rosa to tell me what she puts into her guacamole, assuming that in their culture there is still that close distinction between love and food and gifting that once was part of my own family's German heritage - a heritage that we have steadily been unbound from much to our own detriment. We agree that it must begin with fresh avocados. And, I tell her about the guacamole I used to order at El Cholo on Fair Oaks Avenue. I list the ingredients as they appear in my mind - recalling the Latina women there working in their white blouses and flowing dresses: avocado, lime, red onion, cilantro. She is surprised I like cilantro ("Some people don't like"). Rosa tells me that it must have a bit of garlic, and I nod my head in total agreement. And sometimes - she tells me - she adds serrano pepper.<br />
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"Something to turn up the heat?"<br />
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She smiles. "Yes."<br />
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And in this room of Euro-Americans who have now successfully made the transition from poverty to wealth and from to exclusion to comfortable power, Rosa begins to tell me her family's story - of how she and her husband met in Mexico City, of how they traveled north some ten years ago in hopes of finding a better life for their four children, of how two of her boys have done very well here in America and how one is even a 4.0 student here at Indiana University. Pre-medicine she tells me, and proudly lifts a newspaper from her purse that tells the story of her two eldest children - a sophomore and freshman.<br />
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Sure enough, there they are: Chuy Vidaurri-Rodriguez and his brother, Lalo. They are smiling with their arms around one another, and at the top of the page the headline reads: "Second Chances." Rosa is just a proud mother, but she also has a cause. By act of the Indiana House (Bill 1402) and Senate (Bill 590), Chuy and Lalo will no longer be considered state citizens. Anxious to limit the resources provided for the "Undocumented," Chuy and Lalo will soon be paying over $30,000 a year to attend IU instead of just over $8,000. And Rosa does not want her sons to lose their opportunity.<br />
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So she is ready to share with me or anyone else who will listen to this family plight and struggle. This country has meant hope and life for her. It has meant precisely what it meant to the Scottish and German and Irish and English peoples whose descendants now sit around Rosa quietly chatting about the common lamentations and minor joys of ministry. This country has become both her vexation and her deepest comfort; her home of opportunities her old country could never afford even as she wistfully remembers the countryside south of Mexico City that clearly has such power over her heart, stealing her away to her childhood. America has become - by act of complete abandonment - her home, for better and for worse, and she is as much concerned about this nation's future as the Presbyterian octogenarians who quibble over the "direction of our country." Perhaps even more so. She too is now part of its story and its relatively young history, of wave after wave of the dejected, the persecuted, the exploited, and the tired who have faced down their fears, counted their losses and made a bold leap of faith - entrusting their very families to a dream and to a nation that could just as easily turn on them as it might embrace them. <br />
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As I say my goodbye, I take one last look at the joy hidden in Rosa's face, and I wonder at the difference between those who dream and taste of rights beyond anything their forefathers and mothers could have imagined ... and those who have grown certain that such rights are something <i><b>we </b></i>determine and decide and dispense - choosing whom we shall or shall not include as neighbor. And I consider the gift she has offered to us. Unequivocal generosity, I would call it. Kindness of which Christ spoke.<br />
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~Wes <br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-14092662895784175592013-03-04T20:50:00.000-06:002013-03-04T20:50:23.924-06:00HelicopterWyatt's face grew tight, and I could see him trying to hold his bottom lip steady. An impossible task for him as he began to shed his first tears of the evening. <div>
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"I left my remote control on," he sputtered as his chest began to convulse as well.</div>
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"Hold on, Wyatt ... It's okay," I said in hopes of stemming the coming breakdown. "Let's talk about it. What did you leave on?"</div>
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"My remote control for my heli-" Helicopter he was going to say. But, he never got there. The mere utterance brought on a rush of convulsions. My son's emotional state was quickly devolving. We had been here before. Many times. Some small instance in his day, some matter that did not fit the perfect script in his mind, that came back ten-fold at the end of the day. And off he went. Like a helicopter off kilter and spinning wildly towards the ground.</div>
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"It's okay. It's okay." I offered up the assurance mostly for myself, preparing for the journey through this descent, knowing I'd be picking up the pieces the rest of the night. This would not be a quiet evening.</div>
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Forty minutes earlier I had reached into the makeshift closet in the kids' bedroom - pulling out a cardboard copier paper box. It was full of our family's history captured before the era of digital photographs. Nine albums of 4x6 photos dating back to college and through our first two years in Pasadena. </div>
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I returned to the living room intending to prove to Wyatt and Elise that their mother and me once drove from Indiana to California in a rent-a-truck. And those pictures were there. But, before we found them, we were flipping through staged pictures from fraternity parties and memories from the old lake house up on Wawasee. I had unearthed a trove of mysteries and stories, unleashing questions and quandaries for Wyatt: every picture filled with new information, new landscapes, new possibilities, which - in turn - ignited Wyatt's avaricious mind. Unwittingly, I was setting the stage for the later meltdown, navigating my son away from his nightly rhythms and routines and into space that would be too spacious for him to begin a steady march towards quietness of spirit and mind, and - eventually - sleep. Instead, I descended into the photographs myself - pulled into the names gone by, unlocking memories buried deep. So I flipped through page after page.</div>
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It's funny how our mind re-imagines and re-shapes our past, building its own narrative of joy or frustration depending on what images and memories we hold onto. My mind grows content when I thumb through pictures of our days in California, as if the golden rays of sunset in Los Angeles stand as a permanent filter for those days. There was a lot of freedom in those days, and my future was beautifully undetermined. That is why I was ambivalent towards Wyatt as he began to ask me questions. He desired information about the large float dominating Colorado Avenue with its ridiculously bright colors. I, meanwhile, began to enter back into that scene - recalling the fresh air and warm sun on my skin even on the first day of January. He wanted names for faces. I found myself recalling conversations and meals and long hikes in the scrub-brush canyons of Ojai. Memories don't mean anything if they aren't yours. So we gravitated apart. I began to drift further into the past while Wyatt came back to events closer and connected to his own life and experience. At some point, he must have remembered the fluorescent orange helicopter lying on the television room floor; it's power mostly drained and only sufficient to spin its blades for a few seconds before ceasing. There was not even enough juice to lift it off the floor.</div>
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The synapses and connections in his own mind made the dramatic conclusion that the helicopter's failure was his own failure - having already learned at too young of an age how to lay too heavy of a burden of blame and guilt upon his tiny shoulders. </div>
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"I forgot to turn it off," he cried softly. It would grow into a lament that would last another hour.</div>
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What is it in our nature that gravitates towards our shortcomings, seizing upon them and refusing to let them go even at the urgings of those who love us? Is this our fate? What it means to be bound to our depraved nature? Surely, we cannot help but descend at times.</div>
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Thankfully, though, time tempers the harsher critic within us. As an old friend told me, the sharpness of the day is dulled by time and years, the corners of particular disappointments wear down and we are left with memories where we can laugh where we once cried and relax where we once felt impossibly constrained. And we pick up the pictures of our past and remember - for the first time - that life is so wonderfully rich and blessed. Even the failures. Even the rough nights that I will one day remember with an ache of joy in my heart.</div>
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~Wes</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-54574948115606535712013-01-07T09:50:00.000-06:002013-01-07T09:50:45.356-06:00back to school<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We started back to school today. After a much enjoyed holiday week during which we did very, very little, this first week of January will be a doozy!</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-66897022350243083432012-12-26T09:13:00.001-06:002012-12-26T09:13:54.296-06:00Christmas 2012<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>documentation that all four of us truly are alive and well</i></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16938316.post-19984757190685692052012-12-26T09:07:00.002-06:002012-12-26T09:08:46.220-06:00Stihl Girl<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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...helping dad stack wood before the storm...</div>
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