Coming Soon

After a thorough, systematic consultation with my editors and legal consul, I have decided to change the name of this blog to "The Official 'It's Hard to Kiss the Lips at Night That Chew Your Ass Out all Day Long' Weblog." Since posting that blog back on August 29th, I’ve received an average of two visits per day as a result of that post. Even today, December 30, 2004, four lost souls surfing the web stumbled upon these Blobjects in search of insight regarding that “Notorious” song. So who knows, “Blobjects” might have to sell out to the market-driven pull of those longing to hear even more “bad” country music. Oh still my soul, Barry Manilow.

I Thought this was Minnesnowta

Rain, rain go away,
Come again another day.

We should be knee deep
In that precious white snow,
But the grass is now greening,
I may have to mow.

Last week we were teased
with those falling wind-chills,
I turned on the furnace
while dreading the heat bills.

But it gave me real hope
that the precip would stay,
And whiten the landscape
and brighten our day.

But instead we are faced
With a fate more absurd,
Our lawns are all naked,
(So we send out a plea,
Send what you can, but)
Down-filled blankets are preferred.

And paint them up white,
So the geese will all know,
That it’s time to head south,
And poop on some other plateau.

Now to guard my dignity
While bringing an end to this,
I’ll save face by signing it,
They call him anonymous.

Fifteen Candles

No one does it better than the Swansmith. It is worth the read. She has spoken well of our new 15 year-old. Part girl, part woman, completely complicated. But we love her so.

Strange Brew by John Deering
December 25, 2004

by John Deering
December 25, 2004

The Night Before Christmas

I found this in the Minneapolis Star Tribune on Christmas Eve. I would have posted it then, but I was busy actually watching the game. It was in fact a very exciting, well-played game, but the end result was so predictable. Pastor Peter may not be a prophet, but he came awfully close.

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the church, Not a creature was stirring; I know, 'cause I searched:
The Packers and Vikings at 2 in the aft --
A Friday? The Yuletide? Was Tagliabue daft?

The faithful were nestled in front of their tubes,
No worship, no carols, no church for these rubes.
They believed in their Vikings and because of their meds,
Visions of Super Bowls danced in their heads.

Mom with her Norse braids and Dad his Vikes cap,
They all settled down for Matt Birk's first snap.
When what to their glazed-over eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, holding eight tiny beers.

On the field was their driver, more naughty than nice,
It was clear in a moment it must be Mike Tice.
With his pencil in place and a scheme for this game,
He whistled and shouted and called out their names;

"Now, Daunte! Now, Randy! Now, Mewelde and Mixon!
Good offense, bad defense, oh well, just go blitz 'em."
The chess match with Sherman began in the first,
But if Tice had two choices, he always chose worse.

By halftime the score was so on one side,
That the exits were filled, no more Purple Pride.
In a suite all in purple, from his toe to his head,
With a map of Los Angeles, it had to be Red.

The governor! The Legislature! There was no one to blame,
So Red gathered his family and got back on his plane.
When the third quarter started with a touchdown by Favre,
Dad started looking for a turkey to carve.

Mom said, "Why rush it? No need to be nervous,
If we hurry we'll make it, the 4 o'clock service."
So Dad sprang from his armchair, gave the family a whistle,
He was ready to trade his remote for a missal.

When back at the church there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the pulpit to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
And saw hundreds of people, some in a mad dash.

They wore face paint and jerseys, 84 and 11,
Their sole focus now was on worship and heaven.
They spoke not a word, but went straight to their seats.
Chagrined and repentant they were soon off their feet.

The crowds they kept coming, some glad, others lonely,
No scalpers, but still, it was standing room only.
I tightened my cincture and welcomed the throng,
Then "Joy to the World," an exuberant song.

The lessons and carols, the Lord's sacrament,
The game now forgotten in this blessed event.
No steroids, no trash talk, no outrageous salaries,
Just a stable and shepherds. Just Joseph and Mary.

For a few too short moments there was peace on the earth,
Experiencing the glory of our dear Savior's birth.
The benediction was sounded and I dwelled in the sight,
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Peter Geisendorfer-Lindgren is a pastor at Lord of Life Lutheran Church in Maple Grove.

Move Over Switzerland

Land of the Endearing Treats

If you think the Swiss have the best confectionaries in the world, think again. I truly believe the Japanese are the reigning champs when it comes to sophisticated sweets. I am sitting here indulging in both fine confections and fine coffee (probably from hills of Columbia.) I need no other presents this fast-approaching weekend.

Tradition

Tradition, tradition. I’m starting to feel sad about something I think might have become like a tradition. For more Christmases than not in the past decade, my immediate family (plus an exchange student from some far off country) has traveled south. South to where it’s a little warmer, but more importantly south to where Suzi’s side of the family hides from the snow. I think these feelings of sadness are spawned by more than the bitter wind blowing the sub-zero air over my hairless head. (For in some sick way, I actually enjoy the “refreshing” experience of breathing in moist air that freezes my nose hairs.) I’m gonna miss the wife’s kin, even the ones that talk funny.

About a month ago we started discussing our Christmas break plans and found out that our ever aging boys were becoming ever more committed with their involvement in their music bands. Both boys had scheduled gigs which required that they stay at home the week following Christmas. This made it a little more difficult to find the time to escape the homefront for a while. That along with the fact that we’ve been playing some musical cars these past months prompted us to forgo any plans to visit Tennessee. We hated the thought of leaving our boys behind to fend for themselves. Yet dragging everyone along without our conversion van didn’t sound real appealing either. So staying put is what we are about this Christmas 2004.

Turns out that with the holidays falling on Saturdays, the expectations of many contractors are a little different than what they have been the past few years. Most are hating to miss an entire week between Xmas and NYD and have scheduled work for most of that in-between-week. So I’m once again buried with work and trying to put a positive spin on it by realizing the boys need the hours to earn some extra cash.

But looking back over the past Christmases we’ve come to love “Tennessee Christmases,” even though (as Amy Grant says) they don’t get to see much snow on their roofs. I’ll miss being treated like a king, sleeping in late, having coffee-drinking partners, not hearing my cell phone ring, and fun heart-to-hearts around the Christmas tree.

Not that we don’t enjoy our Minnesota Christmases with the Minnesota clan, but we’ll have to request that the timman’s side be especially nice to us this year as we deal with our Tennessee Christmas withdrawal. Or is that withDRAWL?

failure

Actually a complete failure. Nothing worth reading here today. Not even a complete sentence. Only fragments. Done.

20 Gigs of substance 

What a wacky weekend.

I haven’t the time or energy to write of the wild turns of this past weekend but I will mention one event, which just happened and is fresh on my mind.

In the past few weeks I’ve meant to rave about my fairly new audio toy, the Apple iPod. For me, it’s technology at its best, even though some audiophiles say it doesn’t hold a candle to “real vinyl.” To have 162 albums (so far) at my disposal with the simple click of a button has helped calm my nerves on my many “too-slow” commutes around town. It’s helped me avoid endless commercials or repetitive talk shows or overplayed singles. Besides where else can you have instant access to 116 Weird Al Yankovic songs--that’s 7 hours and 10 minutes of pure aural pleasure?

But something happened this evening to shatter my hi-tech nirvana. The Warden and I were traveling home after our small group meeting and about 9:30 p.m. my little white marvel locked up. It wouldn’t play Andrae Crouch, U2, the Beatles, Bach, Rich Mullins, Cat Stevens, Bob Dylan, B.B. King, the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, the Chicago Symphony, or even Weird Al. Nobody! It locked up on a Larry Norman song. The eerie thing was that it locked up on his song “666.” Oooooooooo. Has someone been tampering with my iPod? I guess I’m open to any legitimate conspiracy theories.

Fortunately this is Christmas week and all the stores are open late. Our trip home leads us past a Best Buy, so at 9:45 I run into the store with 15 minutes to spare searching for answers. The guy who sells the iPods sends me to the Geek Squad where I receive wise counsel and reassurance that my new toy is only in need of resetting. However this can only be done by letting the battery run out. So I brought my pod home and watched as the brightly displayed screen drained the life out of the battery. Now with the battery dead, I plugged it back in and viola. My massive audio library is now saved and accessible. I can crawl into bed and rock myself to sleep to the sounds of “Slime Creatures From Outer Space,” “The Night Santa Went Crazy,” or “Harvey The Wonder Hamster.”

Thank you Apple. Thank you Geek Squad. And God bless America.

To Blog or Not to Blog

That IS the question. The fact that you are reading this lets you in on the answer. My sister-in-law, to whom I am a junior in years, wisdom, and discipline, added a humorous comment recently, inquiring about a possible “writer’s blogck.” I wish this were the case. My issue of late has been more of a “time blogck,” blogcked from time to even read my own dear wife’s words of wisdom.

As frequent visitors to this site have figured out, the inspiration to write is often at a disconnect with the ability to actually sit at the keyboard. When time permits, the muses hide far away. And of course, when great insights occur, time is ripped from my fingers. At least that’s a convenient excuse as to why I see my profoundest thoughts as those that never make it into actual words.

But knowing that our Christmas letter is soon arriving at the homes of friends and family and knowing that Raven somehow included our blog addresses, I figured that I should have something current to view at this site for those interested. So here it is.

At least Raven likes it. Or at least I think he does. Often times when I’m at the computer he will come in the office and sit next to me and glance up at me and the screen. He always has a look of approval and sometimes amazement in his eyes. Once in a while he will even bark, which I like to translate as a hearty “Amen” from the good German shepherd. Maybe he likes to think of himself as my editor. I better keep that on the hush hush from the Warden. (She is after all the much better editor.)

So for those visiting for the first time as a result of our Christmas letter, welcome. May you find time this Christmas season to find time, time to rest and reflect on God’s goodness and gracious gifts which He bestows on us daily. May we all be cheerful receivers of all He has to offer.

Holy Redundancy

Write something.

Blogging Basics

Write something.

False Alarm

No Snow

Snow Coming????

Two vehicles in one garage--------finally!

Happy 2445th Week of Life

Yes, darling, you are another week older. And yes this is a pre-emptive strike to prevent another hijacking of my blog.

Birthday Surprise

I’ve got a birthday surprise for my wife—NO BLOG. Wait, that’s not going to work. I’ve already started writing this, and it’s related to her birthday and I wish she has (now I must confess, I should have said “had” since I’m actually not writing this on her birthday, but rather the day following, early Sunday morning. And I’m pre-dating it so that it looks like I was prompt in my birthday wishes. So really this could be filed under “belated birthday.” And as such I could draw upon all kinds of great humor in that section of the b-day cards aisle. But I’m going to pretend that I was responsible and got this blog in on time. So where was I? Oh, yeah. . .) a wonderful 47th birthday.

So what could the surprise be? I bought her a web-cam for her computer, so she can now show her smile to the admiring world. But she was kind of expecting that, I think. And besides I didn’t hide it very well, and she found it before her birthday. And I’ve been working in the garage all day long trying to get it ready for a second car and a real working laundry tub and hopefully heat, but she knows all about that.

I didn’t short-sheet the bed.
I didn’t send any sweet message concerning her to the newspaper.
I didn’t buy her the flowers that she received from her sister (although I tried to think of a way to take credit)
I did take her out for supper.
I did make my own sandwich for lunch.
I did run numerous errands and filled up the gas tank in her vehicle.

But what could be the birthday surprise? Maybe I’ll have to wait a day to think about it. Or could it be . . . ?

Maybe Tomorrow

Still no snow.

If you look real close you can see a few snowflakes against Luke's black truck. Squinting helps! But then again, maybe I was hallucinating after all that turkey and pumpkin pie.

Thanks

Thank you God for countless blessings. Your goodness has been heaped upon me in more ways than I know, for I find new examples each day.

You have given me a family heritage of true compassion, one that has always shown me that I matter and am cared for, one that has encouraged me to venture out and try new things, but at the same time being there when I need support and comfort. And I’ve had the fortune of marrying in to a family which gave my beloved a similar foundation of support and encouragement. As a result, our life together has been deeper and richer (and probably easier too) thanks to her like heritage.

And I am also grateful for the civic heritage that I too often take for granted. Despite all the challenges which are a natural part of any earthly society, our nation has provided us with more freedoms, more opportunities, more good will, and more material blessings than any other place in the world. Our forefathers sacrificed much to set into motion a place that by recorded history’s standards is truly unique. God has richly blessed, and probably spoiled, us.

But most important, I treasure the spiritual heritage which has been passed down to me. I have been loved beyond measure by a Lord and Savior that gave His very life through a painful sacrifice. Each day I see the clear love of Jesus through the sacrificial, devoted lives of his followers and through an awesome creation that is continually being made new. Each walk through the woods, or glance over a lake, or look into the starry heavens, or even time spent watching an underwater nature special on TV makes me realize the bounty of his love. May they always bring praises to my heart.

So may I always be thankful, living a life of gratitude and service each and every day. May a joyful gratitude and hopeful charity be hallmarks of my life as a natural outgrown of that which I’ve received; and may I pass that on to my kids as they too realize how much they have to give thanks for.

Tack gode Gud.

Fresh from the garage

So I ended up back in the garage to burn some calories. Digging through an old box I found a 13-file folder contraption that held all of our receipts for the year 1984. That was before Luke and only our second year of marriage, back when we were organized. My best find was a receipt from a small music retailer that had started selling microwaves. Our first microwave, which cost us a whopping 350 bucks (in 1984 dollars!!!), was purchased on a 90 days same as cash contract. We bought it from a company that had just switched their official name to Best Buy Co.; that name was on the receipt next to the larger d.b.a. Sound of Music. They no longer use the Sound of Music name, but I hear they still have an awesome selection of stereo gear.
Our financial situation has improved such that we no longer need to take out loans to buy our microwaves. Heck, we didn’t even sign a contract to buy our last toaster oven. And I think we might have even paid cash for the last can opener. Life in the kitchen is good (as long as I stay clear, that is.)

And I guess that is why I am now blogging again. The Swansmith is busy in the kitchen preparing for a wonderful Thanksgiving meal, and one of the few places I am safe in the house is here. She holds blogging in such high esteem that if I am blogging, I am exempt from other home chores. For you see, I am now being “productive.” I am creating something of worth. (Alright, cut the giggles and chuckles.) I am giving the woman of the house something to read. And that makes it o.k. to sit on my butt. So the longer I blog, the longer I can stave off requests from the “Warden” to slice apples or peel potatoes or engage in other non-timman-type work.

And finally, the Swanmeister would want you to know that yes, it was a G.E. microwave. And for those of you interested it was a model 212, a very good model indeed. And if I remember right, it was so big that we had to purchase a special microwave cart just to hold it. That cart long out-lasted the microwave, and it was re-born as a TV shelf, and later as a computer desk.

Well I sense a chance to break now, either sneaking back to the garage or into the sack to rest up for a busy day of over-eating. The superior sex is still slaving away in the kitchen and I’m trying not to feel guilty. And it’s working. So there. I have my work cut out for me tomorrow as I have to eat all that food. I better get right to bed. Good night.

Forever Green?

Chicago, quit stealing our snow! As I sit here in my Twin Cities office I lament at all the green grass I see out my window. I’m almost getting the itch to GO OUT AND MOW. Oh well, I’ll have to get my exercise some other way. No shoveling, no mowing, raking done—I might have to volunteer some help in the kitchen. Whoa!! No, no, no! What could I be thinking? The mind is not willing, so the flesh better go play hide-and-seek. Dear Lord, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

Again becoming one with the Canucks

Ah the wonderful bite of a cold November gale, encouraging one (like me) to stay inside and do what people inside do. Blog.

Blogging subjects or objects (or even Blobjects) have been creating traffic jams in my head for some time now, so maybe with more favorable weather in the near future, I’ll find time to transfer some thoughts to screen.

As a glorious November has passed from tee shirt weather (at least for us Nordic types) to a hint (no make that strong suggestion) of winter, the focus is inward. Clean the garage and the office and torment the wife and kids about cleaning their spaces. Pitch and shred and shovel and sweep, sneeze. Pitch and shred and shovel and sweep, cough. So it’s been a while. The gray clouds outside make all the colors inside a little brighter and warmer.

It’s good to have the election evolving into ancient history, but before it does I need to boast about our little town of Robbinsdale’s voting turnout numbers—96.7%. And I believe that only counts living voters. So Chicago, don’t try to impress us with your 110% turnout.

And then there's the unity factor. Our ward one council member received a whopping 100% of the vote. Not a single soul wrote in the Swanmeister. :(

W.W.S.D.

What Will Suzi Describe? This evening the kids and I encouraged the Swansmith to tag along as we visited the Loaves and Fishes program at River of Life Lutheran in north Minneapolis. Seeing that I’m clairvoyant, I predict that she will write about (or at least mention) our evening outing. She will say that it was not as scary as she thought it would be. She will mention that we had beef stroganoff. And carrots. And bread, white or wheat. And cupcakes for dessert.

She will tell us that we sat at a table with Carl, the 70-something gentleman with the one bedroom apartment that now has two formerly homeless guys living under his roof. Guy number two, Les, also sat with us. His drug of choice is the bottle.

One thing I picked up on tonight was the camaraderie of those on the streets. Although I would guess that most of those who show up have places to live, a fair amount do not. It was a little like a high school reunion for some of those who sat close to us. In seeing familiar faces, they had some checking up to do.

Today the weather was quite mild for middle November, 50ish without the help of Mr. Sun. Or I should rather say despite the day-long fog and cloud cover. So it wasn’t too tough saying good-byes to some who were on their way back to their chosen outdoor hiding spots. Steve and I prayed with one guy who had several months ago attended a recovery group led by Steve. He just got back out of jail having served all his time and wanted Steve to know why he hadn’t been back at the group meeting. He came to the free meal with a brother and cousin and we were thankful that they could look out for each other. Although I wonder what kind of influences they will be on him as he tries again to wean himself from the bottle.

Well, enough said for this week. I will now anxiously await the wisdom and insight from the Swansmith. She will fill in the details and flush out the big picture and generally with precision and succinctness tell us what really transpired tonight. But we must wait. We must cultivate patience as we await the morning and read what Suzi will write. And she will write with gladness in her heart, for I have blogged, and she has an insight into my staid Scandinavian mind. Now if only I would clean the garage!

Melba

I dropped by Melba’s apartment last night on my way home from River of Life Lutheran Church. My son Mark and I have stopped by this church in north Minneapolis a number of times these past two weeks. They open their basement kitchen each weekday to Loaves and Fishes, a program that serves free supper meals between 5:30 and 6:30. We heard about the program through a couple from our church that has made this a nightly event for themselves. They hang out, some times eating, but always listening, and usually praying with those who are interested. They are the ones who first met Dale (see October 21) a few months ago when he was still living on the streets, and subsequently found shelter for him, sharing a room with 70-something Carl.

But back to Melba. She lives only a few blocks north of that church. And she was married more than 60 years to Phil; together they were pillars in our former church. They also hold a special place in our family’s collective heart. My personal Warden, the blogologist Swansmith, wrote about Phil a few days ago. While cleaning in the office, she had found a letter written by Phil on Sunday. I was also cleaning, but out in the garage. And I too came across a letter from Phil. (We never throw away any letters! And I’m not even talking letters as in correspondences to us. If a letter is part of a word and on paper, we save it, yea rescue it. Whether in book form, or magazines, or newspapers, or napkins, or backs of envelopes, we grieve when any text [sacred or not] is marched out our front door to the recycling bin.) With wonderful penmanship and thoughtfulness and sincerity, he brought joy and encouragement to our lives at the time of the letters’ original arrival and now many years later.

So in the back of my mind I renewed my effort to stop by Melba’s and tell her of our finds. As I stood in the lobby of her building last night it took a while to explain who I was—her hearing aid was in the other room. Upon retrieving it, she recognized my voice and gladly buzzed me in. We had a wonderful visit.

I should have know better than to expect her parked in front of the tube. She was busy getting ready for Thanksgiving. A group of more than 27 would be descending upon her apartment in about two weeks. She had so much she wanted to get done to have the place properly welcoming. And it’s not like she can do this preparation during the day. For the daytime is for hopping buses all-around town. That morning she caught a bus outside her building and took it all the way to the other end of town for a Ladies workshop and luncheon. It was at a college in a St. Paul suburb, so it must have required numerous transfers. She’s a daring lady at 87.

We reminisced about her husband who died about two years ago and her son who died about a year before that. Of course I knew her husband Phil very well, but only said quick hellos to her son over the years. He was a dozen or more years my senior and our paths only crossed at special church functions, such as Christmas smorgasbords and anniversary celebrations. The son’s funeral is one that Suzi and I attended and one that we are forever grateful that we did. I only wished that we had known him better. It was about the strangest mix of people I’ve ever been apart of. At the center of the funeral home was a drum circle with Native Americans in full regalia, friends with whom he had worked. He was a musician who did not know a style of music he didn’t like. He was involved in everything from a rock band to a gospel quartet. And he was a successful engineer and inventor with eight prestigious patens to his name. We were surprised to run into a fellow AFS host parent at the funeral. This guy had known him well and played with him in, I believe, a Blues band.

But Melba’s doing well. She’s too busy to dwell on the hardships of these past few years. She’s on the go, gallivanting around town, riding buses I don’t know that I would dare ride. And she’s well on her way to being ready for Thanksgiving. With the literally hundreds of pictures on her walls of family and friends, she has much to be thankful for. And come Thanksgiving her tiny apartment will be stuffed like a golden brown turkey, but filled with love and good memories.

Z(ed)

At the prompting of my Canadian brother and mentor I must proceed. His comment on Saturday’s blog was a preemptive strike and it appears to have worked. For Zed it is. I’m learning Canadian slowly and someday hope to speak it fluently, eh?

With the influence put forth from the north and the sequential necessity to end this non-sense, I write today of Zebra stripes. Upon leaving our front door last night to allow our dog to make his mark in the world, the Swansmith and I looked up and were struck by bright patterns in the western sky. They looked like northern lights, but we were facing the wrong direction. (“Didn’t feel like north!” Sorry for that bad inside joke.) So we walked on. We headed northeast and gazed northward toward Canada. No geese, but plenty of light, all around us and directly overhead. They looked like undulating zebra stripes, mostly white but with a strong greenish tint. In my past experiences with northern lights, they’ve always been tied to the horizon, shooting upward to the sky. But this time I could stare straight up and see the free show. They were waving at us like the stripes of the flag. Of course we had to summon the kids. And they came. And were impressed. Tough to do with teen-agers.

Zee End. Or iz that Zed end.

awesome photo by Minneapolis StarTribune photojournalist 

Y

Y
Because I need practice with the alphabet
Y now
Because it’s the next letter
Y me
Because we love you (M-i-c-k-e-y)
Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy(ne)
Because I’m the father
Y me
Because I said so
Y not
Because I’m sequential

X

the next blog

W

Love

fresh from the oven

This is how Suzi showed her love amongst our family: She baked and baked and baked. And there appeared out of our oven not one, not two, but lo three apple pies. And they became a temptation to all who were near. As the fragrance of cinnamon and apples filled the house, we all partook and were satisfied. And she has been called blessed. And for all of us who shared in the same pie (with ice cream, of course), we shall all anticipate the same sound rest as we approach our beds with stomachs filled and faces grinning.

taylor made quote

"So they like Jerry Lewis in France. Does that make him funny?" -- Steve Taylor

ipod

Make it Idiot Proof,
And someone will made a better Idiot.
(Idiot Proof Operating Devise?)

"there's so much beauty around us for just two eyes to see"

And come darkness, the sounds and feel of fallen leaves rustling under foot make it easy to embrace fall.

Tree Fire

Still Yellow 

Fallen Reds 

The Content of the Retreat

The actual retreat: of course we spent time playing paintball, and Frisbee golf, and skeet shooting, and board games, and eating, and snacking, and football, and ping pong, and basketball, but the content of the retreat is probably of most interest. I don’t know to whom, but at least there’s more to say about the topics of the weekend’s discussions than a recounting of my strategy in the numerous board games. (My gaming strategy by the way is “play offense, be aggressive.”)

The weekend’s topic: in a word—love. Of course promoting the weekend as a love-fest or love-in or love-study would probably not sell as well as the official title for the weekend, which was “Born to Be Wild: Unleashing the Warrior Within.” How’s that for something that guys can get excited about?

Friday night’s session started with a look at God, explaining how the “wildness” within us is a reflection of the wildness of a creator who made billions upon billions of stars, and countless species of animals and plants and mineral formations. His creativity is boundless, but so is His love in that we’re showered with it daily. The evening’s call was to live passionately (with wildness) because of how we were created and who created us. Don’t allow the prevailing culture to lull us into a boring mediocrity. As a benediction for the evening, the speaker Greg Boyd walked up to the drum set and closed the evening with a five minute drum solo. There’s nothing like pounding on a set of drums to rile up a bunch of guys.

Saturday morning Boyd woke us up to fact that there’s a war going on. Thus the need for warriors. But he spent most of his time developing a proper picture of what a Christian warrior should look like and what should be the proper role or plan of attack. He blasted at the common notion of the Christian warrior as seen in, say the Crusades or other manifestations of a civil religion. And he countered a mentality which puts Christians on the defensive. In his look at Matthew 16 where the apostle Peter makes his confession of faith, he asked us how we viewed Christ’s charge to Peter. So often we picture this text (I know I’ve viewed it this way) as one where we are challenged to stand firm in our faith and as a result the church will not be overtaken by the all the evils of hell in this world. His question: are gates offensive or defensive weapons? Of course gates are meant to protect from others, not to go on the offensive. The conclusion he drew: as a result of the cross, Satan has been defeated; and we are to be on the attack against evil wherever we find it. It is "hell" that should be on the defensive.

The one and only weapon we should use or need use is the same one that Jesus used on the cross: love. Self-sacrificing love is the most effective weapon against the evil one. That was Boyd’s challenge as we gathered up for the afternoon activity of shooting each other.

Saturday evening we were challenged to look at our identity. We read from Genesis 3 and discussed the Fall (not the autumn kind.) We are complete in God and need not chase after idols, temptations in this world. They only serve to tame us. Drawing from Dietrich Bonhoeffer he presented the case that the tree of the knowledge of good and evil is the temptation to put ourselves in the seat of judgment, deciding what is right and wrong, good and bad. Acting in judgmentalism needs to be replaced by acting in love. Instead of trying to determine another person’s degree of goodness or rightness (badness or wrongness), we need to approach them with love. In the same way that we have received love from above, we need to respond to others in like manner. Love those who love us, but also love those who are enemies.

Boyd’s actual words are better than my attempt to summarize: “We [in the church] have failed to understand and internalize the biblical teaching that our fundamental sin is not our evil—as though the solution for sin was to become good—but our getting life from what we believe is our knowledge of good and evil. Our fundamental sin is that we place ourselves in the position of God and divide the world between what we judge to be good and what we judge to be evil. And this judgment is the primary thing that keeps us from doing the central thing God created and saved us to do, namely, love like he loves.”

The final session Sunday morning asked the practical questions of how this gets implemented. What is real and true and honest and how do we achieve them? The answer is not in a trying harder solution. Our minds needs to be transformed to seeing things the way God does, rather than trying to “will things” with our own might.

He gave the example of how he had easy access to pornography as a kid and never questioned its evil until he came to Christ. Then through a relationship with Jesus he was confronted by its harmful effects on him. He tried for years to resist through sheer will power, but continued to fail. It was only through seeing porn as Christ sees it that the desire began to fade. He had a dream in which one of the glossy pictures was covered from head to toe in vomit and feces and phlegm and insects and rodents. That new picture in his mind made it so repulsive that resisting became easier. As we abide or walk with Christ he will change how we see evil.

I hope that’s a fair assessment of what Boyd taught. If and when time allows, I’ll try to provide some commentary and reflection. But for now my fingers have gotten enough exercise. It’s time for my legs to get their share. Hey Raven, want to go for a walk?

Another Fun-lovin’ Dale

The story of the men’s retreat that my boys and I attended last weekend needs to start prior to the time that we arrived at Covenant Pines Bible Camp. I received a call about noon last Friday from a friend (the original F’in’ Dale) telling me how communication broke down and they were already on the road to camp without this guy who was supposed to ride with them. Could I help?


Well I explained how busy I was at work, running late as always. I told him to have this other Dale give me a call. Nobody could find a way to reach him, and I sure didn’t have time to search for him. Long story short, only dead-ends for most of the afternoon. I awaited a call from Dale T., but none came. As I worked on the last job of the day I began to think: this Dale guy is rooming with a 70-something gentleman from church named Carl. Carl and I like to talk after church and almost a month ago we exchanged phone numbers in hopes that we would be able to have lunch together some time. I wonder if I have that phone number in my wallet and I wonder if I could reach Dale there. Sure enough, I found the number, made the call and Dale answered.

“Need a ride,” I asked. “Boy do I ever. I was just beginning to think that maybe God did not want me to go on the retreat this weekend.”

We made quick arrangements. I was working only a mile from their apartment. I swung by in my work van, he was waiting in the front yard--sleeping bag, leather jacket, and guitar in hand. Then it was off to my house where the Warden had a freshly baked apple pie in the oven. Was I at the right house? Apparently I was, for Mark was packed and ready to go. The pie was delicious by the way.

In due course the four of us headed north in my Tundra: Dale riding shotgun, the boys in the back seat and myself navigating. We didn’t need the radio on the way up. Dale could give Christina a run for her money. He’s quite the talker and very interesting. His life story is quite opposite of mine, yet as he spoke we realized that our paths have crossed numerous times throughout the years even though we didn’t recognize each other.

Dale’s highs and lows have been much more extreme than mine and I tend to be skeptical of those with stories such as his, but as he spoke I was able to verify so much of what he had to say because I knew the characters and the places. He appears to be a truthful straight-shooter. We graduated the same year from high school and even attended the same schools, although he jumped back and forth between many schools whereas I stayed put in each school for the allotted number of years. And we had friends in common during those school years.

But then more amazing, even as he graduated and moved to the opposite end of the Metro, we found out that we spent the next decade or so working on the same building projects, he as a carpenter, me slinging mud. But then a back injury forced him out of that line of work into driving truck and managing delivery services. Things went well for many years until his son ended up in the hospital, which started a snowball effect of tragedy upon tragedy, leaving him divorced, addicted to crack and living on the streets for most of 2004. A couple from church found him about seven weeks ago at a shelter and arranged for Carl to give him shelter until he could get back on his feet.

I could go into much greater detail, but I better let this summary suffice lest I never get to writing about the actual retreat. And even that will have to wait for another day. But let it be known that our ride to camp was accomplished with no radio and no Christina, and the boys did not even wear headphones hooked into their MP3 or CD players. God had brought Dale out of a dizzying experience and it was good for us to hear about it.

Avoiding Hijacking

L-e-t-’-s- -s-e-e. H-o-w- -d-o- -I- -d-o- -t-h-i-s- -a-g-a-i-n?

I am too tired to write anything, but the Warden has threatened to hijack my blog again, so I must at least enter something.

I have not the energy to summarize the past weekend, although yesterday’s comment “Wow” is a good synopsis. All I can do now is affirm the rumor that the guys get steak and shrimp. (Sorry gals, but chicken is better for you!!!!!) It is true, although they do not serve cocktail sauce with the jumbo shrimp. This is but one of the hardships we endured this weekend.

I hope to say more soon.

The Land of Carcasonne 

"I have been staring at these little cardboard pieces for way too long." 

Too much fun 

facing the fact that Tim beat him at a board game 

This is what happens when you try to survive on 3 hours of sleep 

Wow

Hijacking this post

This is the Timman's wife. Otherwise known as the Warden, or Swansmith or Suzi. I am hijacking Tim's post while he is out of town. That's right. He's 120 miles away, whooping it up at a men's retreat. Playing paintball and board games up north while I'm trying to hold thigns together down here.

I am hoping he will post soon, but I had to do something before he loses his readership entirely. So, here's a few words to tie you over until he returns. Between organizing his new office and his new truck, he claims he has no time to blog. Now, when he gets back from this retreat, he will claim he has even less time because he has to catch up from all the stuff he could have been doing at home while he was, in fact, gone.

Don't worry. I think he'll be back. Maybe he'll even post pictures of crazy men running through the northwoods. Or perhaps a picture of Christina on horseback last weekend.

Thanks for your patience. Please stay tuned.

Till next time,

(oh.......that's how I sign my blogs)

I guess I 'll just say, for Tim, signed, his favorite wife

Two white (tan-challenged) chicks looking for Huck Finn & Jim

Discharged on Friday

My weeks’ service at the nursing home is complete. And I have to admit to missing it a bit. The Warden claims that I was getting “too much attention” from the gray-haired set. I guess I never should have mentioned “Esther.” I did find one resident who was under 50, but she left on Thursday after spending two weeks recuperating from an accident. I did feel especially young throughout the week, even though a head cold descended upon me around Wednesday.

The middle of the week also brought some sad news in our family as we heard of the passing of my brother-in-laws’ mom. She was a contemporary to many that I worked around (literally) during the week. I thought of Fran as I received the multitude of smiles and gracious hellos as I continuously walked the halls going from room to room. Fran was like another grandmother to our kids, always remembering them and asking about their progress. (Our kids are truly spoiled, or better stated “blessed,” with two sets of devoted grandparents and other supportive and concerned senior adults. Well, on second thought, they probably need that to deal with their parents.)

But back to the “care center.” This place, which is operated by the Volunteers of America, has an amazing positive spirit. Words of encouragement and laughter were common in the halls, and it seemed genuine. In the schedule were at least daily hymn sings, Bible studies, or worship services, along with reading from the newspaper, sing-a-longs, craft sessions and scores of other events that were well-attended. I would sometimes plan my work in certain rooms to be near to where the music was being sung, especially the hymns.

I did have to endure something this week, however, that I can normally avoid—daytime television. Usually the TVs were left on in the rooms as the residents were off doing other things. Not many were actually watching the tubes. And that’s good. The garbage on the screen provided a stark contrast to the overall good-natured atmosphere present in the halls and commons. This wasn’t the worst example, but I do remember Regis, and whoever his sidekick is, oooh and ahhh over some Hollywood bimbo I’ve never heard of and how great she looked in her $10,000 dresses. I’m glad I have a day job.

One sad encounter was with a blind lady whose room I visited repeatedly one day. She was awaiting a ride to take her shopping at 1 p.m. I was working on her walls before and during and after that time. She would continually inquire as to the time and wonder what happened. As the hour arrived and passed I continually tried to offer her hope (the day’s rain might have hampered traffic, I said.) However, her ride never came. Her day was spent a little like the characters in Beckett’s novel “Waiting for Godot.” The good news though is that the following day she was gone. I’m assuming that her ride did come, maybe she had the day mixed up or maybe her ride did. But I’ll go on assuming that they hooked up and enjoyed an outing together.

Next week my job will go back to “normal,” just me and the walls, with no worries of dropping mud on individuals or in beds. But I’ll probably miss the constant hellos and the sweet refrains of “Amazing Grace” coming from the adjoining rooms.

Finally Advancing to a Nursing Home

I was planning to have a slow week at work—finally. But. A buddy called last Friday to see if I could squeeze in a job near home. I agreed to and am spending my week at a “Care Center.” My assignment began at 6:45 Monday morning as I met the “sup” for the job. He had never worked in a “retirement home” before, so he was eager to tell me all about it, what to look out for and what to expect. He wanted to warn me about “Esther” who was continually putting the moves on him. (He assumed that she was after all the guys and wanted me to be prepared, but after two days I’ve come to realize that she is not after all the guys, and I am safe. This 80-something gal is after him, continually asking about this 40 year-old guy with all his hair, wondering when he’ll be back.)

This job supervisor’s warnings along with some initial encounters with staff got me wondering what I had gotten myself into. Needing some water early Monday morning, I looked in vain for a janitor’s sink. Finally I chased down a maintenance guy pushing a floor polisher to ask for water. This character looked like he had come straight from the zombie film, “Night of the Living Dead.” He made no response to my question, but continued walking, pushing the machine in front of him, staring straight ahead. He walked about 30 feet and then stopped, reached for a door handle, opened it, and then continued walking. It sure seemed he was happy to be there. But after two full days I’m finding it quite delightful.

This morning I was anxious to tackle another unit. I’m working on a total of 12 rooms plus a few patches in the stairways. It was raining outside; the rooms were dark, since the drapes had not yet been pulled. I brought in some of my tools and materials to the first room of the day and a funky odor overcame me. The room looked vacant, but I looked toward the “ladies’ room” in the back to see if someone was using the facilities. Nobody was in there. I decided to open the curtains. The room was brightening as the smell was intensifying. Ah ha! The culprit lay beneath me. I had been straddling a stool, and not one upon which I’d like to sit. I informed the staff and they were gracious enough to quickly remove the offending article, but the stench seemed to linger well past the time I was in there.

My 3 o’clock hour at the “old folk’s home” today was a treat, since I got to hear a well-done hymn sing from the commons area, the music loud enough that it drifted into the room where I finished up the day.

I’m finding that the biggest challenge is turning out to be the “convalescence home” heat, temperatures high enough to make the folks think they are in Florida. When nobody’s looking I sometimes crack open a window to get a little fresh air. But other than that, the overall mood and atmosphere is very upbeat and I’m looking forward to heading back tomorrow to once again play in the mud.

The ?

PBS had a worthwhile program last night called “The Question of God.” TiVo allowed me to watch it late last night. (We’ve had TiVo for over a year now, having succumb to my two brothers’ insistence that it is so much better than a VCR—I agree. And what the Warden did not think we needed she uses more than me. Thank heaven honey.) But back to the show.

The program is based on a course taught by Armand Nicholi, a psychiatry professor at Harvard University. He has his students examine the lives and writings of two individuals with opposite conclusions about the ultimate questions of life, namely Sigmund Freud and C.S. Lewis. The program featured actual photos of the two at different stages of their lives. And it used some believable actors who recited some of their more noteworthy quotes.

In between the short segments which explained these two’s divergent views a panel of thoughtful folk from varying perspectives offered their commentary on the topic at hand. It was fair-handed and balanced. Everyone seemed to get an equal say, and no one shouted over anyone else. (Where is Chris Matthews when you need him? Just kidding. It was fun to see some civility this time of year.) Instead of getting on soapboxes, the panel members were actually trying to directly answer questions raised by the other members of the panel.

I think part of the reason the format of this show worked so well is that the two individuals whose ideas were discussed set such a high standard in the clarity of their own thoughts. They had both been well versed in the positions which they ultimately rejected. They knew well their “enemy.” And thus, they weren’t ones to give simplistic answers to their philosophical foes.

The worldviews at which these two men finally arrived cannot be more different. Complete rationalism (or materialism or scientism) as advocated by Freud and an historic Christianity open to supernatural intervention posited by Lewis. The distinctions were quite clear.

The theory that the host proposes though is that all of us as individuals waver to some degree between these two poles. Because of this, he was continually prying into the lives of those on the panel, encouraging them to tell their own stories. He continued to ask about their histories and the development of their worldviews. We never get Nicoli’s position on things though. He plays the neutral moderator well.

It was hard to fall asleep last night after viewing the show even thought it neared midnight. It was an engaging first half of a program that I look forward to seeing next Wednesday. Part two airs on PBS on the 22nd, 9 p.m. Central.

au naturel

Dealing with Today’s Pressing Issues in a Cold, Rational Manner not allowing my Personal Biases to Flavor this Report

I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream, especially if it’s Breyers. But hey! What’s the scoop? If you look in the lower right hand corner, what do you see? A half gallon of ice cream is now 1.75 quarts? Is this some metric conspiracy? Are we being short-changed by the Canadians? Or is this a helpful move on the part of greedy corporate America to allow us to more easily insert our ice cream in the door slots of the standard refrigerator freezer? Or is it merely a way for a Chicago company that uses only REAL ingredients to compete with all the ice cream manufacturing wannabees that dilute their cream with all sorts of unpronounceable chemicals?

I’m trying to make sense of it all as I scoop bowl after bowl. Tell me I needn’t switch. I’m not left-leaning enough to swallow Ben & Jerry’s. And the Blue Bunny and other generic boxes allow foreign odors to seep in and contaminate my nightly pleasure. Hmmmmmm.

I know. It just came to me. It must be the FDA. This has conspiracy written all over it. The ever expanding government is trying to lower my cholesterol level by chiseling away at my sustenance. If they’re successful at this, what’s next? Will quarter-pounders weight only .18 pounds? Will a double cheeseburgers have only one piece of cheese? Will a Whopper be eaten with only one hand?

It’s a scary new world out there. Next time I eat ice cream, I better only look at the pictures.

Men’s Retreat

I signed up my two boys and myself for a Men’s Retreat in October at our church’s Bible Camp in northern Minnesota, but I’m a little bit worried. It could be dangerous this year.

I attended last year and had a great time. We played lots of paintball and board games, ate a lot, and listened to an interesting shrink. He was a former pastor who now counsels people for a lot more money than he made as a pastor. He fit in well with all the crazies that ran around the camp shooting each other with paintball guns—uh, excuse me that’s paintball MARKERS. Lest anyone think that this is a violent game, just because we nurse our welts each evening after the hard fought battles.

This year’s speaker will not be a shrink though. Instead they’ve lined up a heretic. That’s where the danger lies.

This is the second year in a row that our non-Baptist denomination has lined up a speaker from the Baptist General Conference (the SWEDISH Baptists, I suppose that "tempers" the Baptist part.) Both pastors have ties to Bethel University (formerly College—the BGC school), but I guess that’s what we get for living in Minnesota. This year’s pastor is a former professor at Bethel. He claims to have left to spend more time at his ever-growing church. (No longer attending Bethel and not a Baptist myself, I am not privy to all of the politics that took place surrounding his leaving. Maybe it was entirely his decision, but it seems that adequate pressure was applied to force his hand. At least that’s my take from the inadequate hearsay to which I should not be listening.)

This year’s speaker has received a lot of criticism for some of his preaching and writing. He has been an outspoken advocate of an open theism, which his critics claim to be a very dangerous heresy. Those coming from a Calvinistic position see his views as more extreme than Arminianism. They see him denying God’s sovereignty. Of course, his response is that an openness view bridges the gap between the above two views and is a healthy response to a hyper-Calvinism that squelches any free-will and leads to a dangerous fatalism.

So what am I doing taking my boys to hear this dangerous heretic? Well, I hear he’s a great drummer, and maybe he’ll have time for a few helpful pointers for the aspiring musicians.

Of course I am kidding. But seriously, he is a great drummer, but more important he’s also a great preacher and thinker. I’ve read many of his books and hear him occasionally on the radio. Greg Boyd presents a much needed word of urgency to those who become complacent in their spiritual life. He fights hard against a hyper-Calvinist mindset that can degrade into a dry apathy. We can all use a wake up call once in a while.

I’m still not sure where I line up or fall down on the subject of free will and predestination (I’m also a big fan of some Calvinists), but I think it will be helpful for them to hear a worthy, top notch proponent of the non-Calvinist side of the argument.

Now I should probably start looking for a decent Calvinist that can play a mean set of drums. Well, maybe that’s a stretch. I don’t know if there is such a creature—well, maybe a three-point Calvinist, but definitely not a five-pointer. Send me your suggestions. Even if it's a Baptist.

Protecting One’s Brew

Because I come from a tradition that straddles the line between evangelicalism and Lutheranism, I wonder if I can shed some light on some of the animosity that occasionally arises between the above two traditions. Although the temperance movement of the past century was not the sole property of any one denomination or single religious branch, it was probably most welcomed within the evangelical camp.

So as one who is more evangelical than not, and even though I prefer fine coffees and teas (and occasionally a fine wine), I now declare (in the tradition of Pope John Paul who has made ecclesiastical apologies chic) that we are extremely sorry for prohibition. We will never again try to steal your beer.

May you always have enough brewsky to sport beer-bellies that you can be proud of. May your ales always be handy enough to treat any ailment. And may you nurse your brews long enough to let us allow our lattés to cool.

Cheers!

Two more observations

Last night I had planned on adding two more observations of this past weekend. However, I glanced at an interesting, exhaustive web-site and was lost for the evening.

I forgot to mention the stars in SW Minnesota. I’ve heard that they’re the same ones that can be found in the Metro, but oh what a difference the lack of city lights makes. I know this from past trips to the sticks; but with a late rising moon, they were simply majestic. They warmly greeted us as we arrived late on Friday evening. But they didn’t provide much help as we attempted to back our trailer into the pitch black wooded area which was to be our camping spot for the weekend. It’s a good night when the little dipper is almost as visible as the big one, and the Milky Way band of light looks as appealing as the candy bar. A good night for stars always reminds me of the line from Rich Mullins’ song “Sometimes by Step” where he sings of nights like this causing him to think of Abraham and “how one star he [Abraham] saw had been lit for me.” Looking up into the sky at night can not only bridge the gap between us and those half a world away (hello Mai and Inga), but it also links us to generations past (and future?).

The other observation I meant to make concerned three days without radio, TV, or newspapers. It was nice. With so much heartache and violence filling the airwaves everyday, it was good to get a reprieve. On the day we left the news reports were escalating from the Russian school. On one hand it’s not good to be ignorant of the extreme evil present in this world, but it’s also not healthy to have too rich a diet of bad news. The weekend isolation from tragedy was soothing for me. The extent of the challenges for us was an overly moody teen-ager and a Georgia-like humidity. We survived both.

the creek next to the campground 

There's probably some long scientific name for what this is. I just think it looks cool. 

Back North

For those of you downwind, I have now showered. And it’s been good to sit and stand above water again.

It’s amazing how God can continue to impress me with His creation. Southeastern MN is a beautiful place. With hints of the Appalachians, we breathed in foggy air, drank in crystal clear cold water bubbling up from a spring at the entrance of a cave at the base of a 75 foot wall of limestone, and played Frisbee golf in a meadow which was home to about 50 dairy cows.
We rode our bikes, but wimped out in choosing a state bike trail that was actually too easy. The 6.5 mile section we chose was a continual 2 to 3 percent declining grade and only took us about 20 minutes. We would have continued on, but we had pre-arranged where the non-bikers dropped off our van.

About 100 Amish families live in this section of MN, between Harmony, Lanesboro, and Preston. Our daughter freaked out when we sped by a high-school-aged boy sporting a foot-long beard and riding his black carriage behind the tow of a very in-shape horse. They were going uphill almost as fast as we were heading downhill.
We even got to hear some live Accordion music as we waited in line for our homemade ice cream at the Wurst Haus.

Our dog Raven was thrilled with the nearby trout stream. He jumped in, lapped up a good portion of his daily water requirement, and seemed content to spend the entire day checking things out—chillin’, literally. Maybe he was catching the scent of trout. We discovered he has a real appetite for shrimp cooked in butter and herbs.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot the cave. We spent an hour cooling off on our 85 degree Saturday. The cave offered us a cool 48 degrees plus amazing colorful formations. It’s incredible all the grandeur that is hidden from us at ground level as we go from place to place. Our “in person Discover Channel” was a good work out too. I believe we descended more than 200 feet, only to turn around and climb up the same way. Why didn’t God put elevators in caves? I’m glad the air-conditioning was working so well in that cave. The cave is named Niagara because of its 60 foot waterfall inside. Over 300 weddings have been performed inside the cave in its chapel.

But now I’m home and there is this amazing TV-like screen on my desk with a keyboard in front of it. And it’s plugged into the wall and I can read about stuff from all over the world. Wow. What would the Amish think? They probably wouldn’t be impressed. Oh well.

The Warden is taking me and the young-ins south for a few days. 

Brave and New

Over my breakfast bowl (yeah I’m back to plain Quaker oatmeal) I just finished a review of the Brave New Workshop’s latest comedy offering. Situated in the middle of “Uptown,” where Wellstone bumper stickers are still required for on-street parking, BNW has offered up some awesome humor over the years. Four years ago they unfortunately bombed with “Dead Man Running.” But with their new show, it sounds like they might have a winner. This year’s salute to the 2004 campaign is “Electile Dysfunction; or two Johns, a Dick, and a Bush.”

I don’t know if the Swansmith and myself are quite up for show, but at least it sounds like it wouldn’t make us Ralph.

Mmmmmm. . .  

Cereal Connoisseur

I may not be able to properly evaluate fine wines, but I do know a good cereal when I find it. Of late my weakness has been Honey Bunches of Oats with Real Peaches. “With Real Strawberries” is also very good.

My breakfast staple for the past two years has a large bowl of oatmeal with a sprinkling of brown sugar—one of those cholesterol lowering deals. So I have not been as adventurous during the early morning hours as I once was. However, about once a week I treat myself to some sugar-laced, pre-packaged, overly-marketed, chemical-fortified, coupon-bearing breakfast cereal. Sometimes it’s General Mills (that British hero from the Falklands conflict), other times it’s Kellogg’s, but this time it’s Post.

And today’s Post treat was not an early morning event—oatmeal filled my ever-expanding gut before work. The HBOOWRP was both an appetizer and dessert for this evening’s leftovers meal. The main course was yesterday’s refried (make that remicrowaved) tacos. But being limited to one, I was forced to supplement.

HBOOWRP has been my cereal of choice for about a month now. It has reminded me of some of my past loves, like Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Honey Nut Cheerios, Oatmeal Crisp Apple Cinnamon, Corn Pops (back when they were “Sugar Pops”), Brown-sugar Mini-Wheats, Grape Nuts, and Grape Nuts Flakes. I’m sure there have been more, but these have won my heart and tummy and stuck in my memory.

I missed it.

I missed it. I really missed it! Did you all miss it too? I think Suzi, you know ‘the Swansmith,’ missed it. I wish that I hadn’t; but I unintentionally did. Maybe it was the effort spent anticipating my birthday, or maybe it was Mai’s presence, or maybe it was the attention we gave to Raven’s allergies that kept us from not celebrating the event at our house.
But next year will be different. We will—whether you like it or not—send out reminders. August 22nd was National Punctuation Day. And don’t you forget it?

The Great Divorce

After nearly 30 years the "Divorce" is finally completed. I can't believe it took me so long. I started reading C. S. Lewis's works in earnest back in my high school and college days and for some strange reason I skipped one book that I should never have avoided. I didn't stay away from it for any particular reason. Maybe the premise seemed a little bit hokey--a fantasy bus ride. I never was a fan of buses. But I guess I just felt that other works were more worth my time. I was wrong. I recommend it highly and hope to read it again soon.

The bug was put in my ear this summer at Cornerstone as I listened to lectures by the Zorba the Greek English professor from Texas. It was one of his favorites, and his constant references to it whetted my appetite. So I ordered it through Amazon.com's used book section for a mere two dollars. Three bucks shipping, but hey, what a deal. Cheri would be proud. Well, maybe not, I could have gone to the library. But I'm learning.

Lewis claims his book to be, in one sense, a rebuttal to William Blake's Marriage of Heaven and Hell. Thus the title. He paints a wonderful picture of the difference between good and evil, Heaven and Hell, joy and self-absorption. He describes life as a series of choices between forks in the road. Real choices with real consequences. Not all are between good and evil, some are between good and better. But nonetheless, there are definite moral outcomes with each choice. Bad choices don't (merely in time) start melding into good, corrective action must be taken. Wrong or bad choices necessitate a reversal or repentance. So much for dry analysis.

While begging his readers to not forget THIS IS ONLY A FANTASY, and asking them not to see this as a speculation on what Heaven is actually like, he presents us with some wonderfully vivid pictures of the differences between good and bad, and makes good so appealing. Those who are drawn toward God develop a substance and weight and brightness to them, while those focusing on themselves continue shrinking into nothingness, until their shadowy selves can barely be seen.

Lewis's teacher in Heaven is the Scotchman George MacDonald. He leads Lewis around and helps him notice things he normally wouldn't. Near the middle of the book, MacDonald answers Lewis' concern about those who never get the chance to ride this mythical omnibus to heaven. He claims that "everyone who wishes [to ride the bus] does. Never fear. There are only two kinds of people in the end: those who say to God, 'Thy will be done,' and those to whom God says, in the end, 'Thy will be done.' All that are in Hell, choose it. Without that self-choice there could be no Hell. No soul that seriously and constantly desires joy will ever miss it. Those who seek find. To those who knock it is opened."

I think that displays a pretty good summary of the heart of this book. We can either run toward God or away from Him. The joyous benefits are found in the former. The temptations of the latter are numerous and often seem right, but they reduce us to nothing of value or substance.
It's been a good reminder for me to choose wisely. I'm glad I chose to finish the book.

Why I Don’t Listen to Country Music

While driving home from work on Friday, listening to my favorite talk show “Garage Logic,” I heard them do something they rarely if ever do—play music. I suppose it was because they were broadcasting from the Minnesota State Fair. They played a song which twanged with the best of them. Its title: “It's Hard To Kiss The Lips At Night That Chew Your Ass Out All Day Long.....”
It definitely brought a smile to my face, a chuckle in my voice, and maybe even a tear to my eye. Perhaps I should listen to more country music.

BLOG FINISHED. This was to be the end of my blog. I made my point. I was ready to post, but I figured that I should double check the title of that song to see if I got it right. Ahhhhh, the wonders of the internet. I typed in a few of the words, “kiss the lips at night,” and viola. Hundreds of search hits to my query. I was a few words off, so it was worth the time and effort to get things right.

And apparently many others have heard and found humor or insight from this song by the Notorious Cherry Bombs. Am I always behind the curve? A little slow to the punch? Too Norwegian for my own good?

What I found funny though is that the query list item that I first clicked on was a blog by an Anglican from the UK who is a Greenbelt devotee (Cornerstone’s sister festival in England, not officially but in spirit). And the tagline at the top of his blog was a quote by one of my favorites, Mike Yaconelli, who was recently killed in an auto accident. Ironically the quote was “Jump first. Fear later.” I know that’s how he lived his life, I hope that’s not how he always drove his car. But I guess it doesn’t matter now. We’ve lost a great communicator of the gospel, one that always saw humor around him, often in the words of others, but more often in his own words and actions. He would have loved this song too. So for your listening and reading pleasure I now present: “It's Hard To Kiss The Lips At Night That Chew Your Ass Out All Day Long.....”

She used to call me baby... I thought she was such a lady... But my how things have changed since times moved on...
I gave her my last dollar... And now all she'll do is holler...Oh my life has become a country song.......
I've learned she can resist me... by the way she always disses me...And comes to bed at night, with that cold cream on.......
Sometimes I might feel frisky... but these days it's just too risky...
It's Hard To Kiss The Lips At Night That Chew Your Ass Out All Day Long.....All day Long.... It goes all day long......

If a tree fell in the forest, She didn't hear it, would I still be wrong...
I guess I should admit it.. She ain't never gonna quit it...
It's Hard To Kiss The Lips At Night That Chew Your Ass Out All Day Long.....
Spoken Voice:
Man I remember when her eyes used to be so blue and shiny, God you oughtta see what's happened to her hiney(HER WHAT?) her hineyMan that thing is big enough to land a small plane on.(SMALL PLANE ?) I'm tellin' yaI used to roll her in the the clover, (mmm hmm) but my god those days are over(Hallelulia!)
It's Hard To Kiss The Lips At Night That Chew Your Ass Out All Day LongAll day Long.... She goes all day long......
If some day they drop the big one, I'd say sweet Jesus, She's gonna finally leave me alone
It's alright if we say it.. cause the radio won't play it.
It's Hard To Kiss The Lips At Night That Chew Your Ass Out All Day Long.......
It's Hard To Kiss The Lips At Night That Chew Your Ass Out All Day Long.............

One final thought: after a good laugh, I can sit back and count my blessings that my life is not a Country music song. The lips I kiss are one's that usually offer praise and encouragement. She even tells me she reads and likes these blogs. Go figure.

Why I Blog

You probably know that Garrison Keillor is fond of mentioning Norwegian bachelor farmers in his Saturday get togethers. They have many quirks and are shy to a fault. They stand around, hands in pockets, using their energy to nod agreeingly or wrinkle their faces with smiles or concern. To them silence is a virtue. Maybe they are too polite to interject their own words into a conversation or maybe they are just too slow in putting their thoughts together. By the time they have ready what they want to say, the topic has changed and they are left out in the cold.

Well, it is not widely known, but I am part Norwegian. And I was a bachelor once. Some mixed breeds like myself claim to sit on their Norwegian part, but I think my Norwegian section resides just above the neck. I don’t think that I shy away from conflict or difficult issues, but I know that it takes me “extra” time to put thoughts into sentences.

This point was driven home tonight as I was an active listener in a conversation between my wife and her good friend. The words were bouncing back and forth faster than a Chinese ping-pong match. I didn’t have a chance. And these afore mentioned women are not even the “A” squad—that title belongs to my daughter and whomever she is conversing with. They rattle off words at a rate which makes the English language sound Spanish.

I had planned to utter a simple “thank you” to our evening visitor, but I could never time the quick pauses to breathe just right. As one breathed the other one jumped in. So I smiled.

And when all was said and . . . said some more, I retired to the basement where only the temptations of other things to read could interrupt me from jotting down some thoughts. So thank you Mrs. K. for some of your intriguing links. The one which has been the biggest temptation of late is called the Internet Monk. He is a raving Italian (or so it seems from his style) from Rhinelander, WI that has landed in Kentucky and loves to push everybody’s buttons, usually with just reason.

I’ve never heard him preach, but as I read his words I could hear the voice of a Campolo or Yaconelli, the flare to which we (even part) Norwegians never reach. But to them we can nod in consent. And so I have done for much of the evening.

Happy?

The Warden made me write. It’s my birthday today. I should be able to do whatever I want, right? I should be able to vegetate in front of the tube. But here I am.

So what does one say on one’s birthday? One could wax eloquent about the passing of time or maturity or wisdom or the gift of life. But if I wrote about birthdays, I would probably fixate on cake or ice cream. And that’s fattening and not good for the waistline or blood sugar, so nix on that idea.

Instead, I will formally say good-bye to Mai. She boarded a Northwest jet this afternoon to fly non-stop from Minneapolis to Tokyo. She’s probably gazing down on some Eskimos right now as I write. It was a good, but too short, re-acquaintance.

After dropping her off, the family headed down the road to the Mall of America where Mai spent two of her short ten days here. During one visit the Warden stumbled upon a relatively new-to-the-Mall restaurant, the Magic Pan. This chain restaurant (which had left the Twin Cities market for about 20 years) was a favorite place of ours during our early days of marriage. So we treated ourselves to crepes for an early supper tonight.

And then it was off to spend my birthday money. A new game store has recently opened across the hall from Magic Pan, so that was our first stop. I don’t know if I’ve purchased a new game since our Thai exchange student (and game aficionado) Noh left about two years ago. But today I shelled out some ching for three new games: a French game, Abalone; an Asian-sounding game, Dao; and a Russian-sounding game, Xactika. All three are Mensa-approved, so we need not worry about our minds going to waist or waste or wayst.

The family has tested two of the three games and they receive thumbs up. I would probably still be playing, but I feared receiving a demerit from the Warden if I didn’t give her something to read, a present for her on my birthday. I hope you learned something deep and significant from me tonight, honey.

If not, you can count out the forty-six candles that I needed this year and use them as a down payment for the ones you will need on your birthday. Smile. I couldn’t resist. Sorry. It’s my way of dealing with that extra candle on my cake this year. Yes, I really am another year older. So there! I’m too old to stay up any later. Zzzzzzzzzz . . .

sayonara

this is the day
this is the day
when i leave when i leave...

sunshine always comes to u!

thinking about the Mall? 

Shopping Mai

Sunshine Mai has a new name. It is Shopping Mai. Or for short, the Shopper. This young Japanese lady has graced our home for about seven days now and she has been shopping for about . . . seven days now. I picked her up from Brookdale Mall yesterday. Today it was the Mall of America. Before that it was Ridgedale Mall and . . . .

Japanese are very busy people she loves to tell me. And now I know why. They spend all their time shopping. Well, according to her that is the female’s responsibility in their culture, while the male’s duty is to make enough to support this habit. This in turn necessitates that the Japanese dominate the world’s economy.

With so much shopping to do, their country must really crank out the cars, and TVs and computers and cameras and everything else that has a battery or a motor.

But I think I prefer her as the Sunshine one, even though I am the grateful recipient of her shopping sprees. I have consumed more chocolate this week than I have for the previous six months. My palate is being retrained to crave that sweet brown stuff. And I kinda like it. It makes coffee taste even better!! Hard to imagine, isn’t it?

Sunday night we barged in on some friends unexpectedly. We had found a black jacket in our van and thought it belonged to Lis. And since it was on our way home we thought we would return it. It wasn’t hers. But they did have carmel apple pie!!! And they did have ice cream!!! And they had just started watching a movie, so we were invited in to join them in view Man of La Mancha. I had never seen it before, so we decided to stay and watch. Based on the novel by Miguel Cervantes, it was an odd film. We could only stay for the first half, but it was enough to see Don Quixote calling the buxom Sophia Loren by the name Dulcinea, a name more endearing and positive that the name by which she was know to the rest of the crowd.

I suppose that’s a good example of how we should speak to others, calling them by names to strive for instead of one’s to avoid. So Sunshine it is. Leave the name “Shopper” for a cheaply-printed advertising supplement.

Free Trivia to impress your friends with: Cervantes died on the exact day as another famous writer, Sir Bill Shakespeare.

Nightmare OR too much pizza before bed?

Last night i had that same old dream that rocked me in my sleep
and left me the impression that the sandman plays for keeps
i dreamed i was in concert in the middle of the clouds
john wayne and billy graham were giving breath mints to the crowds
i fell through a hole in heaven i left the stage for good
and when i landed on the earth i was back in hollywood

the california earthquake it tore the land in half
while san andreas cleared her throat i heard tsunami laugh
the ground began to tremble the land began to sway
and people in the other states they were glad they'd moved away
but suddenly california just floated in the breeze
while every state that wasn't sank down into the seas

and soon i saw atlantis rumble and rise high
and the great egg of euphrates came down out of the sky
and out stepped shirley temple with guy kippee who was dead
and that communist bill robinson whom shirley called black red
they have a marionette of harpo marx they said it was an inside joke
but when i honked his horn he came alive and these were the words he spoke

"with the continents adrift and the sun about to shift
will the ice caps drown us all or will we burn
we've polluted what we own will we reap what we have sown?
are we headed for the end or can we turn?
we've paved the forest killed the streams
burned the bridges to our dreams
the earth is bursting at the seams
and in pain of childbirth screams
as it gives life to what seems
to either be an age that gleams
or simply lays there dying
if this goes on will life survive how can it
out of the grave oh who will save our planet?"

i said i'm pleased to meet you i always thought you were a scream
he said "have you ever thought of having helen keller in your dreams
i said errol flynn dropped by but he tried to steal my girl
the she ran off with ronald colman said something about a new world
now i'm stuck with my own cooking hey i'm lonely can't you see
well he grabbed my leg and said exactly eighty nine words to me
count them

"let the proud but dying nation kiss the last generation
it's the year of the pill, age of the gland
we have landed on the moon but we'll clutter that up soon
our sense of freedom's gotten out of hand
we kill our children swap our wives
we've learned to greet a man with knives
we swallow pills in fours and fives
our cities look like crumbling hives
man does not live he just survives
we sleep till he arrives
love is a corpse we sit and watch it harden
we left it oh so long ago the garden"

the strings snapped briskly then went slack the marionette lay dead
while hoover played with the motorcade the body slumped and bled
the man who held the camera disappeared into the crowd
i said the hope of youth, fictitious truth, lays covered in a shroud
then up walked elmo lincoln and he said i beg you pardon
but we left it oh so long ago, the garden, GARDEN, GARDEN, GARDEN, GARDEN, garden. . .

Of course this was not my dream! I wish it was. I wish I could write--or rather dream-- like that. Larry Norman gets the credit for the above “nightmare # 71.”

But I did have a dream.

I dreamed I was working. Surprise, surprise. I had masked off & covered many rooms in a house, so I could work on the ceilings. The plastic was attached to the walls at the very top by the ceiling. I was careful in properly covering everything. But I was having problems with the ceilings. The ceilings were falling down in chunks onto the floor and furniture. But the worst part was that the homeowners were home and IN BED and the ceiling was falling upon them.

I guess my dream too was a nightmare, which might be the reason this song has been running through my mind this past week as I contemplated writing about the dream.

I don’t dream that often. And very rarely do I remember what I dreamed for more than a few minutes after awakening. And I rarely try to interpret my dreams. I usually pass off the "meanings" as reworkings of the day's events.

The evening before the dream, the Swansmith was recounting the events of the backyard Bible club. She had mentioned that a local pastor had brought his kids that evening. (His wife brought them the first night.) We have visited “Efrem’s” church numerous times and Suzi tried to strike up a conversation with him. He is an extremely gifted preacher with a flamboyant style, so Suzi was surprised by his terse responses to her questions. We spoke that evening about people like that who have completely different personas when they are “on stage.” On top of this I was reminded that I had given Efrem a bid on some drywall work many months ago, but I think they have put that project on hold. Is that why Efrem and his wife were the ones in that dangerous bed?

I pray that my dream is nothing more than me sorting out my work schedule and analyzing personality types. I pray that God continues to bless Efrem, his wife, their kids, and their church. Some day I’ll have to jot down my reflections of attending Sanctuary. It’s an interesting place and it’s always fun to hear him preach.

Great, great, great "uncle" Knute 

The Swansmith races Mai to the top of the MN state capitol. 

Two AFS students returning for a quick visit to the Twin Cities: Philipp from Germany and Mai from Japan 

Finally, an actual BLOBJECT! 

move over dalmation, RCA (Raven Collar Antenna )