Remembering

I often tell people that I've got a good memory--problem is it's very short. But today is a good day for remembering. We remember those who have passed through life ahead of us, and we remember those who have served and sacrificed for us, but primarily we remember those who have fallen through their service. We are sobered through the fact that many have given the ultimate sacrifice for ideals and obligations--but for us. We stand and live and work and breath and act freely in large part to others' falling.

We did some remembering last evening--Suzi, Cheri, myself, and those around us at Solomon's Porch. Forced to stay in the true 'God's Country' one more day by a successful soccer team, Aunt Cheri had some time to kill--make that invest--Sunday night.

Partly as a result of Cheri's interest in a church that our family tries to visit on a semi-regular basis, the three of us headed south to the 'big city' to take part in their Sunday night gathering.

It was Pentecost Sunday yesterday, which we knew having attended a Lutheran church in the morning. They keep track of things like that. But I suppose we were a little surprised to hear the goatee-sporting pastor who attended a Baptist seminary wax eloquent about this under-appreciated Christian celebration 50 days after Easter. As is his style, the Rev. read large sections of scripture from Old and New Testaments linking together Passover--Pentecost to Easter--Pentecost. Although I don't remember (but remember that was yesterday) Pastor Doug mentioning the fact that it was Memorial weekend or making any attempt to tie in our national celebration with these events from the Jewish and Christian calendars, the appeal was to remember Pentecost. And remember it together within its historical context—both pre and post Christ's ministry. Pentecost does not make complete sense without Passover, nor does it make complete sense without Easter. And Easter--Pentecost together are not fully understood without the Jewish celebrations with which they coincide. Death and resurrection are completed in us as we allow God to send us out in His power. God has saved us in a wonderful and costly way, but it's rather empty if we sit on our couches (my words not his, although my couch was comfortable as I sat listening to his message) and never respond.

So I need to remember to serve and sacrifice, because I've been given the privilege and responsibility by those in the past who have served and sacrificed to put me in the place I now sit. A place which is out of the rain, away from the soccer fields, and not close enough to the paint brushes. (I actually would have been painting--the roller and brush sit right next to the paint can--had this weekend's weather not one more time forced me inside, affording me the opportunity to blog, blog, blog.) So I now leave my hovel to look again at the skies, praying to see some blue, which would give me the chance to serve the Warden and my first-born with a fresh coat of paint in time for his fast-approaching graduation party this Saturday.

Christina with her 8th grade teacher 

Muddy Sunday

Christina graduates from King of Grace Lutheran. Girls in class cry as they think about missing school friends. The Easterners skip out early to play water polo. The rest of us endure the two hour service followed by the reading of many names for awards. Fortunately the school has only 175 students and only 18 graduates. That’s one advantage of paying for a private school—shorter awards ceremonies. Overall though, it was a very meaningful and impressive service. The dedication of the teachers, principal, and staff is exemplary. The principal went out of his way to find us and thank us for entrusting our daughter with them these past two years.

Nephew Daniel treaded more water today as he scored a goal to help his team win, extending their stay in the rice paddies of central Minnesota. For related swamp stories see http://swansmith.blogspot.com.

I had a wonderful chat with Mai on Friday. She is attending a pharmacy school in Japan. She sent me many wonderful pictures of Japan and some Japanese people (herself included) while we chatted. She hopes to visit us in August. We can hardly wait.

the icicles are starting to melt 

May is the Cruelest month

Holding out hope for the predicted high of 80 degrees (later revised to 70, but as of 7:30 pm it only reached a high of 56 degrees), I wavered through the day reading various books while looking out the window. I spent the entire day holding out for weather warm enough and dry enough to paint outside. At least I wasn’t playing soccer on slippery fields with a strong northerly wind and intermittent drizzle.

Such hope and promise heard during Friday’s weather forecasts were once again to be dashed by the grayness of a typical Memorial holiday weekend. I should be remembering those who served and sacrificed for our country and me, but instead I wallow in the memory of previous years’ “start of summer” celebrations. Too cold and too damp. I try to resign myself to the fact that this is the perfect opportunity to sit inside, curl up close to the fireplace and read a book. A scenario I long for on most days. But as I sit and read, the call of things that need to get done is ever present.

Besides, being home all day does provide me with special opportunities like going ‘a round’ with the wife. It’s a lot harder to do battle when I’m not on the premises. But today I was home; and I was given the chance following an episode where one of our kids challenged the Swansmith (a.k.a. the Warden) with an editorial from the school newspaper. The Swanmeister was able to go the first few rounds herself, but as is her practice, she calls me in to defend her and do a little tag team. Reluctantly, I put in my two cents worth. But I speak too slowly and employ a different means of attack. The Swansmith needs to step back in to get the point across. The kids loose interest and are off to another activity of X-box or Frisbee or banging on the drums.

So now it’s up to us to tangle. (DISCLAIMER: you will probably get her side of the story on Swansmith.) Why don’t you defend me, she asks. I do but in a different way, I respond. Thus begins a well-trod path to “how do we get through to the kids?” The Warden prefers the more direct approach. Her chief concern is that they know what she believes and what she is thinking. Whereas I have told her often that people can seldom be persuaded until they are ready to accept what you have to say. My thinking, in short, is that it’s just as important to work on a person’s will as on their reason when discussing things controversial. Then, as an example of the fact that I don’t always practice what I preach, I told her very directly that her way was not very effective. She heard me say that her way was completely pointless and non-productive.

This gave us a chance to have a true heart-to-heart in the dungeon from whence I now write. With the lights off and only the monitor screen to lighten the room, I had a chance to apologize for the way I speak directly to her while at the same time counseling her not to speak so directly to our children. We probably should have been out in the cold rain watching the Easterners kick around a soccer ball for a 1-1 tie.

Yuta and Mai (our host daughter from Japan) 

They're Here

Ready or not, here they . . . They're here. Punctual, right at 10 pm, Cheri, Daniel, and Steven arrive from the Great White North (almost). With frost warnings last night in northern Wisconsin they escaped just a little too late.

Remember the ad campaign about 15 to 20 years ago with bumper stickers "Escape to Wisconsin?" No doubt an effective campaign, but we Minnesotans got a chuckle when our fellow citizens took numerous bumper stickers from the Welcome Centers and then re-pieced them together on our bumpers as "Escape From Wisconsin." What mature humor. And then there was the story of the Wisconsin traveler in Russia who was detained because he had plastered that message on one of his suitcases. Actual event or urban myth? You decide.

I had planned to blog about my trip to the airport this morning to deliver a life-long friend to the Northwest gate for his flight to Hawaii. And I had planned to make some comments about this noon's funeral for my friend Scott's son Kyle. It will have to wait for another day. For this day is soooon becoming tomorrow.

One final comment: As I went to my computer earlier today to blog I noticed Sunshine Mai from Japan on line, so we chatted for awhile as she also sent me pictures from Japan. I share one for today.

No need to read today’s blog

Are we ready? The grass is green, the dandelions are yellow, and the Colby is aging. The Cheeseheads should feel welcomed.

Not much time to blog today and not much to say, but I figured if I skipped a day it would be too easy to skip tomorrow. I’m just (at least I didn’t throw in a ‘really’) trying to be consistent like the Swansmith. Plus, it’s an easy way to let her know I’m still alive. She claims to actually read this thing. Oh well, to each her own.

One final comment: after putting haloscan comments back on for Suzi, I decided to do the same for myself. Consistency.

our new awning 

What a difference a day makes

May is wonderful. The sun was shining. The mud was drying. The wind was blowing. The mud was drying. The birds were singing. The mud was drying. The flowers were blooming. The mud was drying. The mosquitoes were biting? Not yet. May is good.

After looking at yesterday’s post, I realized that the red walls in the bathroom look a little purple—almost reminds me of Minnesota Vikings purple. Am I being insensitive? We have visitors from the east arriving in nary a day. Maybe I should have painted the walls green and gold.

I see that I received notice from the Warden today. I thought I would get a quick response in giving her that title. It was meant as a joke, but I think it’s growing on me, especially with the Swansmith’s reference to the keys of my heart. How romantic. Speaking of love and bells and . . . . .

More thoughts on bells and whistles—I mean smells. One thing that caught my attention during the Eucharist was the priest addressing each recipient of the cup. As the priest held the spoon to give each person his share, he asked a question something like: do you (fill in name here) come to this altar having confessed your sins. . . . I was amazed that of the 250+ people in attendance he knew almost every person’s name. For those whose names he didn’t know he would pause and let the individual fill in the blank with their name.

Second observation: Orthodox cross themselves more than Roman Catholics. And I heard somewhere that they cross themselves differently than Catholics. I was not observant enough to pick up on the variation. It seemed to me also that the crossing occurred not only as an amen to prayer or as a gesture toward God, but it seems to be an interaction between congregants and the priest and each other, almost like giving someone else a nod, wink, or handshake.

Third observation: Similar to Catholics, the Bread and Wine are central to the service. Much time and care are given to properly administering the sacrament. As the faithful are receiving the “spoon” from the priest, another member of the congregation was there with a special towel to hold under the chin of the one receiving the wine. Of course the non-sacramental Protestant line has always been that ‘having communion every week instead of one a month makes it less special.’ I guess that’s possible, but I think we miss a lot when we relegate the Lord’s Supper to its current status in most low-church settings.

Fourth and final (for now) observation: Jesus was central not only in the Eucharist, but also in the iconography. Right above of heads Christ looked down upon us from His position in the middle of the dome. And as I looked forward, a Lord’s Supper type layout (ala Leonardo da Vinci) with the twelve disciples was across the altar area. Each disciple had his own half life-size cut-out, like a painted silhouette with the ever-present halo-like circle around his head. Each one that is, except Judas. He doesn’t get the halo. But Jesus is there in the middle of it all, overseeing the current day’s remembrance.

I don’t know how high-church I could ever be. It doesn’t go well with my limited wardrobe. But I did have a wonderful visit, and it helped open up my eyes (and nose) to a deeper appreciation for the One who gave everything for me.

downstairs bath 

Crueler than April

Word on the street is that the Warden did not take kindly to yesterday’s comments in my blog, so until I find a way to conceal references to home life from certain fellow bloggers, I deem it wise to spend time on more inane subjects. Thus today’s blog.

A joker once said that April is the cruelest month. I wish to contest that. I’m voting for May—at least May in Minnesota. The promise of spring teases us each April, but this May I think we’ve been made a laughingstock. I guess I wouldn’t mind so much if I didn’t have to fight the elements for my livelihood. Every spring and every fall is the same story though. Builders pull the heat out of houses each spring, because we’ve had our 90 degree day and our stretch of near-80 degree days. Summer is here they reason, and they can save a few dollars on LP gas. The reverse scenario will play out this fall.

So there I sit or stand or pace or open the windows or close the windows, watching wet mud stay wet. Even I don’t have enough hot air to dry out a house this time of year. I leave that to certain younger members of my household. But I love her dearly.

Let’s see. Was that enough drywall talk to bore away certain fellow bloggers? Oh Warden? Are you out there? Seems pretty quiet. I think I’m safe. Back to the bathroom. Actually, I’m done in the bathroom. No, no, no. Not in that sense. I mean that I finished painting. I was Michelangelo tonight, doing the ceilings. I wasn’t on my back like the master, but rather on my tiptoes. And my color selection was rather limited, basic white. Reminds me of snow. So maybe tonight was the snow job.

No Snow Job

Lots of time to think today. Many profound thoughts. 8) All lost to the paint fumes as Wife incarcerates me in bathroom all evening. White walls are gone.

Bells and Smells

This morning I got to do something I’ve wanted to do for the past ten months, and maybe more correctly ten years or more. Our fifth international exchange student arrived last August from Moldova, one of the former Soviet republics. Early on in our discussions with her we found out that she was a member of an Orthodox church in her home country. She would attend services in her home city and also out in the country when visiting her grandparents. I mentioned at the time that I would love to visit any Orthodox church here in the Twin Cities if she would be our guide. The days and weeks and months became busy and it never happened. Realizing that she will be leaving in less than four weeks and there wouldn’t be many more available Sundays, we decided to make today the day.

I spent some time yesterday surfing the net, trying to find Orthodox churches with web sites and with the service times listed. It was a challenge. Of the thirty to forty Orthodox churches in the Twin Cities that I found only a handful had websites of their own. And of those I found only three or four that listed their service times. I jotted these down and we decided to attend the earliest service which was in St. Paul. When we arrived and looked on the door, I realized that either I had written down the wrong time or they were trying to trick visitors. Probably the former. We were there at 8:30 and the time on the door was 9:45.

So off to Minneapolis we went. The south Minneapolis church’s posted service time was 9:30 and our goal was to finish up as early as possible. After some Dunn Brothers coffee and Breugger’s Bagels we arrived right at 9:30 in the pouring rain. And they were just starting. We sat down in the back and Inga asked if this was OK. I said yes, but then I changed my mind and we marched up near the front to get a better view. I’m glad we did. We were then right under the 40 foot dome with a large painting of Christ in the middle of the ceiling. He was looking down upon us so we had to behave. I was being good; I actually wore my fancy Italian three piece suit with a striped shirt and silk designer tie, anticipating a more formal crowd than I normally mingle with on Sunday mornings. I guessed right. Not a pair of jeans was to be found in that place.

St. Mary’s Greek Orthodox Church was very welcoming. People were friendly and some went out of their way to greet us in the lobby. One man even gave me a tract. I thought that maybe a Southern Baptist had snuck in. Just kidding, I appreciated the gesture. But maybe it was my shoes. I was wearing some brown hiking boots that had quite a few scuffs. They probably gave me a way. I sure got razzed later that morning after church service number 2 in New Hope. A long time friend whose gifts include correction of others told me he would soon shop for some new shoes for me. At least I had shaved and brushed my teeth this morning.

But back to St. Mary’s—what a smorgasbord for the senses. You are first greeted by the many lit candles, then your eyes are grabbed by the many painting throughout the sanctuary. And then the stained glass figures of the saints pop out, followed by the incense burners, and then painted silhouettes, and the Greek letters and phrases and sentences. It’s a little bit of a sensory overload at first. And then come the smells. The incense hits you in waves, even before the priest swings the bells with the incense burner. The smells were pleasant at the time, but what struck me most was five hours later as I was taking off my button-down shirt I realized that the smell had permeated my clothing. And the smell as I hung up my shirt brought me back to the sanctuary in Minneapolis.

The smells that we low-church Covenanters associate with church usually center around lutefisk at Christmas time. But that’s another story for another time. And come to think of it the rest of today’s story will have to come another time, because my butt gets sore if I sit too long. And I’ve sat long enough today. Speaking of sitting, this is my last comment. If you think charismatics stand a lot in church, you should check out the Orthodox. They’ve made standing a rite. And as Inga told me, in Moldova the sanctuaries don’t even have seating. Tough to fall asleep in church there. We might need to look into that.

The Call from Scott

I was going to blog about this yesterday, but I didn’t have the energy. I was thinking about Scott on Thursday and I even drove right by his house, even though I didn’t know it at the time. Scott and I go back a ways. Scott was a member of my former church back in the 80s and 90s. We became good friends as he and his son also played on the church softball team. He too works in construction, so we’ve shared some job prospects and traded some labor over the years. He has installed vinyl in our bathroom and near the front door.

Scott moved away from the Robbinsdale area in the 90s, but we kept in touch through similar interests and the fact that I’ve prepared his tax return for years. We touched base a few times within the past month to talk about work and taxes. Being one of the “construction guys,” whose returns I prepare, he fell into the same boat as many and procrastinated in getting his stuff together this year.

Scott had moved about 40 miles away to an old river town (now a suburb) southwest of Minneapolis. It has been at least three years since I’ve been to Chaska and since that’s were he now lives, I thought I might touch base with him and encourage him along. On Friday I was working on this house less than a mile from Scott’s home when I received a phone call. It was from Scott, or more correctly Scott’s sister. Scott had asked her to call some friends to let them know that Thursday night his oldest son Kyle was killed in a car accident.

Scott’s sister was shaken as she tried to relay the news to me, as I too was shaken and crushed. Kyle was a few years ahead of my boys, but they remember him well. I got to know him through youth group at church and on the softball field.

Two years ago an almost identical situation took place. A good friend Jim, a carpenter who’s also worked on our house, lost a son at the same age to an automobile accident.

There is hope in the fact that both boys were believers, but losing a child at any age, much less an early age is still so tragic and numbing. I pray for the peace and comfort that only Christ can provide at such a trying time. These two friends will live with the “whys” for the rest of their lives, but I pray that Jesus would hold them close. He promises to bring good out of all things, even the very, very bad.

Update on Jim: I had a chance to talk with Jim & his wife a few weeks ago. They still struggle with their loss each day, but God has been good in comforting and helping them as they live each new day without their son.

I thank God that I will be working near Scott’s house this next week, and hope that He can use me to comfort Scott during these difficult days.

For those who can't get tickets to the Timberwolves Game

applauding the Twin's one homerun 

This evening my wife and I took a foreign exchange student, for whom we are the liaisons, to a Minnesota Twins baseball game. Downtown Minneapolis was hopping tonight. On the north end of downtown the LA Lakers were playing the MN Timberwolves in the NBA semi-finals, while on the south end of the loop the Chicago White Sox took on the Twins. The student we hosted for the evening was one of those who was recognized two nights ago at the high school. She was on one of the shorter lists. She is an attractive, friendly, athletic, young lady from Istanbul who is also a valedictorian at Cooper this year. She had a perfect 4.0 because, according to her, Cooper is sooooo easy.

This was the Turkish gal’s first chance to learn about baseball. She had attended a game years ago with her parents on a trip to Los Angeles, but didn’t have a clue what was going on. Suzi and I spent the evening trying to explain the game to her. Baseball is a complicated game. I didn’t realize it until I tried explaining the rules and strategy to her who knew nothing about the game. Let’s see each player gets three strikes and yes a foul counts as a strike unless it is the third strike and then it doesn’t count as a strike and each subsequent foul is also not counted unless it’s a foul tip into the catcher glove then it’s strike three and on and on.

But we had fun even though the Twins got killed 8-2 by the Sox, yeah that’s short for Socks, which used to be Stockings, and at one time they were not White but Black, or something like that. She was gracious and seemed to pick it up pretty quickly. And she made points with me by not saying that soccer was a lot more interesting. For we all know why so many kids play soccer today. It’s so they don’t have to WATCH IT. (Smile, but with sincerity.)

It’s been a while since I’ve been in the dome. The place holds lots of memories: Promise Keepers, struggling Twins’ teams, Billy Graham, D.C. Talk, MWS, Amy Grant, 1987 & 1991 World Series. We sat not far from the large banners which bear the likenesses of Twins’ greats whose numbers have been retired: Harmon Killebrew, Tony Oliva, Rod Carew, Kirby Puckett, and Kent Hrbek.

That last banner of Hrbeee brought me back to, I think, 1981 or ’82. I was just starting to work full time in drywall and ended up at a job in un-prestigious east Bloomington, a stones throw from what was then the old Metropolitan Stadium, home of the Twins and the Vikings. Some big mall sits there now. The house we were remodeling was a modest two-bedroom bungalow with an expansion, if I remember right. But I remember the young, enthusiastic (not quite obnoxious) girl. “My brother’s a baseball player,” she said. “He’s really good. He’s gonna be a star someday.” I listened politely as this teen-ager bragged on about her brother. Sure kid, I thought to myself.

I wouldn’t have given it much more thought, but I mentioned the conversation later that evening to my brother Jeff. Well, what’s his name, he enquired. I don’t know, some Polish name with the vowels missing, I said. My brother, the ever-avid sports fan with a photographic memory, asked, “was it Kent Hrbek?” That sounds right, I answered. He had read about Hrbek in some scouting report or somewhere on page D17 of the sports section or something. His comment was something to the effect of “yeah that guy really does sound like he’s pretty good.”

Years later I got to watch him and Kirby Puckett lead the Twins to two World Series championships. Fun years. Lots of nail-biting games.

Not like tonight. We got to sit back and relax as the Twins were never remotely in the game. And I can go on with my life tomorrow, not thinking a whole lot about the Twins. And maybe it’s better that way. I’ve got blogs to write.

This is an original oil painting of a farmhouse south of Minneapolis. A friend of the family, who painted it two years ago, gave it to me recently in exchange for some drywall work I did. 

The Top 523 List

Normally I like lists. Top ten lists are some of my favorites. When my Netscape home page flashes “list of safest cities in America” or something similar, it’s tough not to double-click on it. I must be a lists guy. They’re fun. Usually.

The lists I’ve endured the last two nights, however, cannot be classified as fun. I’ve spent the past two Minnesota spring evenings, with birds singing, flowers blooming, and trees filling out nicely, inside a school auditorium trying to drown out the never-ending lists of names of kids I do not know, save a dozen or so. The first night was an academic achievement awards program, the second a musical achievement awards event. Fortunately(?) our son Luke was going to have his name read both evenings. Since I did not actually give birth to our first-born, my wife required that I be in attendance for these events.

I got my fill of lists. Endless lists of names, many read by fellow students who could not pronounce the wide variety of surnames, with which the school is blessed. Fine students all; and no doubt worthy of their recognition, but grueling nonetheless. But the good news, I have survived and am here to write about it, as living proof that it can be done.

How did I do it? Through smuggling. I snuck in a book, curled behind my camera and underneath my armpit (discourages borrowing). And you probably guessed by now—it was a book of lists. Well, sort of. It’s a theology book, listing the wide spectrum of beliefs within the evangelical church on a score of different issues—foreknowledge, inspiration, sacraments, etc. I’m sure that most people would find this book less enticing than the list of names I’ve heard the last two nights. And for that matter, they might find the list of 27 Johnsons (in alphabetical order) more appealing that these blogs which often outlive their usefulness as they cry out for editing. Maybe, I’m just helping people empathize with my experience this evening.

Well, anyways, so (and all my other favorite meaningless silence quenchers) I had planned to mention some of the issues raised in my current book, but once again the popcorn is popping and Suzi will steal my portion. So I must do my part, fight for my fair share, and let my keyboard rest.

Don't leave home without it. 

Do we dare? 

We drove across this one-lane bridge 

The back roads of Tennessee due north of Cookeville in Standing Stone State Forest. Just minutes south of the town of Timothy. 

Blobjects not underlined in Red

What is a blobject? What’s a blobject worth? Why does my spell check continue to underline blobject with a red line? How many sentences can I use in a row with the word “blobject?” This reminds me of my days in high school German class. The teacher was fond of asking students to use the current week’s German vocabulary words in a sentence. My eager response was usually, “Was Bedeutet (the word in question)?, i.e. what is the meaning of. . . ” Of course I had to be the first one to use that trick each time, because once it was used it was not allowed for the other students. So back to the subject, was bedeutet blobject? I thought I was being original and making up a new word. But no such luck. The word has been around for a while.

According to the web site www.wordspy.com a blobject is “an object with a curvilinear, flowing design, such as the Apple iMac computer and the Volkswagen Beetle; an object with a dull or unremarkable design.” In July of 2000 Chris Allbritton wrote that "Apple's designs, envisioned by Jonathon Ive, Apple's lead designer, have not only changed the look of computing but spilled out into the rest of society, almost single-handedly starting the 'blobject' craze for curvy, organic items." The Word Spy found the word blobject first used in an article from the widely-read, critically-acclaimed Plastic News way back in 1995. Subscriptions can be purchased through Cooper High School Band glee club.

The sculpture Blobject by Karim Rashid, artist and designer commonly credited with coining the term, can be purchased for a mere $325.00. Not bad for a lump of plastic. I would put a picture of this character on my blog site, but I hate to scare the faint at heart. You can check it out yourself at www.karimrashid.com. His words of wisdom are that “If freedom were a form it would be a never-ending undulating boundless biomorphic shape that is in perpetual motion. Form follows Fluid.” So if freedom’s not just another word for nothin’ left to do, then maybe it’s something or someone with ants in their pants. And you can quote me on that.

So what does all this mean? Maybe this blobject site will contain a never-ending flow of words that ebbs and flows constantly running on and on as a good run-on sentence would, pausing only occasionally to eat ice cream or French Silk pie (not that I am in any way endorsing things French) seeking after dull or unremarkably designed ways of communicating as the definition implies, until that time that I can figure out what I’m trying to say.

But then again maybe it won’t.

professional photo editing (removing snow and placing green leaves on trees) done by Tim with PHOTOSNOW.

Christina, Adam, and Pastor Dan 

Braking News

Stop the Presses. I thought I was done for the day. One last thing to add. Son Mark and his band have been involved in a battle of the bands for the past 6 months at a club in south Minneapolis. They received 20 hours of professional recording time and $300. Congratulations, Mark.

Also we should acknowledge Christina on this special day. She was confirmed this morning at Plymouth Covenant Church. She opened one of the services with an introduction and prayer and did very well. She does very well verbally.

Who's wearing that Annie Hall hat? Submit your guesses at comments. 

WARM WEATHER COMING?
If all goes well, Minneapolis and St. Paul should be seeing temperatures above freezing soon. Twin Citians are anxiously waiting for ice and snow to melt in the next week or two.

timman & swansmith at Ice Castle 

Poem de jeur

I've forgotten about Steve these past few days. Here he comes.

SHORT POEM
Steve Turner

Short poems
are fun.
You can see at a glance
whether you
like them
or not.

Faking It

TLC, the cable channel that hosts “Trading Spaces” airs a show called “Faking It.” The premise is to find an individual and within three weeks train him/her to act as if they were someone they are not. I’ve only seen it once. The episode Suzi and I viewed featured an associate Episcopalian minister from New England who was very shy. His superior at the church felt it would be beneficial to try something to make him more assertive. In steps “Faking It.” They offer to fly him to Las Vegas to work for three weeks at the city’s largest car dealership. His challenge is to learn enough and practice acting convincingly enough to fool three professional “car” people—others employed in the field—into thinking that he is a real car salesman. After following his story, seeing how he is rigorously groomed by the owner of the dealership, he is put to the test. And of the four guys, three of whom are actual car salesmen, he was not chosen as the fake. He wins. An interesting sidebar is that after returning to his church in New England, he decides to moonlight, seeking part-time work at a local car dealership in his home town.

I was reminded of this episode as I thought of another way to summarize the Reimagining book. Doing theology or worshipping in community makes it a lot tougher to fake it. A few examples:
1. Seating is “in the round.” People are seated in couches in a circle around the pastor, who is sits on a barstool. As you are looking toward the speaker, you are also looking into the eyes of many in the room. It feels more like a living room than a sanctuary, and fosters a feeling of community by forcing you to look at others, noticing their reactions to what is said. In time one’s guard is dropped and you see around you the “real” expressions on people’s faces. It’s tougher to fake the right looks throughout the entire gathering time.
2. The sermon is more like a reading of a chapter of the Bible with comments thrown in every verse or two, followed up by a Q and A regarding the themes in the text. I’m sure it’s a lot more difficult for the speaker to be on the hot seat every week taking “pot shots” from the crowd. But it seems to work, and one feels much more a part of the message from Scripture. It’s definitely tougher for Doug to fake it.
3. The weekly communion celebration with decent-sized glasses for different juices and wines and full loaves of various good quality bread are scattered around at small tables through the room. People are encouraged to serve one other or go to one side of the room if they want to be served by an elder-type person. After everyone has been served, all hold hands (even those of us who take huge portions and still have bread in our hands) in a large circle and sing an Irish Blessing as a parting prayer. Lots of interaction is encouraged during the gathering time. Each time we’ve gone, we’ve had some decent conversations with someone new to us. I’ve experienced some pretty genuine folk. Any fakers? Probably. But it seems that the comfortable atmosphere helps people to relax and be them self.

On one hand Solomon’s Porch is not doing anything that different from other churches. I’ve seen degrees of what they do elsewhere. But the mix that they’ve come up with (intentional preposition placed at end of clause to keep sister-in-law Lori interested,) places an extreme emphasis on being a community as they seek spiritual formation. To me that seems to be the difference of that place. And it works. I’m sure they still have their share of problems and failures, but for us it has always been an uplifting and encouraging place to be.

I guess that’s always the challenge for all of us—to be real before God and our neighbors, loving and serving Him and them.

Creamy pillow talk

APB: 11:33 pm. I crawled into bed dead tired. And the pillow talk started. “I bought you something today,” Suzi said.
-What’s that?
-something you wanted
-Like what?
-something you mentioned last night.
I didn’t have a clue. I gave up and Suzi spilled the beans—coffee beans that is. Suzi had purchased some BREYERS COFFEE ICE CREAM. I have dreamed about the day that this would be available in the Twin Cities since the day Suzi’s parents bought this at Wal-mart for me over 2 years ago. And I never had a chance to eat the ice cream in Tennessee. And I’ve wondered what ever happened to that half gallon. Were they able to eat it or serve it to friends or give it away or (heaven forbid) dump it down the drain? I actually have thought about that often as I peruse the ice cream aisle whenever Suzi drags me to the grocery store. WHY DOES NO MINNEAPOLIS GROCERY STORE STOCK BREYERS COFFEE ICE CREAM? But now they do. :) And I have eaten, yea I eat even now as I type. And I smile. And I will go back to bed happy. And full. And with enough caffeine in my system to keep me from falling asleep so that I might come back down stairs to my computer and blog, blog, blog.

Or the pillow talk might continue. Good night and don’t forget to knock.

Community in the “non-foghornable” sense

In the immortal words of that great philosopher and Sinatraesque crooner Meatloaf, “I want you, I need you, but there ain’t to way I’m ever gonna love you, but don’t feel sad cause two outta three ain’t bad.” As a high school student that song stuck in my head less for its simple tune than its tragic message. I still haven’t figured out if the song is great parody or just plain crass. I’m not a student of Meatloaf, so it will have to remain unanswered.

This song came up tonight as Suzi and I discussed needing and wanting others and how it relates to family or church—the community of faith. This was in part inspired by that book, the Reimagining one. Written together by the pastor and several members of the church, the very process of collaborating on the text and photos is an example of how they seek spiritual formation as a community. BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, and BLAH.

I’m too tired to think anymore. I was coherent earlier before Suzi and I went to see Christina in a play about WWII at her school. But now all I want to do is eat popcorn or ice cream and we don’t have any good ice cream so popcorn it will have to be.

The fog horn thing? As a loyal listener to Garage Logic on am 1500 KSTP, I am ever vigilant about not using the word “community” in a sense that would give me the fog horn. I might explain sometime later, but go to the site if you’re interested. As a custodian of the English language, the host will fog horn words that he feels have degenerated over the past decade or so. Community is one such word if it is used only to refer to a group bound together by their need to feel like victims. Make sense? It’s past my bedtime. And that darned Suzi is probably eating all my popcorn.

How I spent my Wednesday

I spent the day digesting yesterday’s conquest. The book. About Reimagining. I felt full. I thought I might burp tonight. (Lack of humor caused by having too many teen-agers hanging around the house, playing various instruments at volumes even too loud for me!) I was planning to jot down ideas about the book’s main emphasis and make some helpful specific comments, but that will have to wait. Maybe it was the tacos or maybe it was the pulsating walls of my office, which is situated next to “the music studio.” Instead I did a google search which I’ve done on many previous occasions, but this time it came up with a much longer, much more complete list of what I’ve been looking for for a long time.

Jump back 20 plus years. As a lit major in college I listen to a poet and buy one of his first books. I love the works within and read them often. Then sometime around the time kids arrived I lost the book. I search for it occasionally. And more recently—the past two or three years—I look on the internet for his stuff. Out of print. Not much available. But tonight I must have done something different. Or maybe it’s just the explosion of stuff on the web. But I found many of my old poems on three or four different web sites, for FREE. (On a somber note, the book which I lost was listed on e-bay with a $104.00 bid. YIKES.)

So I’ve spent, yea invested, my evening reading poetry to the thump of a bass drum beat and screaming guitars. Steve Turner was my find. I’ll let you sample and see what you think. Enjoy.

WAIT
These are
the good
old days.
Just wait
and see
-Steve Turner

He's got the brevity thing mastered. I can usually read his poems in a single sitting.

Reimagining

It’s always a great feeling to finish a book, but once in a while I experience a let down. Such was the case today. I won't be reading the book tomorrow, and it leaves me a little sad. I long for more. I finished this book in record time. Reimagining Spiritual Formation, written by Doug Pagitt and the people at Solomon’s Porch (a church in south Minneapolis,) is an addicting read. I was able to forsake other books for nearly a week as I turned the pages on this one. The book was especially interesting to me since I’m familiar with some of the people at the church and have attended their "gatherings" a number of times. And I can vouch for the veracity of the stories and claims.

But I think the book would have struck a chord with me even without the familiarity. I sense a wonderful balance in their approach to living and growing in faith. They embrace the arts with the sincerity of a tradition-rich Anglican church while emphasizing relationships like a close-knit small town fellowship. The book is patterned after a typical week in the life of their church. The chapters are tied to the days of the week which are then linked to seven ways they seek to practice spiritual formation. The seven means are through worship, physicality, dialogue, hospitality, belief, creativity, and service. Although this list may sound predictable and even trite, their stories of implementing spiritual growth are fascinating. Interspersed throughout the text are journal entries from people in the church relating to the topic.

In addition to being hard to put down, I found fault with little or nothing. And my usual response to most chapters was one of excitement, believing that Doug had nailed the issue with a sledgehammer right on the money. I wholeheartedly endorse the book and its commentary on today’s church. I should include some quotes, but I'm tired of typing and my wife is now here rubbing my back, which reminds me. . . I’m starting to figure out a few more things about blogging and setting things up. You’ve probably noticed I now have real titles for my blogs and I’m starting to figure out the comment thing.

Thank you Pat. Thank you Lori. But I must disagree with you. Lori, you are neither annoying nor obnoxious. Love and Donny Osmond to all.

1st Sunday following Anniversary

In keeping with attempts to incorporate a Sabbath in my life, today’s blog . . .

A (hard fought-for) Sabbath

Well I survived my anniversary (oops, I should say our anniversary.) Actually it was very nice. The day of work left much to be desired, but Suzi and I had a wonderful meal at the local “Thirteen moons” restaurant. We decided to visit because it’s one of the fancier places in Robbinsdale and they redo the menu every new moon. The food’s pretty good too.

We received a special surprise as I was unwinding from what felt like a very unproductive day. In the middle of our meal my mother called. They were wondering if they could drop off our anniversary gift. I told her that we were out eating at 13 moons. “You’re kidding,” she said, “we have a gift certificate for you from 13 moons. Have you paid yet?” I told her we hadn’t and we could and would wait until they arrived. We figured we might as well use it now, since we don’t get a chance to ‘eat fancy’ that often.

After our relaxing meal we headed out to shop for my dad’s birthday, and then home where we could get in bed and . . . ah . . . ah . . . watch “Everybody Loves Raymond.” Channel 29 replayed the episode of Ray and Debra’s wedding in honor of our anniversary. How thoughtful.

But on to today. I actually forsook work for a day and sat around the house (although not in the sense of Weird Al’s song “Fat” where the over-sized subject of the song actually ‘sits AROUND the house.) The weather today was absolutely flawless—middle 60s to middle 70s with low humidity and not much wind. I meandered between the porch and the office as I read from a couple of new books. One which has resonated deeply with me is entitled “Reimagining Spiritual Formation. It is the story of a week in the life of a church in south Minneapolis, which I have attended a half dozen times in the last three years. The church, “Solomon’s Porch,” is pastored by a thoughtful guy whose blogs I love to read. He’s also linked to some other church leaders and laity through a group called “Emergent.” In dabbling through those links the past two days I came across another inspiring blogger by the name of Jay Voorhees. He was able to summarize well one of the areas with which God was challenging me. His words:

"To talk about purpose is to fall into the Calvinist notions of doing instead of being. It suggests that the most important thing in life is what we do (living out our purpose in the world) than being who we are (created in the image of God). It easily allows itself to move toward the Protestant work ethic which states that our value is in our accomplishment rather than our identity.
Certainly what we do is important; you can't read Matthew's Sheep and the Goats without realizing that. But are those works our purpose in life, or do they arise out of our identity as characters in God's story?"


So that’s a word I’ve been hearing from a number of places (maybe even “upstairs”) and had better start heeding. Today, a Saturday, I had my Sabbath (even though it was interspersed with mowing the lawn, cleaning out the garage, and motivating my teen-age daughter to help her mother around the house—so I’ve got a ways to go.) SHALOM

21 Years and Counting

Happy anniversary honey. It’s been 21 years now and I can honestly say that you are one of the best examples of the fact that God is good. Twenty-one years, I guess that really makes us legal. Your faithfulness and devotion truly mirror the Almighty’s. I never doubt that you are on my side, by my side, striving for what’s best for me. That sure makes life easier. You’ve given me a grateful heart for which I’m eternally grateful. And to think there is One who loves me even more. . . . . . . (speechless)

Robbins Street

I worked near a very special street in Minneapolis today. It doesn’t look special, but it is. Even lifelong Minneapolitans have probably not heard of the street. In Mpls. it’s fairly easy to get a handle on the streets. Most are alphabetized or numbered or follow the sequence of the U.S. presidents. And they run from one edge of the city to the other. I pride myself on having every street in the city memorized. Quite different from St. Paul, but that’s for another time. I’m reminded of a Garrison Keiler book I once read (I think WLT) where he talks about the founders of the city and (with tongue in cheek) lists them as Aldrich Bryant, Colfax Dupont, Emerson Fremont, Girard Humboldt, etc. A little inside joke letting us locals know that he too can recite the names of the streets on the west side of town.

But anyways, back to this special street. It doesn’t follow the rules. It’s like a St. Paul street in the middle of Minneapolis. Amongst all the numbered streets—50th, 51st, etc. is plopped this two-block-long, east-west, named street, breaking all the German-inspired grid-like conventions. This street in the far southwest corner of the city goes by the name of Robbins. It’s easy for me to remember since I hail from the town of “Robbins” dale. However, this street is no where near my hometown.

I first learned of this street about 10 years ago. (I work in construction and travel the entire metro extensively.) A NW suburban contractor for which I worked called and asked if I could do a job on a street in SW Minneapolis. I better give you directions, he said, since it’s a little hard to find. Upon finding the house, I now knew where Robbins Street was. A few weeks later, I received a call from another contractor (not related at all to the previous one) asking if I could do a job on a small street in SW Minneapolis. He offered to give me directions to this “hard-to-find” street, but when he told me it was Robbins, I was able to tell him I knew the way. Forward a few more weeks, a third contractor (no relation to the first two and also based on the north side of the Twin Cities) called. He had a job he needed done. You guessed it. Robbins Street. SW MPLS. More than 10 miles from my home and the offices of these three builders.

A little odd. Doesn’t look like a special street. Homes are modest. Not much construction was going on amongst those two dozen or so homes. So I told my story to the third homeowner on whose house I was now working. He too thought it a little odd that three separate contractors from the other end of town would within a few months send me to one out-of-the-way street with not much building activity, but the story he was about to tell me trumped mine in the category of coincidence (or divine providence?)

Mr. X told me about his days growing up in a small town in Wisconsin, almost 200 miles from the Twin Cities. He lived in a modest two-story on a quiet street and had his own bedroom while growing up. After graduating from college, he moved to the big city and settled in on this quiet street in the Minneapple. Being from Stephen’s Point, WI he knew no one in the area. Reaching out to his neighbors he got to know the guy next door. In time they realized they were both Cheese Heads. They failed to see the purple light and followed the Green and Yellow instead (pre Favre that was.) Upon investigating each other’s past they found that they both hailed from Stephen’s Point (a coincidence), and both grew up on the same side of town (a coincidence), and went to the same school (a coincidence), and lived on the same street (a coincidence), and lived in the SAME HOUSE (a coincidence), and actually (I swear this is true) used the exact bedroom when they were youngsters (a coincidence?) They had never met before and didn’t even know of each other. But they both moved over 200 miles and ended up as next door neighbors. I still think WOW whenever I drive by their neighborhood.

|

The Fear of Blogging

My wife has been a blogger for almost a year now. She blogs as she (excuse me for a second while I turn off the spell checker for the word BLOG. My version of Word is so 20th century as it fails to recognize blog or any form of that now ubiquitous word on line.) As I was saying she blogs as she writes, sitting down and rattling off reams without much effort and in record time. But I’m not like that. For the most part, I labor over each word and thought. I agonize over exposing myself to the page. I don’t much care what others think so much anymore, but I think of my own reactions to what I have written. I can usually stomach what I have put on paper or the screen for the time being, but to look back at a previous day’s thoughts is often scary and at times discouraging. WHAT WAS I THINKING? Do I really grow that much from day to day as to make yesterday’s thoughts childish or irrelevant? NOT, as my kids used to say about 10 years ago.

So what’s my hang-up? Suzi has encouraged me to blog for some time now. She has kept it up and found it helpful, therapeutic, and informative for her family. And now she is talking about gathering with other bloggers in some sort of support and encouragement group. Should I become a part of that? We’ll see. It seems like a trivial thing to add to an overbooked schedule. But having just finished a book by Tony Campolo where he admonished folk (in the words of Carl Lundquist, NIKE, and the existentialists Campolo loves to quote) JUST DO IT!, I’m a little susceptible.