FFLF

I should have known better. The Swanster warned me, but I ignored it. I’ve been surrounded by the fairer sex all of my life, so I should be hip to the signs.

But the call came at a moment of weakness. I was home from work. We had just picked up our daughter from her week-long getaway at camp, and I was unwinding in front of the tube watching a history channel program on World War I with colorized film footage.

The guys were going to play a quick game of Carcasonnne. So, instead of watching other guys from almost a century ago marching around and blowing up things, I could engage in my own board game battle. I could challenge two friends to a struggle of building the best cities and roads and farm fields, as we chop each other out of the best locations on the table.

The Swansmith was not keen to the idea of me taking off at suppertime to hang with the guys. Plus she was getting bad vibes about going to a place where two guys were in charge of three pre-school kids while their wives were away. “Who’s going to watch the kids?” she asked. They can watch each other as we play, I reasoned. Makes sense. That’s what toys are for. (Besides, it turns out they spent most of the time playing dress up. At least they didn’t play beautician or doctor.)

My fatal flaw was in forgetting about the FFLF, the Female Fun Limitation Factor. I listen to Garage Logic enough to know that the “fun-impaired” ones don’t always like guys to hang out and have a good time. And often when said individuals enter the room, the fun quickly comes to an end. To put it gently, our game was not finished this evening. With boyish grins we had to pick up our toy and go home early. Back home to where I could anticipate my “I told you so.”

To be fair though, the Swanmeister was extremely gracious and forgiving and even apologetic. She should have more forcefully knocked some sense into my head and made me take her to a movie, one where nobody gets blown up, but lots of people are crying.

C’est la vie!

A quick question

Has anyone ever finished a “perfectly ripe” peach or nectarine and doubted that God is very good? It’s that season, and the juicy fruit even makes high humidity tolerable.

The Twins

The Painter v.1.1

Below is a peek at the new site.

It was a bright crisp morning with birds chirping in time to Joey’s long stride.  The spring in his step seemed to encourage the cardinals and blue jays to call out even louder.  The sunlight had long since warmed up the sidewalk that Joey has been walking each morning for the last six months.  This place was starting to feel like home.  What once had appeared so foreboding was becoming a part of him.  Each morning he had to stretch his neck uncomfortably backwards so that he could see the very top of the gables that he painted earlier this spring.  He could usually hear his neck creak but he did it nevertheless, taking pride in how the colors complemented the rest of the house.

Joey never planned on spending his entire summer at this one location, but he was grateful how things work out.  Before this year Joey had never even heard of Summit Place, but now he could drive here in his sleep.  And sometimes he does.  He’s usually still working on his first Starbucks by the time he pulls up to this 1926 stately Victorian. 

The occupants of the house are early-risers, so he is free to start at or before 7 a.m. each morning.  He’s finally gotten into the rhythm of being through that ornate iron gate by at least 6:57 unless the skies have opened up in the morning.  The Locklears have come to count on his prompt arrival each morning so much that they actually fill up a tall mug of Columbian Dark Roast for him at five minutes to seven and set it on his table near the front door.

For some reason, this morning the coffee is not to Joey's liking. "Cream!" he screams as he startles the homeowners who sit and watch him take a tentative sip of the coffee they have made for him as they scurry about on their way out the door, watching out of the sides of their eyes as Katie Couric moans about her mother not liking her longer hairstyle."You know I drink my coffee black!"The Locklears turn their attention away from Katie and the Today Show and gaze confusedly at Joey. Joey is usually so goodnatured, they are aghast at this new behavior.

Joey sets his cup down. "Sorry," he says to the Locklears, who have even reached for the remote and turned Katie down. "I am used to drinking my coffee black, and hearing Katie talk about her hair like that...well, I guess it just drove me a bit crazy. Actually, I'm a Good Morning America fan myself. Ever since Katie criticized Rush and Dobson, then grew her hair out, I just haven't had the stomach for her or NBC before 10 am. And, then, the cream in the coffee..." Joey drops his head, overcome with emotion at the thought of it all, Katie, cream, and of course his embarassment over the outburst.

[The Swansmith's helpful paragraphs are in green.  Dr. Locklear is a professor at the local college, while his wife is an attorney downtown.  She hopes to be a partner soon.  Could you help me flesh them out.]

Will it Be a Dark and Stormy Night?

That crazy lady that twisted my arm far enough a few months back blazed a new trail recently by starting a second blog.  Blogging for Light has been up and running for a few weeks now and is receiving numerous accolades.  Check it out.  This same wacky woman has lured me into doing something similar.  For quite a while I’ve thought about writing more on some of my chief interests, such as theology, church history or new techniques in the application of drywall compounds.  I’ve thought about interspersing these passions in with my daily blog, but I hated to destroy the mundane tone that I’ve worked so hard to establish.  But who knows, maybe someday.

But now, of late, my mind has gone in a completely different direction.  Sparked in part by my visitation with dear Mark, the 50 year old, I’ve rethought and reworked something I’ve dreamed of doing for a long time.  And if things go as planned, maybe this will not take the energy of say a treatise on St. Augustine or the history of Gnosticism.

It has been decades since I’ve attempted any writing of fiction.  I was never any good at it, and I’m still not qualified in any sense of the word.  But I share with that crazy woman a love for the printed word.  We are both addicts.  Set something on the table with words on it and we fight over who can read it first.

So, in short, what I’d like to do is set up something where others can generate sentences or paragraphs for a short story.  These can be entered through the comment lines on the new blog.  I will start a story and try to add in the donated lines that I receive. 

I along with that fabulous female under my roof actually did something like this as a party game many years ago, and it was a blast.  The twenty or thirty people we had at our house loved it and thought it would be fun to do again.  Well, 15 years later, maybe we can do this online.

I’m not sure how this will actually work, so I’m open to suggestions.  But I’ll get things rolling; and with the editing skills of the Resident Warden, we might be able to put together something of interest.  I’m thinking of naming the blog, “It was a Dark and Story Night.”

I miss Christina.

The truly amazing chef has burned my cheeseburger 

The Gospel Rhythm

Papa Dan (recently dubbed by Lashonne Maki), lead pastor of Plymouth Covenant, spoke at the Well today.  Plymouth is the parent church of the Well, a new church plant where my family and I have been hanging out for many months.  The theme of his message this morning is one I’ve heard many times before, but something new stuck out this morning.  Pastor Dan began by showing a great Nike commercial where basketball players are dribbling and passing back and forth with great rhythm, something he claims that he does not have.  He might not have it on the b-ball court (actually I think he does), but he sure has it as he preaches.  His words were simple yet profound.  The gospel rhythm is one of coming and going, breathing in and breathing out.  Come to Jesus, all you who are weary and burdened; and then go and make disciples.

I know all this.  And it all makes sense.  In fact, I don’t even question that it’s true.  All coming or all going, or all inhaling and no exhaling, is not healthy.  Rhythms abound in the seasons and days and years, but they need to be apart of our lives too.  But what struck me today is a conditional statement that Dan made.  Who should come and when should we come to Jesus?  That’s the way he briefly asked the question.  His text for the morning was Matthew 11:28, and the ones whom Jesus calls to come are those who are weary and burdened.  As Dan put it, “who can come?”  “What are the requirements for coming to Jesus?  Do you need enough money?  Do you need to have your act together?  Do you need to be good enough?  Do you need to approach him in a special way?”

No!  The requirement for coming to Jesus is that you are weary and burdened, in need of him.  That’s the time to come.  Otherwise, if we are fulfilled through His Spirit, we should be in the going state.  Going to those in need: feeding, clothing, teaching, encouraging, baptizing, helping, and so forth.

I think many others this morning could relate to the weary and burdened part.  Just as thirst should lead us to water (or coffee,) weariness should lead us to Jesus.  It was a good word that we were all glad to hear.

In contemplating yesterday’s blog, I remembered the uncomfortableness with which I write about feeling great and relating that to God’s goodness, even though I genuinely feel that.  Because I know that at the same time that I’m feeling wonderful, there are others in this world that are just barely hanging on.  Suffering and hardships abound in this world, and I sometimes feel guilty blocking those out of my mind while I revel in a splendid time.  But I suppose like the necessary rhythms of coming and going, we all need times to laugh and times to cry, times to feel euphoric and times to wallow.  Oops, I’m starting to sound like the Preacher, the one in Ecclesiastes.  (I once roomed for a short time with a philosophy major who was “wasted” on something and would claim that the only thing he understood from the Bible was the book of Ecclesiastes, but that’s a whole nother story.)

 
News Flash:  Christina wants more holes in her head.  Two earrings is not enough.  Four earrings will be enough, she claims.  As of now, she desires no nose ring or bone, no tongue piercing, or belly button or eyebrow stud.  Word has it that many who have good ears wish that a certain person had one fewer hole in her head (just under the nose).  I’m sorry, but the two of us just finished a half-hour “one minute” conversation.  Or should I say monologue?

Maybe I feel a need to blog, because I can’t get words expressed in the oral means.

 
Personal Note: To my “F-in” friend Dale, I’m single-handedly trying to lower the standards of blogged material, striving to make this medium comfortable for all.   Read enough of this and realize that you too could type away aimlessly.  (Although the more I read of other blogs the less intimidated I become and the more thankful I become for all the help I receive from others with a similar mission.)

But on a more serious note (although I guess I am primarily serious about the above statement), I find that the best way to better myself in anything is by doing.  Whether I sling mud on the walls or attempt to sail, my proficiency is elevated by practice.  And I try to forget the times I end up in the lake and the days I come home with more mud on my clothes than on the walls.

In this blogging venture, I’ve decided never to look back.  I don’t read what I’ve written in the past because it would probably make me self-conscious and overly critical of what I did weeks ago when I was “younger and dumber.”

So blog on, dude.  Make a fool of yourself or me for that matter.  Expose me as a washed-up Carcassone player, losing my strategical edge with each passing game.  Or in this Bush era should I say “stratejory.”   Whatever.  I gotta go now.  And thanks for listening (or reading) and not talking back.  In my household, I need that.  I receive ample practice in listening, so I sit here needing to vent.  There I’m done.  Really.  Or as the great British poet Rev. John said, “I’m Donne.”  Fini.

Check off another one? 

Mark at one half century 

Nirvana

After finishing an excessively grueling week at work, juggling almost a dozen jobs at once, I finally experienced Nirvana.  It came in the form of times alone back on the back porch, starring out into the ever alive surroundings or into a book which came in the mail about two weeks ago.  The book arrived at my doorstep because I had forgotten to cancel the monthly book club  selection with IVP.  “Forgotten” is maybe not a fair word, because in the back of my mind I probably secretly desired it.  Who knows?  But it came and I read and I actually finished it TODAY.

The weather these past few days has been flawless.  And all I could do upon escaping from work was glory in its magnificence out on the porch (protected by mosquitoes.)  The book arrived the same day that I blogged about doubt and questioning.  I remember because just after blogging, I opened the package to find the title of Dr. Timothy Johnson’s book, “Finding God in the Questions.”  This hard-cover book is written by the M.D. who works for ABC news as its medical journalist.  I agree with the comments on the back cover.  “Nightline’s” Ted Koppel calls it “a balm to the soul,” while the Dean of the Harvard Medical School describes it as a brilliantly analyzed deep humanitarian exposition.   I’ve pondered its insights and call it a “good book.”

I suppose it’s a little like some of the blogs out there only very well edited.  It’s a nice balance of science, medicine, journalism, and his own story of faith with some touching and vulnerable moments of failure and triumph.  With a pile of about 10 other books laying around the house at various degrees of completion, I suppose the fact that I finished this one within a week speaks to its ability to enthrall and satisfy.

So that was part one of my Nirvana experience—being able to sit and read without distraction.  Part two as I’ve already alluded to (“alluded to” reference in honor of Rev. Todd Kussman) is the absolutely phenomenal weather of late.  And I’m practicing what I often preach to my kids, with weather this nice it is a SIN to be indoors.  Get out and play.  Maybe the short stint of hot humid days made me appreciate the good stuff all the more, but I can’t speak highly enough of a mid-summer day in Minnesota with low humidity, temps in the 70s, blue sky, scattered white fluffy clouds, and an overabundance of deep greens against the brown bark.  How can one not scream out (at least inwardly) in praise to a very gracious God?

I had enough energy earlier to go into further detail concerning the book, but now that’s gone.  Suzi and I went to a friend’s 50th birthday party and then to Home Depot to buy some replacement parts for a broken closet organizer.  Those two events were enough to zap the energy right out of me.  Suzi reminded me tonight that we were married when my parents celebrated their 50th birthdays.  Egads.

Mark and his wife both turned 50 this year, so they had a joint party.  I couldn’t find any joints around however.  Maybe that was for later in the evening.  Mark and I go back quite a few years, and we had a chance to share in each others’ weddings.  We were married within a year of each other and had the same color schemes.  (This last comment was to impress my wife and make some points.)

But what I really remember about Mark is his love for gospel music, comic books, fantasy literature, good conversation, good food, and travel.  During his college days he worked for the Park & Recreation Board in the winter staffing the warming house for ice skaters.  He alternated shifts with another friend of mine.  To make the time fly by they would take turns writing chapters for never-published novels.  I remember the most fun they had was in trying to mess things up for the other person.  One of them would try to establish a plot or flesh out a character only to find that the other one had completely changed direction the next day.  It made for some wild stories.  He and our mutual friend Greg have always been great story tellers and they truly let their imaginations run wild during those long cold winter nights.

I’ve often thought it would be fun to be a part of an exercise like that with Mark.  He’s been a great friend over the years and he does a great job bringing the best out in people.

Kimberlee

KimberLEE – that makes sense.

Having a Superior time last August 

Left Behind

My wife left me today.  She left me for another city.  Normally this would not be that traumatic, but she’s cavorting with that city on a hill, the air-conditioned one. 
 
What a time to leave me behind.  The mercury here in the Twin Towns reached a sultry 96 degrees F. (35 Celsius) with the dew point dripping in the 70s.  That pushed the heat index into the 105 – 110 range. 
 
And there she was in Duluth.  Almost to Canada.  By the Lake.  With breathtaking views of the harbor.  The cool-deprived part of the state broasts the Twin Cities, while the free A/C region chills the Twin Ports.
 
It’s been almost a year since I’ve been that far north.  We traveled to and through Duluth on our way up near Lutsen last August.  It was our first camping excursion with Inga, and a time when all the Nelsons were able to get away together.  If memory serves right, we also left oppressive temps in the cities that weekend.  Only to arrive on the shores of Lake Superior and find that the strong western winds were bringing 90 + heat and humidity to a campground that never sees air-conditioning used.  The electrical circuits were popping as everyone tried to run the A/C in their RVs.  We were forced into the Lake.  And swimming in the big one was actually on the warm side of refreshing.  It only “kinda” took your breath away.
 
My Brother Greg’s family had rented a beach front cabin and called the campground office wondering why this place didn’t have A/C.  The managers just laughed.  A day like this was about as rare as snow in Miami.  But things turned to normal the next day.  And we all enjoyed the cooling effects of Lake Gitchigoomi. The skies returned to baby blue and we could look out to the horizon with no sign of land in sight.
 
It was a glorious day, the kind that we had planned on finding up there.  My wish and hope and prayer for the Swansmith, the ever diligent “Talkalong,” the Northwoods Soccer Mom, and the proud, new parents of Kimberly is a day as magnificent as that.  May they remember us as we sweat like Richard Simmons down here.  Stay COOL in God’s Country!

Luke and Kim

Below I provide some visual proof that Luke is ready to move on and out, and the Swanmeister’s parents have entered into dog ownership.

Luke's new pad 

Kimberly at 9 weeks / Cuteness factor of 10 

I.M.L.O.L. T.T.Y.L.

Is blogging merely an acceptable form of grown-up chatting?

My nephew's "Cousin It" 

Word Games

I just finished my first game of Etymologic: The toughest word game on the web.  I answered the first five of ten questions correctly and got very cocky.  I almost ran upstairs to grab the Swansmith to show off.  Fortunately, I didn't.  My final score was 6 out of 10.  I was told to go and study.  How humiliating. 
 
Give it a try.  May my misery find company.

Blessed are the Feet which keep their shoes on

I stumbled upon a new blog today.  Actually its highly esteemed curator informed me of its existence.  I deemed it worthy to receive a link on my blog since it’s a lot more profound than anything I can come up with (and he doesn’t even end sentences with prepositions.)  Mr. F. writes about being a pain in the a . . ., no correct that, I’m sorry, he writes about having  a pain in the . . ., no I guess it was lower than that.  Anyways, I break my Sabbath rest to recognize some guy who needs to wear shoes.  Maybe I should start a collection.  Is there a Doc Martin in the house?  Calling all podiatrists.  
 
Let’s protect this guy’s feet, and in turn protect young children’s ears.  After all it’s for the children.

This is the Blog

This is the Blog that never ends.  It just goes on and on my friends.  Some people actually read it not knowing what it was.  And they'll just keep on reading it forever just because; this is the blog that never ends.  It just goes on and on my friends.  Some people actually read it not knowing what it was.  And they'll just keep on reading it forever just because; this is the blog that never ends.  It just goes on and on my friends.  Some people actually read it not knowing what it was.  And they'll just keep on reading it forever just because; this is the blog that never ends.  It just goes on and on my friends.  Some people actually read it not knowing what it was.  And they'll just keep on reading it forever just because; this is the blog that never ends. . . .

outside our porch in our neighbor's garden 

Work or Play

CORRECTION: I forgot one for yesterday’s list: 10. Quit pushing my buttons. I hope to some day explain the havoc this has been creating in our world.

But for today it’s ecstasy. No, not the drug, the lifestyle. I was experiencing some this evening as I sat and then reclined out on the back screened-in porch. Temperature in the upper 70s, humidity low, breeze adequate—just a perfect evening to avoid the indoors, and specifically the computer.

As I drank in the evening air, no wait, I guess that was a cup of coffee. It sat long enough to cool, so it was a little hard to distinguish between the two. Let’s start again—as I breathed in the evening air, I overheard the sounds of the many children playing FUTBOL in the field next to our house. The church body that rents the small church building behind our house for Sunday afternoon services and reaches out primarily to “mixed families with ‘anglo’ and ‘hispanic’ spouses” was hosting a weeklong soccer camp. The entire week’s evening sessions were announced in both languages, and it looked like the kids were having a blast. I was grateful for the many adult volunteers that were running around making sure that the kids were having a good time. But at the same time I was grateful that I was able to just sit and relax. Should I have felt guilty, I don’t know. I often do when I just sit.

But I got to thinking about work and play, and the need for both. And this evening was the best “play” time I’ve had in quite a while. A book in one hand, some fine java in the other, and a comfy chair underneath. This was better than waterslides, or roller coasters, or go-karts, Tilt-a-Whirls, or (I better stop while I’m ahead.)

I even related this work-play thinking to my time now indoors. I’m at the computer. Am I playing or working? I’ve tried journaling many, many times throughout my life. I’ve had teachers and pastors and motivational speakers harp on the values of keeping a journal. And I’ve tried to endure, but always failed. And maybe this too will fail in time. But as I look back I think I’ve always perceived the task of writing as work. But maybe it’s different now. Maybe I’m trying to have fun, playing around a little.

I guess I’m trying to be disciplined about entering at least something regularly, but I’ve tried to keep my mindset away from a “work mentality.” I often think about things of substance that I should be addressing, but that sounds too much like work to me.

Maybe in time, maybe when I loose my day job, I won’t mind working so much at night at the computer.

Resume Play.

Why I shouldn’t Read other Blogs

I had in mind a few things on which to comment today.  But in my attempt to sit down and relax, I read a few blogs. And I ran into some captivating stuff. Now my mind is being pulled in a dozen different directions. So what do I say? What do I do? What Would Swansmith Do? Because the hour is late, I’m tempted to merely list titles as they come to mind. Succumbing to temptation:

1. Running into a celebrity, who I think was avoiding me
2. I am Augustine (for explanation see this quiz)
3. An apology for blogging
4. The long and winding red brick road
5. Adult Chatting? A response to child three
6. A tempting on-line game of political intrigue
7. I got my socks
8. Mai comes, Irvin goes
9. So I lied about a dozen

Back to Kindergarten

Just when I think my memory is shot, old images come flashing back. Yesterday I worked across the street from my first childhood home and today I went to bid a job next door to my kindergarten school building. The City of Golden Valley for many years had its own school district, number 21 I believe it was. But back in the 60s it must have been in the city’s interests to disband and allow the larger districts of Robbinsdale and Hopkins to split up the city and educate its students in its existing schools. Robbinsdale acquired from Golden Valley an old brick building built in 1921 and used it exclusively for kindergarten classes. It had 6 classrooms and that’s where I attended my first year of school. (The building now is being used by a Baptist Church.) I previously assumed that this was probably the original school building in town, but today I found out that the house next door was actually the first school house (built around the turn of last century.)

I attended classes there in the years 1963 and 1964. Yes, I did graduate within the allotted time. That building brings back many memories, both good and bad. Of course on the bad and sad side, I was there when President Kennedy was shot on November 23rd. I now think of that as the day that Aldous Huxley and (my favourite [British spelling]) C.S. Lewis also died. (This reminds me of a great book entitled Between Heaven and Hell, which presents a conversation with these three men in the afterlife, shortly after dying. It’s a well-written, fast-paced and humorous book; the first book Suzi ever gave me, and one that endeared her to me.)

But most of the memories were fond ones. Naps, collecting leaves, coloring with the big 8-color crayons, tracing found items, hearing the teacher read adventurous tales, and just being around that many kids my own age. No first-graders to pick on us there.

It was a cool place to start official school and probably helped put me on the right steps to a lifetime of loving to learn.

Oak Grove rocks!

16th & Irving

I worked in the “hood” today. I think most of my old neighbors were gone, but I didn’t have time to go door-to-door. Plus I’m not Mormon and my Avon products are on back order.

In case I’m not making sense, I worked today across the street from where I spent most of my early years: 16th and Irving Avenue North. That North part is important, cause 32 blocks due south puts one in a very exclusive part of Minneapolis, near Lake of the Isles and multi-million dollar mansions. But North is still “north” to a large degree. (Yes, you can quote me on that.) My old house on that corner is now only two doors from where “urban renewal” ripped out 6 to 8 city blocks of houses and plopped in a fortress style building with high brick walls and no windows. They call it North High School. Its one redeeming value in the eyes of most Twin Citians is its string of perpetually great basketball teams.

I learned how to ride a bike on that sidewalk. It was a great place to learn because each of the yards had a nice grassy incline of about 3 feet from the base of the sidewalk to the plateau of the main part of the yard. So when I fell, it was onto nice soft grass. Except in front of our yard, we had a nice mix of grass and dandelions.

Over the many years I’ve driven down that street numerous times. Like a homing pigeon, I always sense a pull to that area. Change has been constant in that part of town. Each year when the cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul host a home tour were home owners can show off their remodeled houses, I like to seek out ones in this area. The neighborhood features some stately old Victorians in varying states of neglect, sitting side by side with ‘70s style minimalistic boxes that exude ugliness. But primarily you find modest one & ½ and 2-story homes built from the teens through the 30s with an endless variety of styles.

As one who has spent too many hours working on building projects in sub-developments that offer people 6 cookie cutter plans all of which look very much alike, it’s fun to drive down the street taking long glances at each house. That is until I have to swerve to miss the many rusted-out cars littering the street.

It was fun today. I was able to look out the window of the house I was in and gain a fresh perspective on the windows that years ago I could just barely look out.

Well, time for bed. Maybe I can get sentimental some time and tell you what I really think about the Old Highland neighborhood. But for now I prefer my current bed. It has other advantages.

I doubt that you can eat this without coffee 

Are those ants in your pants?

On my way to engage in warring conflict yesterday against the F. man and some buddies, I switched to MPR (Minnesota Public Radio) to catch the end of Prairie Home Companion. I forgot (notice any recurring theme?) that the Sunday rebroadcast was moved from 12—2 to 11—1. So I listened instead to another show that I catch once in a while called “Speaking of Faith.” The interviewed guest, Jennifer Michael Hecht , has just finished a book entitled, Doubt: A History. It chronicles the history of doubt (duh, I may not remember much, but I’ve got an uncanny ability to summarize theses) within Christianity and other major world religions and worldviews. Being a lover of history, it was intriguing. Her main point was that worldviews are strengthened when they allow doubting within the ranks. She probably stated it much more profoundly, but that will have to do for purposes of this blog.

I’m a big fan of doubt. Doubt as an end in itself is not to my liking; but as a means to deeper understanding, I’m all for it. One of my favorite definitions of doubt comes from novelist/theologian Frederick Buechner. He says that doubt is the ants in the pants of faith. It keeps it alive and moving. Or something to that effect.

That’s not always a popular sentiment though. I was in a small group Bible study group many years ago and was asked to break off from the group to start another one as the leader. However, a few weeks before this was to happen, the head honcho of these groups was sitting in on our time together. I was answering some questions in the study guide about doubt. And instead of blasting it, I gave the above definition by Buechner. Needless to say, it was decided by the powers that be, that I was probably not the right candidate for the job. But at least I didn’t mind the loss of financial compensation that never materialized with the absence of that position.

Now I know doubting can be dangerous, but I think an unwillingness to question and doubt can be just as dangerous. And I know that the challenges to my faith have made it stronger over the years. I rarely if ever anymore question God’s love for mankind generally and me specifically. And I find it impossible to imagine the world around me as something other than a loving gift from a loving Creator. Even the sight of horrific cruelties and pure evil, only tend to reinforce my belief in the fallen-ness of mankind, rather than some disengagement by God. And if that One is the author and embodiment of all truth, a search after truth naturally points us in the right direction. My experience has been that honest doubting is part of that truth search that leads us closer to the One who provides answers to receptive ears.

“F-in’” Dale

Because today’s political landscape is littered with the “F-bomb (coming from both sides),” our semi-monthly small group met last night to eat, play games, and razz a fellow comrade Dale F. His e-mail address is proudly listed as DaleF@ . . ., but some of us still couldn’t remember it.

As the leader of our group, he often receives what we feel it is our duty to dish out, namely ‘dis’es. Giving him a chance to experience humility (I hope it wasn’t humiliation,) we were lovingly referring to him last night as “F-in’” Dale—not the full word, just “F”. I think I will now actually remember his e-mail address. (Notice and appreciate that fine tie-in to yesterday’s blog!)

Mnemonics. That was actually a favorite subject of mine in high school and college. I still like to play games with words and phrases and systems to try to make them more memorable. A bad memory has truly hampered me throughout my life and I’ve been forced to seek out fun schemes to make it through life. I’ve actually read through The Memory Book twice. I set up reminders on my computer that beep at me. Problem is they usually go off to break my chain of thought while I try to blog.

But back to Mr. F. The Warden has been on his case for some time to check out her blog. Mr. F. is a very good writer is his own write, so he’s gotten some encouragement from the Swansmith over the months. Anyways, maybe as a result of the harassment, Mr. F. delighted us all (except his wife) with his very typical, frank comment last night that he is abstaining from the sauce until their family is enlarged. OK, maybe he used different language than that. I guess you’ll have to write to request a more literal quotation.

Well, here’s to you, Mr. F., we applaud your dedication and effort and pray God’s speed in your endeavor. And if you ever read this, sir, I demand that you treat me well and let me win at our game nights or I will post an ugly picture that I probably have on file right next to this blog. Enough said.

Don’t Forget to Read This!

I forgot to blog yesterday.

And I forget why.

But as I look back through the decades I find comfort in the immortal words of that great politician, “a mind is a terrible thing to . . . to lose.” I pray that is not the case here.

My guru, if I were to have a guru, Steven Wright brings this issue to the forefront by stating that: “Right now I’m having amnesia and déjà vu at the same time. I think I’ve forgotten this before.”

So I can relate. So where was I? Hmmm. Oh, well, I could mention another seminar I attended at Cornerstone. Are we sick of Cornerstone, yet? Well, so what. Anyways, this guy Peter Chattaway from Canada gave a number of talks on memory in film, which I found to be quite intriguing. He claimed to have a terrible memory like mine, and was thus compelled to dig into the subject. He was amazed at how often memory, or the lack thereof, was used as a device to create suspense or interest in movies. Amnesia or Alzheimer’s is often used as the backdrop for the tension or conflict in a story.

I wasn’t able to attend as many of the sessions as I wanted to, and during many of them I was coming and going, so I hope that’s a fair representation of what he was saying. But one thing I was struck by is this guy’s name. I think I remember him from many years ago. Just when I think my mind is gone, I vaguely recall conversations that I had on line with this guy over a DECADE ago when I was on that primitive on-line service PRODIGY. Anyone remember that? I signed up when it was first available back in the 80s. And then I dropped it when they no longer offered unlimited time on-line. (And it’s only been recently that my wife lured me back on-line in any significant capacity. Things have changed!)

I wonder if a bad memory is related to loosing things. I often spend hours wandering around looking for things. If something is not in its proper place, I’m lost. I need categories and slots and lists and grids to function properly. Without a good filing system, I’m frustrating and beaten. (But Tim, look at your desk. . . Shut up!)

So to deal with this problem, I have implemented a policy with regard to my children. One that will help me keep track of them. The youngest, as long as I’m not wearing earplugs, is always easy to find. So no problem there. The oldest one always answers his cell phone, so he’s always only a quick call away. But that middle one is a challenge. So I’ve given him a hair cut that sets him apart in a crowd and makes him easy to spot. What do you think of my handiwork? Just today we got separated at a large home improvement store. I was able to scan the aisles, and viola, there he was, standing tall. Or should I say, hair standing tall?

Whatever.

This morning at work 

Mark's band opening for Mick Sterling last night. Now I remember why I didn't blog yesterday. We were at the Whiz Bang block party. Yeah, that's the ticket. 

Behold, I send you lots of rain for great mud monsters. 

Mocking the Homeless big time

July 1, 2004 Canada Day
I have been sent on assignment to research the claim that camping mocks the homeless. I sit here in my air-conditioned recreational vehicle parked on a hill overlooking the main stage at Cornerstone Festival in the exurban area of Bushnell, IL. I’m lying on my bed, which hangs over the east end of the camper. I have the window zipped open with a screen between the mosquitoes and me. I have a clear shot view of the huge screen just to the right of the stage. For 45-year-old ears, the volume is just right. Relient K (yes, that is the proper spelling for you uninitiated) has the crowd pumped. They began their set with the chipmunks singing some Christmas tunes. Then, I think as a result of their Canadian roots, they gave tribute to this special day in Canada, its counterpart to our July 4th.

They did a full set, but I failed to hear one of our family’s favorite’s “Marilyn Manson ate my girlfriend.” Instead, they ended the set with a rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.” The MC then took the stage so that he could highlight one of the Jesus People’s (the festival’s sponsor) ministries, one which provides money, love, and art lessons to children living with AIDS in the orphanages of Romania. They make annual trips to Romania where they teach drawing and painting to the kids, and share God’s love with them. After the speaker plugged the Romanian ministry, the crowd’s attention was drawn to the jumbotron where a PSA type short film was shown encouraging everyone to support the US’s initiatives to eradicate AIDS in Africa.

Now it’s Switchfoot’s turn. They are a group from San Diego that has been a favorite at C-stone for almost a decade. I remember watching their first music video over ten years ago and thinking that these guys are awesome. Now their songs get substantial airplay on top-40 and alternative radio stations. Cornerstone has been a helpful incubator for a number of quality bands over the years. And looking back over the past decade, it’s fun to see how the music scene has changed, and to see the small part that C-stone has played.

WARP SPEED—advance one week, July 8, 2004. I’m home. I’m still protected from the mosquitoes. I sit in a screened-in porch. The birds are providing the music, along with the rustle of the leaves. I realize that I never finished my thoughts on camping mocking the homeless. As I looked out my RV window, I saw hundreds of tents littering the rolling hills. And tens of thousands were outside of my view. The weather was beautiful that evening. And tenting didn’t seem that bad. Besides most of the occupants were with friends and not spending much time in the tents anyways.

COMMERCIAL BREAK FOR PSYCHOLOGICAL ADVICE—A man went to see a therapist and told the doctor that he continues to have these terrible dreams. “One night I woke up in the middle of the night, looked at myself and saw a wigwam. It was so frightening. And then the following night a similar thing happened, but I woke up in a cold sweat and saw myself as a teepee. The next night I was a wigwam. Then a teepee. Then a wigwam. Then a teepee. Doctor, this continued for weeks.” “Relax, relax,” the doctor told the man. “I know what your problem is. You are two tents.”

While you groan, I’ll continue to ramble on about the two or more tents surrounding our camper. The weather was beautiful on Thursday, but then. Friday came. And the rain came. And the winds blew. And my feeble memory helped me recall our first festival in central Minnesota. We were so excited to have our three pre-teen kids join us in a “large” tent on the soft ground on a flat field very close to the music of the weekend. But we were so naïve and so unprepared. And the rains came. We awoke to over two inches of standing water in our free, ‘garage-sale’ tent. Everything we had with us was wet, as were we. We’ll never do that again, we vowed. It’s one thing to be wet yourself. But it’s yet another to have three wet, whiney kids. We haven’t slept on the ground since.

So where am I going with this? Beats me.

The ever profound musician Steve Taylor, while performing on Cornerstone’s main stage about eight years ago, looked out over the sea of tents having just recently endured a mighty rainstorm, and said with amazement in his voice, “You guys are actually sleeping on the ground tonight? I feel terrible. After the concert, you are all invited back to my hotel room.” Then in his wry voice he said, “oh, I forgot, I’m flying out immediately after the concert. But I’m sure the band here won’t mind you all coming over to dry off and get comfortable.”

He got some funny looks from the band that evening. And maybe he even filled their hearts with terror at the possibility of thousands of wet teen-agers showing up at their door that night. But with his sarcastic wit, he raised the issue of what is our responsibility toward our brother. No preaching, just an ambiguous, light-hearted jab at our need to continually ask ourselves who our neighbors are.

Doug Pagitt, the joker who hosts the blog “Camping Mocks the Homeless,” used that phrase as merely a way to get out of having to go camping with some friends. But that joke got him to think about the way we so often throw around slogans and try to encapsulate complex issues to fit on a bumper sticker. Thus was born a new blog.

For me, all I have to say is that sleeping on wet ground stinks. And so does homelessness.

Attack of the Foliage (a D- blog)

The art gallery at C-stone has always been worth visiting. This year one of the pieces for display was too large for the gallery, so it had to be placed next to a tree. Because it was a “doggy” car, it leaked its fluids all over the base of the Maple tree. The marks it left are in no way to be seen as an insult to the Canadians who revere this type of wooden plant.

Now you should all understand why they don't allow driving on the grounds at Cornerstone! 

Post-Cornerstone

I once again find myself living in a post-Cornerstone world. It’s one of routine, of comfort, of predictability, and adequate rest. It’s littered with newspapers, TVs, and computers. But here I’m able to manage them. At C-stone, it’s always a sensory overload. I'm continually tempted by dozens of choices at once. And regret is constant, with each passing hour telling you that you just missed . . . .

I tried writing once, but it lasted only minutes. Who has time or energy to write when it means denying oneself the opportunity to see another band, hear another speaker, or watch another film? Yes, film. Cornerstone used to be easier for me when I only ran from band to band. Then I discovered the many writers and professors giving challenging seminars. But now, I’ve been lured into yet other tents, namely “Flickerings” and the “Imaginarium.” The former offers everything from experimental indie films to full-length major Hollywood productions, while the latter provides a chance to engage others in discussion of these films or a wide variety of other related topics from sci-fi to comic books to fantasy lit to wookies.

This year I actually watched three full length films: Time After Time, 20,000 Leagues under the Sea, and a Brazilian documentary Bus 174. Popcorn was only 50 cents! In addition, I viewed dozens of short one- to twenty-minute movies. What a wonderful way to stay dry during an unusually wet July weekend.

I came away from the experience realizing how out-of-touch I am with today’s cinema. Maybe that’s a good thing, but maybe not. I’ll have to sort that out in the coming weeks and months. In the past two years, if memory serves me right, I’ve only forked over ching for one in-theatre movie, the first Spiderman film. Am I ready to repeat the offense soon? Time will tell.

One final note: I was drawn into the Imaginarium last year by a voice that I recognized from some audio tapes given to me by a friend. The voice of the speaker, an English professor Dr. Louis Markos, caught my ear as I climbed up a hill on my way to hear another lecture. I attended the rest of his lectures and was hooked. This year when I noticed his name in the program, I knew where I had to be during those certain hours. He spoke on “The Yin & Yang of Romanticism,” highlighting the works of British Romantic poets from Blake through Byron & Shelley. He then tied in the characteristics of the “Byronic hero” to many contemporary films and books. He’s a fascinating thinker and speaker and I will have to add him to one of my links.

after four days of sleep deprevation