Coming Soon

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

I Thought this was Minnesnowta

Rain, rain go away,
Come again another day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fifteen Candles

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

Strange Brew by John Deering
December 25, 2004

by John Deering
December 25, 2004

The Night Before Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Move Over Switzerland

Land of the Endearing Treats

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

Tradition

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

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

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

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

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

failure

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

20 Gigs of substance 

What a wacky weekend.

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

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

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

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

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

To Blog or Not to Blog

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

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

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

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

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

Holy Redundancy

Write something.

Blogging Basics

Write something.

False Alarm

No Snow

Snow Coming????

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

Happy 2445th Week of Life

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