Two scary dudes at the Mpls./ St. Paul airport. They are now living in Moldova on $ 20 a day. 

Is Raven Catholic?

After a wonderful meal sitting on the outside porch at Thistle’s Restaurant in downtown Robbinsdale, we decided to go out for a walk. And because it was a special meal we decided to make it a special walk, so downtown Minneapolis we went. But first we stopped home to get the dog. (Is this starting to sound like a Swansmith blog?) Raven joined us as we walked across the Mississippi River twice, once on the Stone Arch Bridge and once on the 3rd Avenue Bridge. About half way across the second bridge we all spotted a tiny bunny rabbit. Of course Raven was a lot more interested in this sighting than we were. He immediately started pulling on the leash. I gave him some slack and actually ran a bit to see how the rabbit would respond. The bunny took off. But with no where to go (we were up about 100 feet over the river and had cement walls on both sides of the path), he could only run forward away from us. We had only deposited 50 cents in the parking meter and we probably only had 20 minutes left before it expired, so I thought this might be a good way to speed him up, full speed ahead, no sniffing.

After about three quick sprints, with a pause between each one, the bunny looked tired. Although it was cement everywhere and really no place to hide, he found a shadow thinking that might work. Of course it wouldn’t have, but I felt sorry for the rabbit and pulled Raven past him as he watched us pass. He was crouched down, huddled next to a post and trying to be still, although he seemed to be shaking a little. Raven continued to look back as I continued to pull on his leash, letting out a few short barks as if to say “I could have had you if I wanted to.” So I hope the poor, tiny, stressed out bunny on the 3rd Avenue Bridge can find his way off and onto some vegetation for a late supper.

Anyways, after our delightful walk we coaxed Raven back into the car and headed home. He sits in the far back and watches out the rear window. The A/C was on and Raven had his face right up to the glass. As we hit bumps his head would bounce up and down and side to side, leaving a perfectly formed cross on the window. The moisture from his nose left cute droplets on the glass in that very holy formation. The problem is that I couldn’t tell if he was bouncing from right to left or left to right. Is he Catholic or is he Greek Orthodox? Or is he merely a very spiritual dog? The Swansmith never addresses these important questions in her blog. It seemed that her blogs focus more on how and where Raven relieves himself. Oh well.

Probably 501 Consumed

I didn’t have anything to blog about this evening, so I ran to Dairy Queen and bought Suzi a Dilly Bar. (Oh yeah, I also bought myself a French Silk Pie Blizzard.) Now I have something to say. (Burp.) Do you think I’m addicted? At least I’m on a role. Or consistent. Or dependable. Or predictable. Well, I’ll officially consider it number 501. . . Is that the number for Levi’s stretch jeans? Maybe it’s a bad omen.

Reaching a Milestone?

It’s hard to believe that the Blizzard is only 20 years old. Yeah, that Blizzard, the one that Dairy Queen has a registered trademark on. It says so right on their cups. I have now consumed two Blizzards in two days which makes me wonder how many I’ve enjoyed these past twenty years. My favorites have changed over time. This past month I’ve been hooked on the French Silk Pie one, probably logging about 7 or 8 during the past 30 days. I did try the Key Lime Pie. It too was wonderful, but about 2/3 of the way through I had had enough. Of course, I still finished it, but I wasn’t craving it to the last drop. Some of my favorites throughout the years have been (1) the ever faithful Mud Pie Blizzard, especially when they add enough coffee, (2) the chocolate chip cookie dough, (3) the Strawberry Cheesequake, (4) and the Mocha Chip.

I was trying to figure out if I am nearing some important milestone in Blizzard consumption. McDonalds always keeps track of stuff like that, over 99 billion served, etc. My Blizzard buying, however, is not consistent which makes it so much harder to figure. Some months, believe it or not, I never darken the doors of DQ. But then some weeks, I’ll visit more days than not. So what would be a good figure? Actually, my figure would probably be a lot better if I stayed clear of the place. I suppose on average I visit about once every other week. That would make it about 25 times per year. Multiplied out, that works out to be about 500 times in 20 years. And seeing that I usually order a Blizzard, I’ll take that number and boldly claim that DQ has now served Tim 500 Blizzards. Wow, how’s that for a snow job.

Going back in time without adequate records, makes me think of a Jewish friend who attended our wedding. I think he was quite serious when he told me that it was a Jewish tradition (at least in his branch and family) to put a quarter in a jar in your bedroom each time you made love with your wife during the first year of marriage. Then as the second year begins, you can start taking the quarters out. Well, needless to say we never did adopt this Jewish tradition. (It’s always hard to find loose change when you need it.) But I always think of his suggestion when I drive by his house. And I lament my lack of good record keeping. But I know that our first year’s investment would not have adequately funded the following years.

It’s kind of like that with Blizzards. If only I could have set aside a quarter for each DQ treat, I could weather the Minnesota summers a little better. For when July chokes us with heat and humidity, the only appropriate antidote is a Blizzard.

Coooooooool

I miswrote. It’s not Google World, it’s Google Earth. And I downloaded it for free. And I’m taking a quick break from playing with it. It’s cool.

If Only

This morning I stopped at the office of one of the builders for whom I work. The architect was there with a blueprint for me to look over. He was sitting at his desk with his 25” plasma monitor and much-faster-than-mine computer. He decided to show me the location of the job and pulled up Google’s new map program. He had been using it lots the past week or so and was impressed and wanted to show me all the features. He also showed me Google World and Google Moon, equally cool sites.

When I got back to the truck where my son Mark was now taking a nap, I had to tell him about the program and the fact that we looked at Chisnau, Moldovia from satellite pictures. He’s leaving for there in less than a week. Maybe we could look for Inga’s home this evening, I told him.

When I arrived home I had to share with the Warden my wonderful discovery. I thought she would have been amazed, BUT. . . BUT . . . BUT . . . She reads Kiihnworld and IdeaJoy more regularly than I do. She knew all about these new programs because her blog reading is broader than mine.

I read Swansmith to stay out of trouble, but it’s often tough for me to venture onto other blogs. My reading addiction takes hold and I loose track of time. With Kiihnworld and IdeaJoy especially, I get hooked into linking and surfing farther than I should. They always provide such enticing links that I have to force myself to stick with blogs that don’t link, lest I travel into the hinterlands of cyberspace. When I go to their sites, I start taking some quiz on what kind of 1960s TV show I am, then I’m looking at comic book characters, then I’m reading Augustine, and I get lost and never update my checkbook or send out the invoices that I originally sat down to do.

But this time, IF ONLY I had been more attentive to the blogging community that stays on the cutting edge of what’s happening out there, I would not have allowed my wife to scoop me on this one. She knew what Google has been up to, because she had read it on Kiihnworld and IdeaJoy. Google is doing some great things in addition to search engines and blogspot. Check it out.

She’s Back (and she still loves me)

My son Mark and I tried to make the house feel as much like a bachelor pad as we could this past weekend. The dishwasher still contained dishes that my dear mother-in-law had loaded way back on Wednesday. The dog’s water dish was (close to) empty, even though the Warden had make specific mention that it must be refilled regularly in her instruction manual (not really, it was only a note) left on the dining room table. We made it feel comfortable.

Besides work and long naps and a few blogs and a Turner Classic Movie from 1953 entitled The Hitchhiker (I think I’m getting into this film noir thing) and two church services and two get-togethers with friends, I did absolutely nothing. My grand plans to put my life in order with all my free time sans spouse never materialized. Instead, I left the house as it was a half week ago, except for the few drops of water left in Raven’s dish.

But the funny thing is she was still happy to see me as she pulled into the driveway with my truck blocking her access to the garage. For you see the garage was a temporary storage space for phase one of cleaning out my truck. She had to stumble past tools and buckets before phase two happened this evening. But she was still happy to be home and still claims to love me. It must have been a rough time on the road.

Free Sauna

You’ve got to wonder what the deal is when the temperature drops while the heat index rises. Our dew point is now registering 80 degrees. Yikes! I dutifully took our dog out to pee. My glasses fogged up so bad that I couldn’t tell if he did his duty or not. Was it sweat running down my leg or was Raven too close? And as I tried to clear my spectacles, I thought I saw some alligators rustling in the distance. Then as I looked up I could swear that I saw a toucan in the newly grown banana tree. The rain forest may be disappearing in South America, but it’s establishing a foothold in the middle section of North America. If it gets any worse, I suspect we’ll start seeing Finns skinny-dipping in our area lakes.

A Gift of Grace

the old homestead

The last few days as we have been enduring the seemingly endless string of 90 plus days of summer, we’ve heard the meteorologists promise (or rather threaten) even warmer days ahead. This weekend, today and tomorrow, the mercury was supposed to approach the magic mark of 100 in the Twin Cities, with unbearable humidity to boot. Well, it hasn’t come yet. Instead, we got severe weather this morning, followed by lots of clouds, just enough to put a cap on the rising thermometer. I think 84 F. is all we got today (although it was accompanied by a 74 degree dew point, STICKY.) But with expectations of super-hot, only hot was nice. Especially since my son and I hauled sheetrock this afternoon for a job we’ll start on Monday. It felt like a gift of grace. (My more pessimistic [ i.e. realistic] side tells me that we will pay for this break with tomorrow’s weather.)

Two weeks ago as our string of nasty weather started, I was “blessed” with three attic jobs. The worst of the three was an attic that we started last winter. It would have been a great winter job except for the fact that back then the attic did not have working, in tact, windows at the time. The previously vacant attic had suffered years of neglect and the windows had been broken and some were completely missing. By the time we made it back for phase two the windows were finally replaced and operational in the first section. However, the section of the attic where we worked lacked any windows. And of course there was no A/C. The heat was able to find us hiding in the dark. The stagnant air was just enough to keep us thoroughly toasted and roasted and broiled and basted.

But it was still fun to be back at that attic. The house sits on the corner of 16th and Irving Avenue North, with a great view of the house in which I spent my early years. As I sweated away my morning breakfast, I would take short breaks, walking over to the finished part of the attic with new windows that overlooked my boyhood home and the sidewalk where I learned to ride a two wheel bike. Most of the lawns on the block had a sharp two to three foot rise from the sidewalk to the edge of the flat part of the lawn, making a fall into the grass not so treacherous. I never used training wheels, but those sloped lawns gave me a lot of confidence to try it alone.

As I gazed upon that old house, built in the 1921, my imagination went inside. I wondered what had changed. When we lived there, my immediate family was upstairs and my uncle and grandparents were downstairs. It was a duplex with a full kitchen upstairs as well as down. It now looks like a single family home. Shortly before we were back for phase two, the house went up for sale. And noticing a little box on the “for sale” sign, we grabbed a brochure. It described the house as a single family with four bedrooms and two full baths.

Inside I could imagine my grandmother squeezing orange juice from fresh oranges with one of those glass bowls that had a ribbed part rising up in the middle on which one could turn and twist the oranges. It took a lot more effort to get orange juice that way. But my grandmother never complained. She was always willing to squeeze and twist and turn until we got our fill. I hope that we enjoyed it more then than we do now when we grab our Dole pasteurized OJ out of the refridge.

And inside I could imagine my grandfather sitting in the front sun room with a cup of coffee, a box of sugar cubes, and a carton of cigarettes. Although he never taught us to smoke, he was always willing to share his cubes. The thought now repulses me, but I would eat one after another, sometimes dipping them in his cup of coffee. Maybe that’s where my obsession for Java began? He was the talkative sort, a genial salesman, who loved to read and had an amazing wit. He would sit and talk politics into the wee hours of the night with one of his cousins who was on the Minneapolis City Council, an alderman as they were known then. He was always such a booster of his grandkids, telling me that I would be president someday. (As I think about that now, it sounds more like a curse, but I know his intentions were right. Plus, how could I improve on what Bill and George have done these past many years?)

He always adored us kids and loved for us to visit. And even after my parents bought their own house in the suburbs, they would drive in to visit grandma and grandpa almost nightly. We were blessed to have them so much a part of our lives. I always saw them as great role models, even though my grandfather’s past was not always exemplary. Early on in their marriage they lost their first born child, a baby girl. It was an event that totally devasted them. And then during the difficult Depression years, the bottle became too much a part of his life. His life for most of the years that my dad and his brother were growing up was consumed by a passion for drinking that would have completely torn the family apart except for the strong Christian faith of my grandmother.

From early on I knew that was a part of his past, but it never made sense to me because I never saw any evidence of it. As far as I knew, he only drank coffee (with way too much sugar.) Although my father does not like to talk about it much, he did open up to me about a year ago concerning my grandfather’s abuse of alcohol. He told stories of how he and his brother had to go out and find their dad as he couldn’t find his own way home. But then he told me something that I still have trouble believing. One day he quit cold turkey. On the day I was born, he made a pledge to be a worthy grandparent and forever gave up the sauce. And he lived a dry life from then on. I’m glad that I never had to experience those earlier hellish days. But I’m sorry that they consumed so much of my own dad’s youth.

But even as my dad talks about those difficult days of his father drinking his life away, he still shares a picture of a man who had a deep moral compass and compassion for others. My dad has shared with me a few times an event that has become a core of who he is. During the darkest part of the Depression years, when jobs and money were so scarce, my grandfather was using a stall in the men’s room at the old Dayton’s Department store warehouse. It was Friday and payday. Back in the ‘20s everyone there was paid in cash in an envelope with their name on it. And you guessed it, he found a fellow employee’s stack of cash for a week’s worth of work. At the time he was dirt poor himself, using way too much of his money on booze, and behind on many bills at home. There would have been no way to trace the cash that was in his hands. But he did the right thing. He searched for that man and presented him with his entire week’s worth of pay. His deep sense of honesty to this day deeply moves my father, and it’s hard for my dad to completely tell that story. But that is how my dad lives his life today, having that righteous example deeply ingrained into his conscience, from a man who had very real and visible shortcomings.

Well, I’ve looked into enough rooms for now. Maybe I’ll go see if I can still ride a bike.

Stubborn Dog

Our 2 minute evening potty break outside took over 15 minutes due to the fact that we own the most stubborn GERMAN shepherd in the world. He definitely had a different route in mind, but I won. And I’m only half-German, halb-Deutsch, as I used to say.

FIVE--finally, finished with my favorites

found in the bargain bin and well worth it

As if anyone were paying attention, it sure isn’t at the forefront of my mind, I have not completed my list of five books. Well, the time has come. Maybe it has come too soon; for once I mention that special book number five, my time of reminiscing over the many great books of my past will come to an end. Actually, it probably won’t come to an end, but I won’t feel obligated to put it to paper or screen for my wife to see. And come to think of it, I really don’t feel all that obligated. How’s that for an intro? Dull enough to make any mention of any title seem fascinating by contrast.

First, I hope I don’t repeat a book title that I mentioned in numbers one through four. It’s been a while and my memory isn’t what it used to be. The finalists for this last spot are many (it should have been a top ten list.) I seriously considered a book by Cheryl Forbes entitled Religion of Power, written back in the 80s, but I haven’t been able to find it on my shelves of late and thus cannot glance through it to see if truly merits distinction as number five. I do remember being surprised by the number and caliber of endorsements on the jacket even though she stepped on more than her share of toes throughout the pages of the book.

And then the first book I received as a gift from my loving wife, written by Peter Kreeft and entitled Between Heaven and Hell, was in the running. It is a fascinating fictional conversation taking place between C. S. Lewis, John F. Kennedy, and Aldous Huxley as they first arrive in a purgatory type place immediately after death. They all died on the same day in 1963, November 23rd. It’s an engaging discussion that touches on three very different world-views.

And, of course, there were actually some books that I was forced to read in college that could be classified as favorites. But because I do not know the measure to which my free will was involved in the reading process, they will be left out of the list.

So now for the anti-climax after the big build up: Assumptions and Faith by Wayne Roberts. I found this book in a used book store for one dollar. The cover is not flashy. It is out of print. I doubt that many outside of his collegiate influence have heard of him, unless you count family. It is published by a house that I’ve never heard of. But it’s a great book.

For starters, it is short. At 97 pages, it wins my heart. James Joyce’s Ulysses and Tolstoy’s War and Peace may be great works, but don’t expect me to plug away at something for that long. Succinctness is a gift. (I know that you’re thinking right now that I sure don’t have that gift.) But this Roberts character is a math and science guy. He teaches at a college where I actually attended a short interim term back in the late 70s, sporting a lime green leisure suit. During a January “between semesters period,” I took a class studying the works of the late, southern U.S., Catholic novelist and short story writer Flannery O’Connor. (I suppose I could have named her collection of short stories as my number five book.) But anyways, the campus of the college is beautiful, their football team is lousy, but they had good heat. I believe the school was founded by Presbyterians with a Scottish heritage, but nowadays (as it was in the 70s) its ties to any religious body are not very evident. Out of this environment came a simple, yet profound book. It’s a book about faith, written in language understandable and approachable for those with any kind of background, from the framework of a scientist, that spoke to me deeply.

We so often set up a false dichotomy between science and religion, and pit “facts” against “values or beliefs.” His message in a nutshell is that science, and mathematics specifically, starts with unprovable assumptions to the same degree that religious faith does. The challenge is to find an assumption that appears true and build upon it, testing it, living it. It’s too easy to get stuck trying to find a perfect, complete explanation for all of life (e.g. a foundation that cannot be questioned) and in turn never live out a life of faith in God.

I think that’s what he was trying to say. But you’ll never know, because you’ll probably never be able to find the book, and probably have no desire in doing so. So there. But it was a book that definitely struck a chord with me back in 1991, and I should probably give it another look soon.

And now that I think about it, it reminds me of another book which I believe has a similar message. That one was written by Dan Taylor, an English professor that I sat under in college. The title of the book is The Myth of Certainty. This is yet another great book, and this is one that might still be in print.

Yes, it is in print. I just checked. IVP has republished it. They probably gave it a fancier cover and doubled the price. But it is still worth it.

I suppose that if I applied what I think I read many years ago within the pages of those two books by Roberts and Taylor, I would actually post this blog right now and not spend any more time trying to come to a perfect understanding of what they were attempting to say last millennium. So I will.

I’m Back

I went to empty the dishwasher, but it dawned on me that the Warden will not return for three more days! So I came back to blog again.

De Blog De Blog

The wife’s away the boy will . . . blog. The Warden is gone, so I have decided to leave dirty dishes in the sink, clothes in the dryer, piles of garbage in their respective cans and BLOG. I guess this is cheaper than a long distance phone call. She can read all about it. I’m home doing nothing productive, I’m blogging. It’s hot outside, the air is on, and I’m blogging. I’ve got nothing to say, nothing to contribute to society, but I’m blogging. I don’t know when to stop, my fingers just feel like dancing (on the keys), so I’m blogging. I’m not using any toner, or ink, or paper, ‘cause I’m blogging. I’m just filling up cyberspace, making some mainframe whirl and wiz with electronic positive and negative charges (or something like that) with my blogging. I’m helping to put my wife to sleep and she keeps reading and reading and reading my blogging. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Goodnight.

BULLETIN: WARNING—EXTREME CAUTION ADVISED

Bearded man with AARP card suspected to be traveling east through the back roads of Wisconsin with his female accomplice. They have been rumored to be making sudden and unannounced visits at all Dairy Queens along their traveled routes. Reports suggest that they have developed a severe addiction to the treats contained within those buildings with the red and white signs. Intelligence from sources in the Twin Cities area claim that they were seen frequent times at various DQ locations in the metro area. They were seen only consuming the basic items: chocolate dipped cones and dilly bars. However, the concern is that they may be turning to the harder stuff: Blizzards, Peanut Buster Parfaits, or even the Triple Fudge Brownie Earthquake!

They were seen in close approximation to an aging, bald (but good-looking) man and a long-haired bearded musician type, both downing Blizzards like they were water. These are the characters suspected to be responsible for the budding new addiction of the bearded man and his wife. Speculation is that the bearded man and his wife were kidnapped and forcibly brought to these DQ stands in the heat of the day. Once there, they were encouraged to mingle with all the other addicts sitting around the buildings, hurriedly consuming their delicacies before the drippings soiled their clothes. At first they offered slight protest, but in time they became willing participants.

Be on the look out for a late model Saturn with Tennessee plates. Experts expect this vehicle to be making sudden turns as it approaches all DQs. They also suggest that this vehicle may be exceeding the speed limit and passing other cars as it nears proximity of said locations. In summary, officials encourage all travelers to exercise extreme caution when driving near all Dairy Queens in west-central, northern, and south-central Wisconsin for at least the next week or so.

The Temptation, the addiction, the DQ EQ

In-laws and out-laws

Raven questions the need for prayer as the in-laws lay hands on our canine. Don't dogs know that they're supposed to have their eyes closed for prayer time?

The world travelers were in town this week to give us pointers on how to better visit the world. Our son Mark is traveling to Europe in just over a week, and we are making final arrangements at the last minute to make things exciting. So we were grateful for the advice from the globetrotters (i.e. my in-laws) . They coached our son, warning him of the many out-laws in that part of the world. Mark tends to be a very trusting sort, so a word from the wise came at a good time. Their stay in our corner of the world is always too short. Is it our bad breath or something that we say? We’ll continue to believe that their tight schedule is to blame (as they always claim.)

We join Raven in missing them already.

Why Should the Devil Have all the Good Music and Film?

If only everyone played the bagpipes.

Another highlight of this year’s Cornerstone was Flickerings, the pole barn type building which shows over 12 hours of movies each day. Next door is the Imaginarium Tent, which not to be outdone, displayed about 10 hours of film classics each day. “Cinema Central” is a good place to get away from ear-popping, head-banging music; however it is situated next to the little kids’ tent, and boy can they rock. I tried to catch as much of the Film Noir lectures and features as I could, including a “freeze frame” “fast forward” look at the Maltese Falcon, with comments and interpretation by my favorite Cornerstone English professor, Markos the Greek, a poster boy for ADHD.

But the movie I came home with is a documentary on the underground “Christian” music scene, filmed in large part at Cornerstone in 2003. The film was also shot at some clubs in the Chicago area. It was produced and directed by two women who were new to film-making, not familiar with “Christian” music, and not Christians themselves. They provided a fresh outsiders’ perspective to the goings on at and around Cornerstone. Their documentary, which has won (I think) awards (but at least critical acclaim) at some independent film festivals, was shown on Friday morning to a packed house. The Bushnell Fire Marshall would not have been happy. The directors were present and engaged the crowd with over an hour of discussion afterwards.

A few days later I headed into one of the merchandise tents to pop for the $ 20 they wanted for the DVD. It was well worth it. They were rookies, but did very well in their film-making debut. They did a wonderful job capturing the spirit of the fest and the ongoing dialogue about the role of music and art in the evangelical Christian subculture. Although the different voices presented fell at all points along the spectrum, those most represented spoke strongly against music being a mere “tool” for evangelism. Many of the musicians decried the fact that they were encouraged by church leaders that hired them and music promoters that booked them to play it safe and provide only what would fit nicely with the agenda of those footing the bill. They spoke of not wanting to turn their art into “propaganda.” On the other end of the spectrum, some musicians emphasized the necessity for them, as part of their calling, to freely and honestly proclaim their faith through their words and music. The tension between these two views was portrayed well. They also presented the tension experienced by most musicians as they are naturally up front and want to promote their music, but are also trying to stay humble and not encourage admirers to worship them while on stage.

Ah, the dilemmas of life. But I suppose that’s what makes for great, or at least good, art. We all could use a little dramatic struggle to make our lives more interesting and creative.

Well, maybe not. I decided to play it cool and not fight against the unbearable heat this afternoon, settling for a short nap in the air-conditioning. But now as 8 p.m. approaches and the heat index has fallen below 100 degrees F, I’ve decided it’s safe to head out in search for food, lest I wrestle with hunger pains. I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream or maybe a taco. The Warden will decide.

95 and Humid never felt so good

I spent this afternoon in the attic of an old three story house in near north Minneapolis. The window had not yet been cut in the main room where we were working. It was dark and hot, hot, hot. The first godsend was a fan which I carried in from my truck. Without that fan running, I would not be writing this now. I would have passed out on the dirty, mud filled floor. The second and third godsends were my two boys which shared in the sweat, equally covering their shirts to the point of saturation. When we staggered down the three flights of stairs about 4:15 and burst into the afternoon sun, 95 degrees Fahrenheit didn’t feel so bad. It was even refreshing.

Yesterday

This is an official post to let all those concerned know that I did not blog yesterday. If you visited my blog yesterday, you probably saw no new entry. If you saw an entry, you have a wild imagination or are delusional. The reason you saw no entry was because there was no entry for Friday the 8th. It should have been blank, as blank as the gray matter in my head yesterday.

There is a perfectly legitimate and rational reason for this incidence or lack of an incidence, however. I did not blog.

It was not due to an offensive post, which would have been hijacked by dear wife (since she knows how to get into my site.) I simply did not blog.

And if I wasn’t making this important disclaimer today, my blog might not have had an entry for Saturday the 9th. But I wanted everyone to know that my computer is working fine, the Blogger site is up and working splendidly, aliens did not interfere with my ability to post, and the Swansmith did not hijack my account. I simply did not blog yesterday.

But I did eat. We visited our last graduation open house of the year last night and I needed to stock up until next year’s collection of baked bean, deli sandwich, and sheet cake celebrations. I was able to fill my pants’ pockets with almost a year’s supply of lemon bars and potatoe (out of respect for Dan) chips.

So with that much graduation food cache, you can understand why I did not blog. Upon arriving at home, I had to attend to other things.

I would mention more, but we now need to leave for a small group picnic which will look an awful lot like a graduation open house. Beans, brats, cake and chips: at least we’ve got the four food groups covered.

I don’t know yet if I should expect to see a post under my Sunday blog. Three cheers for summer.

A Score for the man second from the left

Saying good-bye to our Cornerstone neighbors

“Pray that we break even”

Glen appealing for prayer

One of the common reactions from a first-time visitor at Cornerstone is astonishment: “how do they do it?” or “how can they make it work?” Not really known for its abundance of rules or heavy-handedness, the festival’s initial look of chaos and confusion upon closer observation reveals an underlying sense of order and calm. This event which not only allows, but encourages experimentation, creativity, questioning and “pushing the envelope” somehow holds together and “works.”

I’m sure the pre-fest planning is exhaustive and the behind the scenes work is long and grueling, but I always sweat in amazement as the weekend draws to a close. I often imagine the One who holds the universe together doing the same amongst the wide extremes of humanity. Grace evident big time.

I’ve been to many other crowded events in my life time, but this one always feels different. Its laissez faire attitude does not devolve into utter hysteria. Those whom I consider to be on the fringes are always present and engaged, while those almost twice my age are also present.

The festival has been losing money for a number of years, however. And maybe that has always been the case. I don’t know. It just feels like too good of a deal each year. At one of the last performances of the weekend, the head pastor of the church which sponsors Cornerstone asked those who experienced his gritty acoustic blues set to pray that the festival break even this year. Yes, even a heavenly retreat in the cornfields needs to make economic sense.

This was yet another word that helped me come to terms with some of the less discreet merchandising that I saw at the fest for the first time this year. I was a little disheartened when I first walked through what on the map is labeled “Suburbia,” the merchandise tents and food and coffee venders. For I saw some cars on display, just like at the ubiquitous suburban Mall. Three hip cars from Scion. Now as one who recently spent months researching the value and reliability of late model auto, I must admit they could have done worse. They could have allowed other vehicles which would not encouraged attendees to be good stewards of their cash, like Ford or Land Rover or BMW or . . . I better quit. I do love Toyotas and their Scion division seems to be producing cars as good at an even better price. But still it was hard to see car ads at a “Christian” fest. But I came to accept it.

The other thing that won me over though was also on the last night. I was watching the car ads on the big screen. They were all quick cut, hip concept and flashy feel good robotics, almost humorous. They were fun, but not in your face. But following that car ad was a guy from World Vision (an organization that I deeply admire and respect) who came to the main stage mic and gave a very heavy-handed, guilt- producing, manipulative sales pitch to sponsor a child.

This made my head spin just a little faster as I had already been trying to process the many lectures I heard during the week by Brian McLaren, many of which dealt with this very topic of “selling the Gospel” and treating people as objects to be sold our message. But that topic is best left for another time. For now, we can only pray that God will continue to shine His blessings spiritually and financially on Bushnell’s biggest party of the year.

I'm a Stoner!

I brushed my teeth, but didn't shave.

We have just recently arrived back home after logging our 11th consecutive Cornerstone Festival in Bushnell, Illinois. I think we may be hooked. This year we invited a friend from church to accompany us on our journey. He had a great time, as did we. Every year we come back with special memories and at least one t-shirt per person. Our collection is growing. They become treasured markers of what has transpired in past years.

It’s always difficult for me to capture Cornerstone in words. In my mind, I can see it, and smell it (not always a pleasant thought—porti-potties, overdue showers, un-brushed teeth, and un-shampooed hair.), taste it (ahhh, the iced chai), hear it (well, maybe not, it’s tough to hear anything after numerous days of Cornerstone); but it’s tough to convey the essence of the experience (I apologize for using those last two “e” words so close together, but it’s probably a subconscious outgrowth of sitting in on too many Kierkegaard lectures). It would probably take a trained sociologist to do the festival justice. But as I look back over the last 11 years, I’m thinking: maybe it’s about the t-shirts?

Some people see “community” as one of the main bases of Cornerstone, and t-shirts do tend to foster a closer community. The first official day of the fest, our family was invited to be part of a gathering of CCM, internet dialogue, geek types. They were having a picnic at the fest’s official press tent. While chowing down my deli sandwich, a young lady approached and asked about my gray t-shirt. I was wearing a 5 year old shirt which advertised a local Twin Cities radio program which has since moved to another station. It promoted a morning show on KSTP-AM by proclaiming in large letters across the front “Dead Theologians' Society,” a monthly meeting hosted by the radio personality, Ian Punnett. Below the lettering is a picture of a dead body, feet forward, tag on toe. This gal asked about the shirt and wondered where I lived, and if I listened to this guy’s program. She went on to tell my wife and I that she and her husband used to listen before they moved to Colorado. And then told of how her husband is a big fan and is responsible for all the Christmas music that the host, Ian Punnett, plays each December. The shirt led us into a great dialogue as we started the fest.

The last day, as a “sort of” public service announcement, I wore my blue Cornerstone ’98 shirt, which portrays a young male, electric guitar in hand, with one leg kicking high in the air. In large letters below the young punk is “BRUSH YOUR TEETH.” I feel it’s my duty to broadcast this message. I think it does have an impact. A kid, about age 6, approached me, stared, and then pulled out his instamatic camera and took a picture of the shirt. Then without a word, he just walked away. Mission accomplished, I thought, message taken to heart. He probably didn’t have time to talk. Feeling guilty, I’m sure he was quickly on his way back to his tent to find his toothbrush.

So maybe it is about the shirts. The variety is endless, and I enjoy studying them. Loving to read, it’s hard for me to ignore a t-shirt as it passes. I compare it to driving down the freeway and having to cut across two lanes of traffic, speed up to 75 MPH, and tail some guy, just so I can read the bumper sticker on his SUV. While this of course is dangerous, my obsession with reading slogans and messages on shirts can at times be even more dangerous. Sometimes the merger of an especially long Bible verse on a t-shirt which is overly stretched and forced to follow abundantly curved surfaces can get one slapped. Ah, the dangers of learning.

But the t-shirt that stood out for me this weekend is one that I never even saw. I overheard someone talking about the shirt. It proclaims “I’m a Stoner,” making reference to belonging at CornerSTONE.” Well, I guess that’s me. Every year the festival changes and my interests change, but I still feel a part. It’s always different, but it always fits. It’s a shirt I’m proud to wear. So in that sense, call me a STONER, and may I to allow myself to be molded each year after the Chief Cornerstone while I'm there.

I had thought about going on to blog about the economic impact of the shirt industry and its relationship to Cornerstone, but that will have to wait until another time. The Warden is calling. “Gilmore Girls” is over and she wants to fatten me up. Bon Appetit.

Hijacking Tim's post

This is the Warden, aka Swansmith, aka Tim's wife Suzi. I am just posting to see if I can do it from my computer using the user name I thought Tim had as well as his password. It worked! So--he could have blogged from Cornerstone, too! Now we know for next year.

Stay tuned to his take on our wonderful trip, the great weather (except for our first day there) etc. etc.