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.

The ever diligent march of technology

Went to church today for worship, God’s word, a shared meal celebrating an upcoming wedding, and came away with some new insight on insulin and needle free injections. In chatting with a fellow parishioner after the meal, he mentioned his upcoming summer plans. They included a family vacation and a business trip to India. When I inquired about his business and reason for traveling, he told me about the medical device company for which he works and their advances in needle free delivery systems. The research and manufacturing are located here in Minneapolis and Basel, Switzerland, but most of their sales (or maybe he said sales growth, I forget) are overseas. They have lots of customers in India and Japan.

I was surprised I had never heard of the place or their device, since the Warden and I have read much on what’s available for diabetics. I suppose it’s something to look into. The website is http://www.mediject.com.

Book Four

I suppose it’s about time to mention another book. It feels like I’m responding to the tagging from my wife (yes that was a “t” and not an “n”) with the same speed that I actually read a book. I may be slow, but it keeps me away from the lawn mower. Seeing that my dear wife has a high reverence for the printed page, she actually has high hopes that I’ll learn something from the books I hide behind. What a great scam. I recline in the Lazy Boy, my eyes glazed over at the page, daydreaming about being in my sailboat, and she washes the dishes. Ah, what a life.

What, the dishes are still sitting dirty in the sink? Oh, oh. She’s caught on quick. I better hurry and list another book, proof that I actually do accomplish something in my blue chair.

Well, since I’ve already cheated and listed “groups” of books previously, I will do that again. I have been captivated and challenged and encouraged and hooked by a number of similar books, dealing with the issue of the history of Christian thought. It’s a fascinating story of how the church, throughout these past two millennia, has faced the challenges of relating a crucified and risen Savior to an ever changing world. The many characters are truly “characters,” full of quirks and heroics, failures and victorious breakthroughs. These works have in common a little bit of history, a little bit of biography, and a lot of drama. The books’ authors that come to my mind are Paul Tillich (a crazy character himself), Roger Olson (a good Scandinavian now living in Texas), and Jonathan Hill (a young and very witty lad from England that might just be related to that Benny guy with the TV show). Some of the other works are more like compilations done by a certain publishing house. But all of the titles are something like “The History of Christian Thought.” So make that my number 4, “a” and “b” and “c” and . . . .

Indecision

I did not blog yesterday. And I may not blog today. But then again I might.

The Quest for pie can be a beautiful thing

This evening, partly as a result of being childless and partly as a result of now having a “working” wife, we had our second night in a row of left-overs for supper. And actually both experiences were very satisfying. But following dinner, I revisited a craving that I’ve been harboring deep inside for the past several days. I suppose it started last Friday or Saturday when I visited Baker’s Square pie shop and came out with a pie different from the one I had in mind as I entered. I walked in with French Silk on the brain and left with a Key Lime in my hand. Now don’t get me wrong, I also love Key Lime pie. And because it was hot outside Key Lime sounded refreshing, and the KL pie was a dollar cheaper, but most of all I knew my wife would probably prefer the KL to the FS. So in a noble altruistic act, I bought the Key Lime and denied myself the French Silk. It did make points. And it was very good.

But . . . . even while eating the Key Lime, I couldn’t completely repress the cravings for that chocolate, cholesterol-laden wonder.

So tonight, off we went. To the pie shop. In a hurry. Without out grabbing my camera. Hoping that they hadn’t sold out for the night.

I often times toss my camera in the car if we’re out for a drive, not wanting to miss an opportunity for an interesting shot. Well, did I ever blow it tonight. This evening’s sky was one so filled with color and drama that I almost lost my craving for pie!!!!

The clouds were layered, almost striped, alternating with the bluish background. The different sections of clouds varied in color from bright white to varying pales of pink to all shades of gray to stark black. And then the blues between the clouds ranged from light pastel to an almost navy dark blue. The clouds themselves varied from wispy light streaks to billowy marshmallow type pillows. And all of this was punctuated by the reason behind all the color, Mr. Sun. At first we couldn’t see our neighborhood star directly, because of the clouds. But then as we climbed an incline approaching a bridge, the solar presence became evident. The bottom one fifth, or so, was hanging down below the clouds and it was RED, yes with capital letters. It truly was on fire. It was hanging only degrees above the horizon, and I was becoming concerned about the trees that were reaching up to touch that red ball.

I wish I could have captured that on film or memory card. But instead it will have to live on only etched in my memory. But it serves as a reminder that going out for pie can be a very beautiful thing indeed.

Good-bye 

As I think I mentioned last week, we said good-bye to one of the family’s vehicles, a 1990 silver Toyota pickup. I never tired of driving that thing, even after I had handed it down to Luke and then Mark. It was a small truck with a big V-6, always plenty of oomph and great handling. It brought me to work for many years, and I’ll never forget the time we used it to haul a trailer all the way to Metropolis, Illinois and back. The time was Thanksgiving weekend and weather was fine for the trip south. But! As we headed north, the snow started falling in northern Illinois.

We were a family of five in this small pickup with an even smaller back seat. It wasn’t too bad when we switched off, using the back truck bed as a place to stretch out and relieving the cramped conditions up front. But with snow and quickly deteriorating conditions, we had to all be buckled in up front. With Wisconsin came more and more snow. The farther we drove the slipperier it got and the more vehicles we saw in the ditches. Each exit ramp, especially those with motels, became a strong temptation to pull off for refuge. But we pressed on. With all the weight behind us, we had pretty decent traction in our rear wheel drive truck. We were climbing Wisconsin’s hills on roads that were barely visible. We were even passing 18 wheelers as they struggled to ascend in first or second gear.

The truck proved faithful all the way to our home’s driveway. The snow never quit that evening. And a stop anywhere in Wisconsin would have meant a long snow day there. We were glad we endured the rough weather, because our beds felt so good that 2 a.m. Monday.

The memories were many more, but the last one is on the back of a large truck towing it to a place where they thought they could get it up and running again. But for now we had to move on. Our months long search was pushed into high gear at the silver truck’s demise and finally ended last Tuesday. We bought another Toy, but this time white, and this time with seven seats, and this time with all wheel drive, just in case we have to drive in Wisconsin again.

Highlander

A Perfect Friday Evening

Friday evening we were fortunate enough to enjoy some great burgers, listen to some happening doo wop, admire thousands of street rods cruising the Boulevard, and soak in some good conversation with old friends (well, maybe not that old).

A perfect night 

I love Blue 

orange ya glad I'm showin ya all this photo 

cool carousel
 

Number Three

My list of Five will have to include a C.S. Lewis book, but I don’t know which one. Should it be Perelandra, or Mere Christianity, or Miracles, The Lion Witch and Wardrobe, or The Great Divorce, or A Grief Observed, or The Screwtape Letters, or any number of other great works? Grant me some slack and we’ll consider the complete collection of Lewis books as my number three. Hey, if we can count God’s collection of 66 as 1, then allow me to let this one slide too.

Hey Buster, You forgot to count my bird bath and dog dish

I awoke Friday morning to the astounding news that Minnesota was not number one. Actually I knew that Alaska was the true leader with over 100,000 of them. But TEXAS?????!!!!!! There is no way in h-e-, I mean Texas, that the Lone Star state has more lakes than good old Minnesnota.

A front page article in the Minneapolis Star Tribune told of an Ohio geography professor that has redefined “lake” and come up with some crazy numbers. Sure enough, he does give the North Star state more than double of what they claim on their license plates—the Land of 10,000 lakes. But ranking Minnesota seventh is ridiculous.

I quizzed my wife on which state ranks first. She gave me several “wrong” answers, so I had to give her HIS answer of Texas. Then I told her Florida was number two. She responded by saying that “I suppose Oklahoma and Kansas are the next two.” Well, she was right, according to said Ohioan’s list.

The way that this character gets his numbers is by counting any collection of water at least 100 feet wide. So for all the farmers that have dug out a pond for their livestock, congratulations. You now have lakefront property. Time to call the appraisers. Let’s quadruple your taxes.

And for all of you lovers of water sports, don’t forget your skis next time you travel to Oklahoma. A boat might not fit in the "lake," but hey, I've got some extra paddles. And I bet you could find some fishing that is OK.

But for now I will take solace in the fact that at least we Minnesotans can walk on our lakes. Take that Texas.

Book Two

Book Two, I guess I’m doing this chronologically. Hearing of Ken Taylor’s death yesterday (or this morning, it’s been a long day), I’m reminded of my old Living Bible in high school. I had grown up reading mostly the KJV and Revised Standard Version, and I had always enjoyed reading the Scriptures. But when I started reading the Living Letters (and then the entire Bible) in that paraphrase, it brought a new joy and excitement to the text. I’ve come across those who like to dis versions that are not “real” translations throughout the years, and I like to hear the majesty of Shakespearean English myself at times, but there is something challenging and fresh when I hear God’s word in my own more casual vernacular. That’s what the Living Bible has done so well over the past few decades.

More recently, I’ve come to appreciate Eugene Peterson’s translation, The Message, even more. But Ken Taylor’s work was ground-breaking. I know most purists would disagree, but I think the spirit of the text is often matched better by works like Peterson’s or Taylor’s than the sometimes too wooden translations done by committee. Thank you Ken. May you enjoy the company of the Living Word.

So I do remember reading a book

1. I’m taking myself back to grade school. My love affair with books started early. I read many sports biographies—Babe Ruth, Johnny Unitas, and other sports greats who made it because “they never gave up.” The message was always the same—sheer determination would pay off in the end. I actually believed I would follow their footsteps into the major leagues or at least to the NFL.

But as good as these books were, I reached a new level with my first Hardy Boys book. I paid a dime for it in a church rummage sale. I think the title was The House on the Cliff. But I’m definitely not sure. I remember getting hooked—and loving it. I wanted to read more and more of the series, and I did.

Yikes

Oh no, I’ve been caught or tagged or cornered or something like that. And I have to do what? And I need to list how many favorite books?

Hmmmmm. I guess I need to start reading. Bye for now.

Arghhhhh . . . . . .

This is Friday's post, although it is being written on Saturday morning. I started writing a couple of different things on Friday, but none of them are finished.

I feel a little like the valiant warriors from Monty Python’s crew that are searching for the Holy Grail. They enter a cave, read the writing on the wall which will give them the answer they need, but it ends with argh . . . . . . They don’t get what they want and conclude that the original scribe must have died while writing.

I have not died while writing, but the Warden feels bad when I don’t post something. So to appease her, here is something to fill up Friday and keep the string alive.

1990 Toyota Pickup

May you rest in peace, or at least in our back yard until we can tow it do the junk yard.

History Lesson

First there was Governor Goofy. He wanted to build a chopsticks factory in Minnesota, so that the state could export chopsticks to China. Then came the Body. He liked to wear a Boa. He couldn’t find time to declare a day of prayer, but did find time to honor the Rolling Stones with a day of their own. Now we have the highest official in the state with a wonderful given name (Tim), but he’s starting to crack. He doesn’t want the state to have a poet laureate, because it might lead to the state having other officially sanctioned artists, like painters and mimes. (DISCLAIMER: I do know that the “real” reasons behind his action are probably part of some political power game with the legislature, but it’s fun to jump on the bandwagon and declare disgust.)


There once was a guv named Pawlenty
Who vetoed a bill that was sent he
Didn’t want a laureate poet
Cause then before you know it
State mimes will be more than plenty.

i r i s e s 

I Rise

The irises started coming out yesterday. Today, I believe, they have all bloomed. They seem to like the end of May. That’s been their pattern, except for two years ago when they never opened up. The irises are pretty consistent; but the sun also rises, and it’s always consistent. A few days ago we were beginning to wonder though. Our days would vacillate between dark gray and light gray. No hint of yellow or blue. Gray was beginning to feel natural. But now for two days straight—here comes the sun. Our yellow irises opened up just in time to welcome back that stranger that left us in April.

But I was thinking that our lack of blue and yellow has resulted in some of the most amazing green this spring. What we didn’t receive in those two primary colors, we were doubly blessed with in that secondary one. And we didn’t even have to move to Seattle.

It all reminds me of a song that frequently runs through my head. It’s about colors and especially green. Rich Mullins exhorts the Creator (does that take gall?) to be glad that You have made blue for the sky, and the color green that fills Your fields with praise. It’s interesting to contrast the fickleness of weather with the timing of the sun rise. The rising of the sun is consistent, yet it changes, yet that change is consistent, yet it appears different as a result of the seeming randomness of battling warm and cold fronts and highs and lows.

The past two mornings our blinds have become bright red (I think too early) as they are attacked by those premature morning rays. Blue and yellow and red are good, but gray is not always that bad either, especially as one tries to avoid making that transition back to the world of work.

Memory 5.30

John Cherek wrote an editorial in this morning’s StarTribune newspaper. He wrote of the changing attitudes towards cemeteries. The cremation rate in Minnesota has risen above 35 percent and he comments that cemeteries are seemingly irrelevant. He argues, however, that they still hold an essential place in our lives and society. His observation is that by its very essence. . . “Literally grounded in place, a cemetery visit offers the chance to disengage from our hectic lives and engage in a different reality -- that of our connection to a larger community linked over time, by blood, and through human experience. Here we can pause and reflect on our own finite life journey. But the cemetery's greatest gift is in the remembering.”

And “By providing a special place of remembrance, cemeteries teach families and communities a valuable lesson -- that we are not islands unto ourselves but connected in an unending river of life. We may feel alone and powerless in this confusing world of ours, but in the cemetery, we can discover our spiritual connection to the human family, unbroken by death.”

I’m not usually one to visit cemeteries, unless it's in a distant place and for “historical” reasons. Concerning my sister’s gravesite, I’ve often told my parents that I don’t picture her there, and therefore don’t sense a pull to the place. They are always faithful in visiting each Memorial Day and on her birthday (also my birthday,) but I’m not.

I had no plans to visit Hillside Cemetery today. I relaxed around our house this morning, visited my parents' house, and then I decided to join my son Mark and his two friends for a round of Frisbee golf. They wanted to try out a new course east of our home. We had a fun time as they beat the snot out of me. Hot shot kids.

After completing the course they asked if we could check out one more course, new to them. I agreed, but I had a request first. While playing I was thinking about how close we were to Hillside, the location of my sister's grave. So I asked if they would mind stopping there on our way to course number two. They were willing and so we went.

I guess I had the desire to go more for my son (and for us) than for me. It’s one thing for me to have memories in my own mind; but for him to build memories, it’s helpful to see real places and touch real marble and not depend merely on what’s hidden in my head. So we went. And I had my camera.

My sister 1960 - 1967

the view from Hillside

Oscar Wisen - snuff box craftsman

Still a little snuff in my memory

Oscar
Posted by Hello

This morning’s Minneapolis StarTribune included an article about Sweden, its soon to be enacted restaurant smoking ban, and the country’s long love affair with Snuff (or as the Swedes call it ‘Snus.’) Snuff, of course, is that disgusting smokeless tobacco that one places between his cheek and gum. Swedish Match, the company that produces 95 percent of the nation’s snus, claims that it’s a lot better than smoking tobacco. But I tend to believe the expects who say it still raises one risk of oral cancer and possibly pancreatic cancer.

But anyways, the article got me remembering (allowed and encouraged this weekend) some of my paternal ancestors who loved the stuff, the snuff stuff. Spittoons were often more than mere furniture in the home; they were decorative shrines to the buzz they must have gotten from the slimy stuff. We host no spittoons in our home, but we do treasure a related item that sits upon our dining room hutch. I have the privilege of caring for my paternal grandmother’s father’s snuff box. It might not sound like much. But Oscar Wisen was a skilled cabinet maker and he harnessed his talents to create my most treasured piece of art. The inside, of course, is a mere container for his beloved chew. But the cover is a most remarkable carving of him in his work shop. He is standing next to his many tools which are orderly hanging on the back wall.

To display this treasure, we set it upon a dining room hutch that he hand crafted from solid oak. It’s wonderful to have these reminders of him and to be able to appreciate something brought to life in the 19th century.

Metropolis

Everybody knows that Metropolis has Superman. They also have a newspaper, the Daily Planet. But did you know that a person can now read a cutting edge journal called the “Metropolis Magazine.” It can be found at http://www.metropolismag.com/. A recent issue discusses the growing trends and influence of BLOBJECTS. They did, however, forget to mention my blog. But the reading is interesting nonetheless. You can find the article here.

Some short quotes of interest from the article concerning blobjects I have listed below.

• At once organic, tactile, and ergonomic, the blobject is inspired by the curvy shapes in nature--the human breast, a weathered stone, tear drops--but forged via cutting-edge technology.
• “They offer an innate sense of optimism and hope.”
• Blobjects are not stuck in old patterns of thinking. . .
• “Blob(jects) can too easily be seen as superficial, but in reality they are the answer to marrying ecological concerns, emotion, cultural expression, and state-of-the-art technology

Wow. So what does that have to do with my blog? I hope they don't get me for false advertising.

Another Day in Jail

I planned on writing about my day in jail a few months ago. But with the deadlines of work, work, work, it was put off; and day one never made it to my blog. Well, today was day two, a cold, cloudy, gray day consistent with the Memorial Day holiday weekend. But I suppose I should write about day one first.

My cousin was sentenced a little over a year ago to some serious time in Anoka County. The judge, however, gave him a huge break by allowing him to choose between the jail time and a year long stint at Teen Challenge in Minneapolis in lieu of the jail sentence. He chose Teen Challenge of course and had a wonderful year and made some major changes in his life. (This past winter we had a great time chatting when he visited Plymouth Covenant Church along with a huge choir from Teen Challenge.) But a few weeks before graduating from TC he broke some rules of the program and was thus released and sent back to jail.

He was sent first to a small jail in rural/exurban Chisago County. Visiting hours were Sunday afternoon, so I decided to visit, heading up there after church. I had been telling a friend from church (i.e. the Well) about my cousin, and this friend expressed interest in talking to him, sharing his situation and how God has helped him through it.

So this friend Dale joined me as I drove up to Chisago City. Upon arrival we found out that we would have to wait an hour or so before we could visit. We spent the time walking around town. It was an absolutely perfect afternoon. Spring had sprung early and we visited a 150 year old Lutheran church while we waited for our turn to visit. The sun was bright, the wind was light, and early flowers were beginning to bloom.

Our time finally came and we were allowed in to see my cousin. We left our IDs with the guard and began to talk. It was a great visit. My cousin was in good spirits and seemed very appreciative.

But then in a scene that still seems surreal to me, one of the guards came in and asked Dale to stand. He got out his hand cuffs and escorted Dale to the other side of the glass, the side that visitors don’t get to see. (Dale had some outstanding warrants / fines and they were planning to hold him for Hennepin and Anoka County.) At first I figured they would work something out and Dale and I would ride back to the Twin Cities together. But as the afternoon wore on I found out that he needed someone to post bond to bail him out. And that decision was being placed in my lap.

It turned out to be a long grueling ordeal. My mother’s 70th birthday party was starting at 5 p.m. I originally thought it would be no problem to make that. Our visit ended about 3. the guards told me I should call a bondsman. The walls were plastered with numbers of the “fastest and fairest and quickest and most compassionate and closest and most understanding” in town. I called one guy whom the guards said worked best with them. He said he would need $ 3,100. And I would have to sign another document saying I would be liable for the entire $ 31,000 should Dale not make an appearance in court.

I tried to contact Dale who was now isolated from me. It took between ½ hour and an hour for it to get cleared each time. I wanted to know his wishes and find out more about the circumstances. All the while I was trying to reach Suzi, the pastor from the Well, a guy who owed him money, the bondsman, and others. I nearly drained my 30 plus hour cell phone battery. The entire afternoon until dark was spent playing phone tag and seeking counsel and being told to wait. In the midst of my confusion and indecision I left the building to sit outside in my vehicle with the window down to breath some warm fresh air. Lying next to me on the seat was my Bible which I had brought to church earlier that day. I grabbed it. Stuck inside was the bulletin from the morning’s service. As I opened to that page I noticed the title for that section of Scripture. It was “Paul and Silas” in jail. I started reading the passage but had trouble concentrating on what I was reading. My mind was focused on what I should do. The advice I was receiving along with a growing conviction within caused me to turn down the bondman’s offer and wait a day or so to make a decision.

This was extremely difficult, for I never dreamed that Dale would not be riding back with me at the end of our visit. I wanted to just leave and get to my mom's party. I found out that Dale said he did not want to be in jail for any amount of money, even the $ 3,100. I felt strange having brought him with and putting him in this situation, even though it was ultimately his past mistakes that landed him there. But he was, after all, trying to help me and my cousin. My thinking vacillated most of the afternoon. But I finally left feeling that this was the right decision, even though it hurt, and I could have easily “fixed the problem” by merely signing some papers.

The only thing left to do now before i left was to give Dale the items from my vehicle that he would need for the night. But herein lays the next crisis. He needed his prescription pain pills for his back pain to make it through the night. But the guards would not allow any “contraband” within their walls. They would give him Advil, but that was it. He pleaded with me and the guards to allow his meds in the door, but the guards would not let me even bring them in the door. I was forced to leave, some five or six or seven hours since I first arrived, with all of Dale’s stuff, but no Dale.

I drove home (a little over an hour’s drive) and decided to stop by the shopping center where our church meets weekly. The church was hosting an evening service of prayer and worship, which was supposed to end around 9 p.m. I pulled into the lot a few minutes past 10. As I pulled in, I saw two vehicles pulling out. Recognizing the cars I flashed my brights and got them to stop. I jumped out and gave them an update on my day and evening.

NEWS FLASH: SPOUSAL UNIT ARRIVES HOME WITH A SPECIAL TREAT. LOCAL GROCERY STORE IS AGAIN STOCKING BREYER’S “COFFEE” ICE CREAM. SPOUSAL UNIT’S STOCK RISES EXPONENTIALLY AS SHE TRIES TO SWEETEN UP HER SIGNIFICANT OTHER.

So I jumped out as I was saying. And multiple cell phones began ringing. I decided to not use my phone on the entire trip home, wanting to keep it free for incoming calls. But nobody called—until I arrived in the lot. Then the calls came flooding in, one of which was from Dale. He had convinced the guards to call his doctor and get approval to use his meds in prison. But now the meds were in my vehicle 65 miles away from the jail. I had to work early in the morning and I was exhausted. Pastor Paul to the rescue. He agreed to drive the drugs up to the jail and back.

And then Dale’s exciting adventure begins. I’m too pooped right now to relay his experience over those next three days. But I hope to soon. He gave a wonderful testimony in church the next Sunday, telling how God had used him through those trying circumstances. Someday I could transcribe his words which I have on audio. Or I might try to summarize them when I have the energy.

But to wrap things up I will say in short that today’s visit to jail was much less eventful. My son Mark and I found my cousin to be in good spirits and willing to let God teach him some valuable things as he spends the next few months behind bars.

Today is Freedom Day

On guard-trying to enforce the "no midriff showing" dress code

Another Elvis wannabe? 

Tomorrow is Freedom Day

No, I was not using what he was holding as I was typing my evening blog.

The kids, Mark and Christina at least, finish school tomorrow. This has been finals week and they are anxiously looking forward to the last day. I remember well that feeling of walking home on the last day of school. I usually rode the bus each day, but to savor the experience (and because I couldn’t wait for the bus) I headed out on my own at a half gallop, half sprint to reach the freedom of home--free from teachers, free from books, and free from dirty looks, no make that assignments. And I was one that loved school. I can only imagine how much tomorrow will mean to the high-schoolers who claim they “hate” school.

But in addition to being Freedom Day for the kids, it’s FD for me too. With a mixture of delayed projects and an improved ability to say “no,” I’ve actually freed up the holiday weekend. Most past Memorial Day weekends have been spent playing catch up, stretching work into the front side or back side of the long weekend. But not this year.

So that feeling of freedom is back tonight. A real vacation lies ahead. It’s been awhile and it feels weird. With Christmas and New Year’s Day falling on a Saturday this past winter, I got gypped. And if my memory serves me right, my last real vacation occurred back around Independence Day. I’m overdue.

Now all I have to do is work on dealing with the guilt of not being productive.

The music playing in the background is helping. It is a soothing CD entitled, “Is it Rolling Bob?: A Reggae Tribute to Bob Dylan.” My computer is pumping out the tunes through the cheap computer speakers (sorry Bob) as I type away thinking about freedom. Remembering. Looking back. Thinking that a link exists between our upcoming holiday and the freedom I will hopefully taste and enjoy these next few days.

I’m coming to realize that my duty in these upcoming days, through contemplation with a spirit of gratitude, will be to embrace the fact that I’ve “Gotta Serve Somebody.” Every day in all the ways I can, I need to strive for the freedom that comes in service to the Almighty and others. I pray that this conclusion might not get blowin’ away in the winds of thinking only of me.

In listening to the last song on the album, “I and I,” the realization came for the first time that Dylan is probably making reference in some way to the Almighty, the One who said to Moses: I am who I am. If I could better understand the mumblings of the Bobster, I might figure out how he craft fully alludes to a closer relationship between us and God, an intimacy that would be lessened by a use of the word “you.” But what do I know?

I do know that “A Hard Rain’s Been A-Falling” all day long and is supposed to continue all weekend long, and that’s how we truly know that it is Memorial Day Weekend in Minnesota. So let’s all pitch out tents and sleep out in the rain. It’s a rich long tradition in this state.

Another perfect head (or to quote the "radical": I would rather use my hormones on something more fun than growing hair.) 

Couldn’t Resist Displaying Another “Perfect” Head

My loving wife surprised (make that almost surprised) me with an intriguing book for our anniversary. I don’t know if she was browsing through a bookstore, caught a glimpse of the photo on the jacket cover and fell in love with it, or if she was merely searching for a book to teach me how to “speak my mind.” Maybe she thinks I should tell her and others what I really think? Nahhhh.

Confession: I do know why she bought me the book. A month or so ago, we were at some friends’ house and I was (with lust in my eyes) goggling over a few of the husband’s books. I noticed that he had a copy of a Campolo book which I had not seen before. Upon inspection I noticed that its copyright was 2004, definitely one I had not seen before. Suzi must have been watching and responded by buying it soon afterwards. However, she did not hide it very well and I found it before our anniversary. But being the “good” husband that I am, I did not start reading it until after our special date, and actually quite a while after May 7th. Being in good Campolo form it was easy to read, and I finished it yesterday. I don’t remember anything about the book, but I did finish it.

Another Confession: I do remember what he wrote, and I actually concur with most of what he says. I’ve heard him speak numerous times over the past few decades and he always inspires. While inspiring though, I guess he also ruffles lots of feathers. He writes often about getting uninvited from many events and podiums. So I guess he’s controversial. And I suppose that’s why the publisher tacked on the sub-title of the book, “The Radical Evangelical Prophet Tackles the Tough Issues Christians Are Afraid to Face.” Campolo makes clear that he wanted no credit for that clarifier (or disclaimer.)

But knowing of Campolo’s stands and having read many of his books, I was not too surprised by what I found. If I was ambitious, I would summarize each chapter and offer comments, but that might put even my wife to sleep. (And I need to keep her awake so she can clean and cook for me and vacuum and make the bed.) (I guess that covers the chapter on “Is Evangelicalism Sexist?”)

Each chapter was well presented, but I was struck primarily by his chapter on science where he delved into Einstein’s theories and how they might correspond to some of the long-time debates within Christian theology. I was interested especially because I’ve been listening to a lecture series the past few months by a Physics professor Richard Wolfson from Middlebury College. The Teaching Company presents this course on “Modern Physics for Non-Scientists.” It’s fun stuff to think about and helps me realize how little I know.

The other chapter that sticks out in my mind asks the question: Is evangelicalism headed for a split? In it he tackles the issue of dispensationalism and how he believes it is dangerous for the church and the world. Since my college days I’ve ceased believing in this ever popular paradigm within evangelical circles. During high school I could draw diagrams and charts of all things “past and future” using those faulty glasses. Even though most of the professors in the Bible department of my college fell into the dispensationalist camp, I was fortunate enough to hear from one O.T. prof who amazed me by letting us know there are actually opposing views to this popular paradigm. Could it really be true that Hal Lindsey did not have it all figured out?

So from college on I merely viewed dispensationalism as wrong, but didn’t see it as dangerous. Campolo argues that it is. I think he builds a strong case. I know that those who attack dispensationalism often get labeled as anti-Semites among evangelicals and messianic Jews, but I think that the “big D” view does denigrate a view of the church and makes it a mere parenthesis of God’s big plan. I think it devalues books of the O.T. like Jonah and Job and Esther too, for God was at work not only through Israel in the years prior to Christ.

Campolo argues also that D. discounts the Sermon on the Mount. He claims that dispensationalists see this passage as one meant for another dispensation, not the one we currently live in. If this is true (that they view it such), I too see this as its greatest danger. For Jesus’ great sermon seems to be at the heart of his entire message. And to simply pass it off for “another time” is not only wrong, but close to heretical.

Well, enough said. He pushes lots of other hot buttons. But I guess at his stage in life he doesn’t need to worry too much about not being invited to speak at lots of events. He can sit at home, write, and look gorgeous.

Time to Get my Hair Cut

I wore a suit and tie on Saturday.
Orders from the Warden.
It’s been months, maybe even years, since I last donned this outfit.
Not many funerals or weddings in my life (fortunately).
But consequences come with the monkey suit. I get more stares.
I was sitting at our table of friends while a guy at the table next to ours kept looking my way. I was looking his way too, since I thought he looked familiar. Then our good friend Lis went over to talk to him. They were friends from college. He told her that I looked familiar and she came over to introduce us. Instead of going through a list of possible past places or events, I decided to cut to the chase and introduce myself.
“Hi, my name is Dick Cheney.”
He chuckled and then admitted that maybe that was it. We tried the lists of possible places and events and people that might have brought us together at some past time, but to no avail. Maybe that was it.

I was at least my third Dick Cheney sighting in a week. A few days earlier, while ordering materials for work a guy asked if people ever confused me with the V.P. It was a good-humored discussion.

But a week or so earlier, I was visiting a number of renovated homes in Minneapolis proper, part of an annual home tour to promote city neighborhoods and fixing up properties. The home owner who greeted me was quite serious when he asked, “You’re not Dick Cheney, are you?” When I replied in the negative, he said, “Good, because if you were, I wouldn’t have let you in.” OK, I thought, better not discuss politics with this character.

So, I need to be careful. For I’ve found out that on my way to looking like Dilbert’s boss (with the three inch spiked hair on the sides of his head), my reverse Mohawk brings me to a point where I look like the man who really runs this country (just kidding).

It’s time to get out the scissors! But not the razor, lest I start to resemble the former guv, the Body.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I didn’t have a chance to post this last night, since I arrived home at about 9 p.m., sat down, and immediately fell asleep only to awaken at 7 a.m. To have something appear on Wednesday’s date, I am back dating this entry. I hope it was worth it.

Home Late Again

This time it was not work that brought me home late. Smile. It was Suzi. Double smile. Just kidding, the Tundra brought us home, but I drove. And Suzi was an admirable co-pilot.

We spent the evening in Plymouth at our monthly book club, organized through our former church located in that suburb. The book of the month was Ron Sider’s Scandal of the Evangelical Conscience. We were a little apprehensive before the meeting, having heard numerous negative comments from various members of the group. Those we heard from felt as though Sider was unfair and “beating up” Christians unjustly or at least in too harsh a spirit.

The evening, however, was wonderful. We didn’t shrink from the “attacks” or “accusations” from Sider, but evaluated them and took his overarching message to heart. We committed ourselves to personal reflection on how each of us could begin the change to a more Christ like life. We vowed to not retreat from the fallen ness both outside and inside the church, but strive toward a life of personal integrity and openness to God’s Spirit wherever He should lead.

What could have easily been a “downer” of a night was quite refreshing and uplifting. And I can honestly say we all left with a great spirit of hope and encouragement, one that brought me directly to the computer and my blog. Lest I forget.

Everybody Will Miss Raymond

Good bye Raymond. Good bye Deborah. Good bye Frank. Good bye Marie. Good bye Robert. Good bye Amy. Good bye kids. And good bye "Geraldine." Did smoking do that to your voice?

My Sabbath

I got to rest today, so now I suppose it’s time to WORK on my blog. This morning was nice. The sun was having a little more success in its month-long battle with the clouds. I actually saw the yellow thing for 15 to 20 minute segments at a time.

As I mentioned in yesterday’s blog, I skipped church this morning. I headed off to a St. Paul suburb to work on a lake home. I was by myself. The huge house was quiet. And I was at peace. For the first time in weeks, I did not feel rushed. I would work only as long as I felt like working. And I would work at only that place. And I would listen only to what I wanted to hear on the radio. And it was fun. I recaptured the joy of holding a trowel in my hand. It was a temporary respite from the pressures of deadlines. And I wasn’t even pushing myself.

I was also a successful DJ this morning as I switched my iPod to some Bob Dylan tunes, followed by a little bit of the Beatles, and then to a lecture on Quantum physics (for non-science people). Sensing that my brain was overheating, I had the inkling that the rebroadcast of Prairie Home Companion might be on soon. So I turned off the iPod and switched to FM. Before PHC, they were airing “Speaking of Faith” on MPR, a show I like to catch occasionally. The discussion was on contemplative prayer as they interviewed an Emery University professor who has written on the Dessert Fathers (and Mothers). It tied in well with my tranquil setting on the small suburban lake. I was truly thankful to be where I was and to be doing what I was doing.

And then to round out the morning, I had my energy level raised as I laughed along with PHC and got to imagine that other lake, maybe not so long be gone. I was about to call it quits when I received a surprise phone call from an out-of-state area code. Who could it be? I didn’t recognize the number. It was Brian.

Brian and I go way back to our days at Trinity. We worked together with the youth at the church. He was first a fellow volunteer and then was hired on as youth pastor. A few churches later (and now living in Florida), he is still hard at it working with teen-agers, even now as his own kids are approaching that age. He made a surprise visit to the church we attend and didn’t find me there. He called to hassle me about not being in church, but I was able to receive his absolution.

But I then had to leave the lake and go back to the real world, rushing off to open houses for graduates and small group meetings. The disclaimer I end with is in no way an encouragement to skip church on Sunday mornings, but God did find me this morning where I was at. And He was good.

Feeling Sorry for Myself

Yes, I was actually feeling sorry for myself today. Today, a spring Saturday, I had to work an extra long day. And then I hurried home to run off to Saturday night church, so that I could put in another long day tomorrow working on other folks’ homes. Playing with mud of course can be lots of fun, but some times too much of a good thing can become a drag. It can wear on a person, not only physically, but also mentally. Thus, the F.S.F.M.

I could have attributed my condition to the conditions outside, namely rain, rain, and more rain. The gray clouds have not only been a common sight, but quite literally the only sight I can remember as I look heavenward. And with the fine polished finish upon my head, I’m very much in tune to the presence of precipitation. God might be able to easily count the hairs upon my head, but I can easily count the raindrops per second upon my scull. The rain, the cold, the brisk winds—all occurring in a May which was followed by one of the warmest Aprils on record. And I was away from home, buried deep in white mud that needed to be strategically placed on many walls and ceilings.

I was working. It was raining. In Minnesota, today is the fishing opener. And I was feeling sorry for myself. But then the revelation came!

I did not have to fish! Thank God, literally, that I was not held captive in some wet aluminum boat, surrounded by inebriated “pals” holding onto a cold pole, while staring out into the gray waters below.

I did not have to fish today. And I don’t have to fish tomorrow. And I didn’t have to park on some crowded freeway trying to arrive at a favorite fishing lake somewhere in the hinterlands of this fair state. And I won’t have to fight traffic Sunday evening with a bunch of smelly guys.

So now I am glad. My condition has improved. Having “done church” this evening, I can head off to work in the morning (without a fishing pole) and be glad, and grateful for the day the Lord will make.

Mother's Day was also my dad's 70th Birthday. 

Mark flipped over this year's Mother's Day celebration 

22 and Counting

The time has come. I must write. I’ve sort of, kind of, made a promise with my comment on Suzi’s blog that I would say something about our anniversary. Or at least I would say something about being married 22 years. Well, I’ve told her many times that I love her, so that is nothing novel, or special enough to include in an anniversary blog, even though it’s true. And I’ve told her numerous times how I’m grateful for her devotion and care and good-naturedness and positive attitude and her commitment to our Lord.

So on this special day, I will simply say: thanks for spending the day with me. As a result of our hectic lives we can easily race past each other and exchange only a handful of words and glances. But today was different. We actually spent the entire day together. We walked the dog together. We showered together—no scratch that, I was playing with my camera downloading pictures to the computer while she was cleaning up after our long walk. (That reminds me I never did make it to the showers today. I apologize right now to my loving wife and comment to any readers that you should be grateful you are only reading this and no smell-o-rama has been incorporated to my blog.) Now where were we? We walked together, then we prepared ourselves for one of Tim’s favorite annual events, the Minneapolis-St. Paul Home Tour. Now in its 18th year, Tim (I’m again sorry, this time for referring to my self in the 3rd person, I hate when people do that) has managed to take in at least a few houses almost every year. I enjoy this so much more than the annual metro wide Parade of Homes, which features only new homes. The MSP Homes Tour features homes restored and actually lived in. And the variety and charm and character are endless. I could go on but this is supposed to be about our anniversary.

And then we came home and spent time talking with our son Mark and eating French Silk pie, wondering where we should go for supper. Being the slacker that I am, I did not make reservations anywhere. This meant we were somewhat limited, being a Saturday night and the day before Mother’s Day. So off to Red Lobster we went. We gazed into each others eyes (at least during commercials—they stuck us in the old sports bar section with all the TVs on the walls and the Twins on the tube), until Suzi glanced out the window and saw my brother Greg and his wife. They were visiting this place for the first time since they were dating 17 years ago. Kari hates seafood, but her sister was joining them for the meal and she loves seafood and her sister is older and wiser and more persuasive.

But it’s been a whole day together. And now as I sit here at the keyboard, this is the first time we’ve been separated today. And it’s been a good day. Suzi you’ve been great company, a worthy companion, and lots of fun.

I guess I’m glad that my one true love is also my best friend. Thanks honey.

Now if you’d like to do some more stuff together, I suppose you could start by editing my blog. Or it just turned 10:00, we’re not sure where the kids are, we could just go to bed.

Thanks for a wonderful day.

Raven is taking the day in stride. 

It's amazing what 22 years will do to a person (people) 

How long will it take the Warden to realize that I have moved Christina’s picture from the top of my blog?

Coming out of hibernation, I realize that the world has changed. I know I’ve missed lots of insignificant events, but maybe I’ve missed some of lasting importance. I’ve watched the sun set many evenings as I sit working at my desk and I’ve also seen the sun rising as I drive off to various construction sites. I’ve come across babies newly born and I’ve heard of the passing of others.

The world lost a great spiritual leader during my time “away.” He was a guide to many and an inspiration to even more. He had a zest for life that was contagious and always looked on the positive side of things. And as I was reminded just this past Sunday night, he sported a large tattoo on his upper arm. It spelled out the name of his lifelong love, the woman to whom he was married, I believe, well over 50 years, “Helen.”

I met Pastor Doug shortly after he arrived at our church, because I was in his Confirmation class. If my memory serves me right, I actually had the privilege to sit under his instruction for my 7th and 8th grade years. My memory is much better recalling the challenges (read that, trials or torture) our class put him through those two years. He left the sunny beaches of San Diego to serve our church in the frigid upper Midwest, but he didn’t seem to mind. He always wore a smile and always had time to talk, especially to the kids of the church. He turned me on to some of the most important things in my life as I sought his counsel. I think I’ll list them bullet style to make it easier to read.

1. Christian Book Distributors—He loved to read and showed me his catalog from the brand new company (1970 or so) in Boston that has survived and thrived to this day. I still order too many books from them each year.
2. Strong’s Concordance—I wanted to know how to look up things in Scripture, so he pointed me to his Strong’s which was in the KJV, but did a great job in pointing me to many helpful passages as well as interesting items like the verse somewhere in 2 Samuel that has 17 “the” s in it.
3. The Wittenburg Door—Pastor Lewis had a great sense of humor and a real desire to speak to youth in a language they could understand. I wonder what some of the church leadership would have thought if they knew he was reading and promoting such a magazine. But I loved it and was challenged by it and grew through it and subscribed to it for most of my adult life. It’s often accused of being irreverent, and lacking in class, but I’ve found it to supply food for my soul when other written works would lull me to sleep with things I didn’t care about or fatten me up with things I already knew. The Door, even today under new ownership and leadership, manages to keep a watchful, yet loving eye on the church, in an effort to keep it true to its calling.
4. Evangelism—Pastor Doug would often call kids from his confirmation class during the summer if it was a sunny day and invite us to the beach. Being from the west coast he never lost his love of the water. But we always went with a mission. He would give us each little booklets, like “Steps to Peace with God.” And he gave us quick lessons in how to use them. But more importantly, he never tried to force anything on those with whom we struck up conversations. It was always natural. And for him “successful witnessing” didn’t require that we take out the booklet. It could be a time of merely listening to someone who needed to talk. He was extremely gifted in having uplifting and encouraging conversations with friends or strangers. And bringing God into a conversation was as natural as talking about the Vikings.
5. Cults—Another important lesson I received from him was in how to evaluate various messages I heard in high school. I sought his advice on some materials I was reading and some shows I was watching. He gave me very helpful advice in how to sort out “false gospels” that sound a lot like the truth. He taught me that groups which preach a different Jesus from the one of the historical Christian faith need to be suspect and should be held up to the light of Scripture.
6. Marriage—When I remember back to times I was in the company of Pastor Doug and his wife Helen, I’m convicted by how well he kept his wife informed on his every thought. He was great at bringing her up to speed on things. Me? I usually grunt and practice my monosyllabic mumbles. Sorry, Suzi.
7. Nursing homes—The final thing Pastor Lewis left me with was a list of about a dozen nursing home residents that were members of our church. As a high school student I was required for some class to do some community volunteer work. I asked Pastor Doug for some ideas and he suggested that I visit this group of people who could not attend church anymore. The first time through, he went with me to each home and each room and provided a great model for visitation. It was a little scary and awkward at first, but I came to enjoy it. I kept it up throughout my college years and finished when the last person on that list received her final reward.

It is quite amazing how important a godly man can be in a young person’s life. I’m humbled by the fact that I’ve been blessed with more than my fair share, but Pastor Doug is surely in my faith hall of fame.