A Note to Parents of Babies and Toddlers

Last Wednesday, I was Santa Claus for my wife's day care center. Let me share a simple conclusion from that experience which should be obvious to all, but evidently is not: if your baby or toddler is afraid of Santa, your best bet is to accept that reality and wait twelve months. Your munchkin will probably love Santa to death next year.

Now for some corollaries to the above thesis:

1. Reasoning with your baby will probably not dispel her fear. Saying over and over "Look, it's Santa Claus!" is likely to be ineffective.
2. Dragging your kicking, screaming kid toward a big, red, loud, white-bearded monster and forcing him onto the lap of said beast will not lessen your child's anxiety. This actually irritates your child, and it doesn't please Santa very much either.
   
3. Plopping an older brother of sister onto Santa's lap to show how safe this activity is will not convince your baby that she will not be immediately eaten alive as soon as she does the same.
   
4. Pointing a camera at your shrieking offspring who has a wad of curly, white facial hair in his fist will not stop the frantic, panic-driven yanking of said facial hair.
5. A course in child development would be a good investment of your money and time. In that class, they might teach you that when a child's not developmentally ready for something, the passing of time works wonders that no other strategy can accomplish. In other words, give it a rest. Grieve briefly the fact that you will not have a picture of your kid on Santa's lap this year and come back next year. You'll get much better results.
   

I'll Never Get Used To...

...people standing right out in the middle of the street at busy intersections, collecting donations for charity. Yup, for those of you who don't live in metropolitan Detroit, that really happens at holiday time around here. And it's not just any charity. Usually, they are charities that are supported by local police and firefighters. Wouldn't they be among the first to figure out that standing on the dashed lane divider line surrounded by rapidly moving traffic might be a wee bit dangerous? Today, I saw a crew of firefighters in the intersection of Allen and King roads, both of which have 45 mph speed limits. On the northwest corner sat their ambulance! Well, at least it won't have far to go when some inattentive motorist crosses the line at the worst possible time.

I've lived a lot of places and can't recall anywhere but metro Detroit that allows this. But I obviously haven't lived everywhere. Are there any other cities where this happens?

Momentum is Building!

My rant about colorblindness needing its own month and colored ribbon is paying off! This morning when I arrived at church, a couple of our members were handing out gray ribbons, along with copies of my post on the issue. By church time, fully half the congregation was sporting gray ribbons! We all had a good laugh about it, but the visitors must have thought this was one loony church--mobilizing to fight the worldwide scourge of colorblindness!

I had a good chuckle, and it did tend to take the sting out of Michigan State's embarrassing give-away to Michigan yesterday. I love being part of a congregation that knows how to laugh and have a good time.

Totally Gratuitous Grandbaby Picture

My granddaughter Maizie and her two bestest friends, Mia and Morgandy, were M&Ms for Halloween. (Maizie's the orange one.) Couldn't resist posting this picture. If it strikes your fancy, there are more on my daughter's blog.

Am I Missing Something Here?

The routine at lower-priced, neighborhood diners:

1. Order food.
2. Receive food.
3. Waitress drops off check, usually around the time she delivers food.
4. If dessert is ordered, waitress quickly recalculates check and returns it to table.
   
5. When ready to leave, pay on the way out.

The routine at higher-priced, upscale eateries:

1. Order food.
2. Receive food.
3. Finish eating, then wait 10-15 minutes for waitperson to come by.
   
4. Waitperson asks if you'd like dessert. You say "No, I'd like the check."
5. Wait 10-15 minutes for waitperson to bring check. Waitperson says, "I'll take that up for you whenever you're ready." It doesn't occur to waitperson that you may be ready NOW. Waitperson disappears before you can tell him or her that you're ready.
6. Wait 10-15 minutes for waitperson to come for your credit card.
7. Wait 10-15 minutes for waitperson to return with your credit card and receipt.
8. Leave 40-60 minutes after you finished eating (and make sure to tip the waitperson 20%, because this is an upscale restaurant).

Is anyone else aggravated by this? If you like it better the upscale way, please tell me why. Maybe I'm missing something.

Mismatched Logos

The Dallas Cowboys logo is a star. It has nothing to do with cowboys and everything to do with the fact that the team is in Texas, the Lone Star state. But the team is not the Texans, it is the Cowboys.

Meanwhile, the Texans are a team in Houston. Their logo is a bull. That's directly related to cowboys, but certainly wouldn't be limited to Texans.

It seems to me the two teams need to switch logos. The Lone Star of Dallas sends one clear message: Texan. It should belong to the Texans. The bull of Houston has "cowboy" written all over it. It should belong to the Cowboys (and it still contains a star as a shout out to their home state).

Get Your Gray Ribbons Ready

October is pink ribbon month. It's also pink product month. Everywhere you go, pink trinkets are for sale. The promise is that for every dollar you spend, a few pennies will be given to breast cancer research. Some folks think it's a bit of overkill. But in making their point, they trivialize a birth defect which affects millions of innocent victims, including me. Listen to a typical example from Susan Reimer, writing in the Baltimore Sun: "You'd have to be colorblind not to see all the pink products."

Yes, I am colorblind--hang on a second while I get my tongue in my cheek--and I am sick and tired of people making light of this incurable congenital condition. Do you think Ms. Reimer would have written, "you'd have to be a paraplegic not to keep up with my grandmother"? How do you think such language makes us feel? We're already discriminated against. Whole career fields are closed to us, notably that of airline pilot and railroad engineer. Where are the people demanding a cure for this debilitating and heartbreaking disease? When we run red lights, do people treat us with the compassion we deserve? No! Just write 'em a ticket, Mr. Policeman, and let 'em pay the fine. And then there's the ridicule we endure when we wear mismatched clothes. Colorblindness may be the last birth defect that it is still politically correct to make fun of. Could it be that so little is allocated to colorblindness research because the overwhelming majority of victims are men? Just asking.

So, colorblind people of the world unite! We demand our own awareness month. November will be just fine. We invite you to join us. You can show your support by wearing a gray ribbon. Of course, we'll all think they're pink ribbons and accuse you of overdoing the breast cancer thing, but there's no perfect system.

Unexplained Mechanical and Electrical Healings (UMEH)

Yesterday, warning lights for the brakes and the ABS system lit up on my father-in-law's van. The power-assist function of the brakes stopped working (it was like stopping a car with the engine off). Today, while driving to the dealership, both lights went out and the braking returned to normal.

A few days ago, I unhooked the speakers from my computer to use them with a video projecter. Yesterday, I hooked them back up to my computer. They would not work. Zero. Zilch. Nada. I unhooked them and used the computer's tinny little internal speaker the rest of the day. Today, I plugged them back in and they worked perfectly.

Does anyone else out there have any accounts of UMEHs? If so, share them.

Life and Death and Family

I haven't posted in a while. Many of you know why. For the rest of you, here's the sequence of events:
Tuesday, September 18: Cheryl's Dad, Sam, has total knee replacement surgery in Lansing. Her Mom, Jane, doesn't feel well, so she stays at our house while Cheryl goes to Lansing to be with her Dad.
Wednesday, September 19: Cheryl's sister-in-law, Anne, calls to tell us that Cheryl's brother, Tim, who has been battling cancer for the past two years, isn't expected to live much longer.
Thursday, September 20: Cheryl and I and a still less-than-healthy Jane travel to Salisbury, MD to be with Tim, leaving Sam in a physical rehab facility in Lansing. We arrive two hours after Tim dies.
Friday, September 21: Jane develops an irregular heart beat and is taken by ambulance to Peninsual Regional Medical Center in Salisbury.
Saturday, September 22-Monday, September 24: The family plans Tim's funeral while taking turns sitting with Jane at the hospital. She improves markedly during the day on Sunday, but takes a turn for the worse that night.
Tuesday, September 25: Tim's funeral is just what he wanted--a time of rejoicing and celebration. We tell silly stories about Tim, watch a moving video of his life, celebrate his faith, and generally leave uplifted. Jane's condition prevents her from leaving the hospital to attend the funeral.
Wednesday, September 26: I return home, leaving Cheryl behind to attend to Jane, who is still in the hospital. Upon arriving home, I go immediately to Lansing to visit with Sam, who has been separated from all family during Tim's death and funeral.
Friday, September 28: Cheryl has decided to get an air ambulance to bring Jane back to Michigan. The doctors tell her that she would not survive the flight. In fact, they tell her that her Mom is not going to make it. I return to Lansing to tell Sam his wife is dying.
Saturday, September 29: I pick up Sam from the rehab facility at 4 a.m. and drive him to Detroit, where we board a plane for Balitmore. We rent a car for the two-hour drive to Salisbury. We arrive at the hospital about 15 minutes before Jane dies.
Sunday, October 1: Cheryl and Sam return to Michigan.
Monday, October 2: I return to Michigan. Family members, who had just returned home following Tim's funeral, make plans to converge in Lansing.
Saturday, October 6: Jane's funeral is a fitting tribute to her 82 years of love and service.
Sunday, October 7: Cheryl and Sam and I return home. Sam will be with us until his rehabilitation is far enough along that he can live on his own.

I don't share this chronology with you so you will pity us. Of course it's been hard. And I'm sure there are still lots more hard times to come. The prayers of many, many people have sustained us. Thank you, and please don't stop praying. However, I want to tell you how proud I am to be a part of this family. We pulled together, did what needed to be done, loved each other and supported each other. We've shed a lot of tears, but shared even more laughter. We found value in being together, and in accepting the pain as a necessary consequence of the closeness we've enjoyed for so long. Our faith is strong and our focus is on the journey ahead. God is good and after this season of sorrow, life will be good again.

In Loving Memory

My dear brother-in-law, Tim Bass, died Thursday, September 20. We arrived a couple of hours after he went home to be with God. Tim has been part of our family (and I a part of his) for over 36 years. He was in middle school when I met him: a tall, skinny basketball player with a baby face. Over the years, he became a brother-in-law, a peer, one of my best friends, a colleague in ministry, a brother (I stopped thinking of him as an in-law long ago), an example, and an inspiration.

Cheryl and I have shared so many happy times with Tim and his wife Anne: wonderful Christmases, and some of the most memorable vacations of my life. He was a fantastic uncle to my kids, a genuine servant of Jesus, and an all-around fun guy. I could go on for a long time sharing stories, but let me just leave it at this: I will miss Tim terribly for the rest of my life. But I will also be thankful for the rest of my life that Tim was a part of it.

A Community of Faithful Love

We got the call yesterday that my brother-in-law, Tim Bass, will not be with us much longer. I can't describe our sadness. I'm writing this hurriedly as we prepare to leave to be with him and the rest of the family. We need your prayers. But before I go, I wanted to share the last entry Tim's wife Anne posted on his Care Page. It's a witness not only to a life of faith (Tim & Anne's), but to a wonderfully supportive faith family that has surrounded them. Read it, then say a prayer of thanks for this wonderful group of Christians:

It has been an eventful few days. We started working with the hospice staff who have been wonderful. Tim was able to enjoy some special company both on Saturday and Sunday, and even sing out some hymns with his beautiful bass voice. On Sunday, he stood before the church, weak and on oxygen, but sharing blessings for them as an elder and confirming the elder who was to take his place. By Monday he became very tired, Tuesday he was in horrible pain and very unsteady, and today we were told by the hospice nurse that his liver is likely shutting down. He may be within hours or days of leaving us to go home to Our Father. He is not suffering very much, the meds appear to be controlling his pain quite well. There have been wonderful companions all day to share this time with us. Both our dear minister friends were here much of the day, helping assist Tim in and out of bed. Their wives blessed us with their love and help as well. Our two sons came, as well as our adopted children, Darrow and Crystal and baby Hailey. My dear sister/friend Lyn Grant helped in so many ways, from taking mom to for an MRI, bringing food, serving guests, providing nursing care, and wonderful hugs. Our amazing church family came tonight with candles and sung hymns from our front yard and prayed for us. They sounded like angels coming to minister to us, but were so special because we know and love them. Some brought food and cleaned my house. Tim's family is on their way tomorrow, except his father who just had a knee replacement surgery yesterday. Hopefully, he can join us soon. Although not comprehending alot, Tim has recognized most everyone who has come and appreciated all their love for us. On every side God has been with us, providing our needs and showering us with His love as Tim prepares to make his journey into His hands. Tim has asked that we celebrate his journey, and not remain sorrowful. He wants us to remember to live for the things that count, and I truly beieve that is what he has done. He brings love, laughter, and kindness to each day. I cannot describe in any words known to man how blessed I am to be his wife. Thank you all for your continued prayers and friendship. Anne Bass

I Can't Help Myself!

I wrote a little song that I thought I'd share with you. It's sung to the tune of The Beverly Hillbillies Theme Song:

Come and listen to a story ‘bout the Wolverines,
A bunch of loony guys, ain’t worth a hill of beans.
Everybody told ‘em they wuz gonna be great
Until they got whipped by the boys from State.
(Appalachian, that is. Boone, North Carolina. One double A)

Well next thing you know, they wuz dropped from the polls
Ain't gonna make to the title or the bowls.
But don’t y’all worry, cuz you’ll get to cheer again
For the fabled team that’s known as Michigan.
(State, that is. Green and white. Spartans.)

Vacation!

Last week, was vacation week. We went to my son and daughter-in-law's place in Chicago. Our daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter met us there. The Chicago Air Show was that weekend. We didn't officially attend, but the USAF Thunderbirds came roaring over my son's apartment with regularity, sending me running to the window every time.








From Chicago, Jason, Caren, and Maizie accompanied us to a cabin on Lake Superior at Paradise in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. (Alan and Sheila had already planned their first anniversary trip to the same locale, but for a week later.) Highlights included Mackinac Island, Tahquamenon Falls, the Soo Locks, and lunch at the Bavarian Inn in Frankenmuth on the way home. But the biggest highlight was spending time with ten-month-old Maizie!

Any Suggestions?

This summer, I've developed a routine that I've grown to love. At least once a week, usually on my day off, I ride my bike to one of several regional parks that are 10-12 miles from home. I take a backpack with my lunch, plenty of water, my Bible, a pad of paper and sometimes a book or two. I find a picnic table in the shade, usually next to the Huron River or Lake Erie, and spend a couple of unhurried hours in study, prayer, meditation, and relaxation.

But...summer in Michigan doesn't last forever. It will be cold before I know it. I want to continue this routine in some form, but don't know how that will work in the cold weather months. Any suggestions out there? The criteria are: peaceful, relaxing atmosphere; freedom from normal interruptions; low or no cost; with bonus points if it incorporates physical exercise also.

No prize for the winning entry other than my undying gratitude.

Way Too Cute!

You have to click this link and watch the video. Trust me! Yes, it stars my granddaughter Maizie, and yes, all babies have their irresistibly cute moments. But this is one of Maizie's moments. Unless you hate babies, puppies, and cute little bunny rabbits, you'll like this.

Full Disclosure, Please!

At some random moment, a dialog box appears on your computer:

An update is available for Windows MultiMixer Codec Homogenizer for Microsoft Office Depot 2.4. Would you like to install it now? YES NO CANCEL

Now, what I'd like to see would be full disclosure, which would involve a slightly longer message in the dialog box:

An update is available for Windows MultiMixer Codec Homogenizer for Microsoft Office Depot 2.4. This update addresses issues that you will never ever encounter, unless you're running a single-pole mutated asynchronous wireless network in a rarified environment--like say, the moon--while failing to address real issues that we've known about for years: issues that have driven you crazy since the first day you bought this computer--like giving you the "blue screen of death" whenever you're in a huge hurry to get one little tidbit of info off the computer before you rush out the door for an important meeting that you have just enough time to get to. If you choose to install this update, you will immediately surrender control of your computer to the update program for the rest of the day. While it is theoretically possible to keep working on other tasks while the computer updates, let's be real for a moment. Your computer will run slower than cast-iron pantyhose, meaning that you would be more productive to leave your office, drive to Kinko's, do your work there, then take the rest of the day off. If you choose to watch the installation process, a series of green blocks will crawl across your screen, leading you to believe that when they reach the other side, the update will be complete, when in fact that's only phase 1 out of 28, and that took an hour and seventeen minutes, only we're not telling you how many phases there are up front because if we did, you'd hire a hit man to bump off Bill Gates and then come take you out of your misery. At the end of the process, you will be asked to reboot your computer, not once or twice, but once for every year that you didn't donate $2 to the presidential campaign fund on your IRS Form 1040 (don't ask us how we know how many that is; believe us, you wouldn't like the answer). On your next-to-last reboot, you'll get another dialog that tells you that the update failed to install properly and that you should try starting the process again, at which point, your computer will freeze, refusing to respond even to the Ctrl-Alt-Delete command. You will have to unplug the computer and then restart it, causing it to display a nasty message about shutting down Windows properly, and because you didn't, it's going to destroy random pieces of your data, and even at that, for eight weeks, your work will be interrupted every two minutes by a pop-up that asks if you'd like to reboot your computer now. So...you've got to ask yourself a question: "Do I feel lucky?" Well, do ya, punk? YES NO CANCEL

My Favorite Awards - 2007 Results Are In!

For get the Oscars, the Grammys, the Emmys, and the Tonys. Forget the Heisman Trophy and all MVP awards. My favorite is the annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, in which entrants are challenged to submit bad opening sentences to imaginary novels. It's named in memory of Victorian novelist Edward George Earl Bulwer-Lytton, who opened his 1830 novel, Paul Clifford, with the immortal line, "It was a dark and stormy night."

This year's winner is Jim Gleeson, of Madison, Wisconsin. His winning entry:

Gerald began--but was interrupted by a piercing whistle which cost him ten percent of his hearing permanently, as it did everyone else in a ten-mile radius of the eruption, not that it mattered much because for them "permanently" meant the next ten minutes or so until buried by searing lava or suffocated by choking ash--to pee.

Catch all the winners at the Bulwer-Lytton Contest's official web site.

Humbling Moments, part 349

So I'm sitting at my desk, preparing Sunday's sermon. I'm surrounded by stacks of books, all filled with profound, if sometimes ponderous, insights. It's 2:00 p.m. on a hot, sticky day and I'm having trouble staying awake. I decide to take a break and go to the gas station next door for a soda. Then it hits me: why should we preachers get upset with our people for sleeping during our sermons when we fall asleep preparing them?

I'm So, So, So Sorry!

• Detroit Tigers' record for the ten games before I praised them on this blog: 8-2


• Detroit Tigers' record for the ten games since I praised them on this blog: 3-7

And while we're at it:

• Combined winning percentage for the Houston Astros and Texas Rangers since July 19 when I made a snotty comment on my daughter's blog about there not being a world-class major-league baseball team anywhere in the state of Texas: .647


• Winning percentage of the Detroit Tigers in the same time span: .300

My sincere apologies to the Tigers and their many loyal fans, who did not ask me to apply the kiss of death to their team.

Michigan in the Summertime

Warm days, cool nights, bright sunshine. Turn off the A/C and open up the windows. Wake up just cool enough that the coffee feels s-o-o-o-o good going down. Enjoy every evening with a pleasant breeze wafting through the house. If it weren't for winter, everyone would live here!

5-Day Forecast for ZIP Code 48183

Saturday	Sunday	Monday	Tuesday	Wednesday
75° F | 56° F 24° C | 13° C	80° F | 59° F 27° C | 15° C	82° F | 61° F 28° C | 16° C	83° F | 63° F 28° C | 17° C	86° F | 64° F 30° C | 18° C
Clear	Clear	Partly Cloudy	Partly Cloudy	Partly Cloudy
Detail	Detail	Detail	Detail	Detail

Hear the Roar!

It's time for me to post about the Detroit Tigers! In spite of injuries to key players all year, they now have the best record in baseball. The three-game sweep of Minnesota was impressive. All three games won by a single run. All three in the Metrodome, which has been Dead Man's Gulch to the Tigers for years. With 32 wins on the road, we're not that anxious for them to return home!

Of course, it's a long season and we're nowhere near the end of it. Those pesky Cleveland Indians are hanging right in there, a mere two games behind. If Cleveland were in any of four other divisions, they'd be in first place. The tight pennant race between these two Lake Erie rivals has made for a riveting season.

So, thank you Tigers for all the heart and determination you shown us so far this year. Here's wishing and hoping for another shot at the fall classic!

More Maizie!

A totally gratuitous picture of my granddaughter Maizie. You can see more of her (and read hilarious commentary from a sometimes insecure but amazingly wise first-time mom) on Caren's blog.

Missed Another One

I'm not a trend setter. I'm not much of a trend follower. I'm not even a very good trend observer. One sure sign that a trend is about to die is when I finally notice it and get on board. (I bought a leisure suit once. Yep, it was two days before "leisure suit" became a universally accepted synonym for "dork.")

So the fact that I've recently noticed several new cars painted a rust orange color may not mean much, trend-wise. Therefore, let me ask a few questions:

1. Is this a trend?
2. If so, has it been around a long time and I'm just noticing it?
3. Is it a nation-wide trend, or just here in Michigan where the road salt is going to eventually turn all cars that color?
   

Oh, De Doo-Dah News!

Actual headlines from the Detroit Free Press that can be sung to the tune of "Camptown Races" (followed, of course, by "doo-dah, doo-dah").

• School board fails to vote again
• Yankees 2, Athletics 1
• Longtime movie critic dead
• Tigers trade for bullpen help
• Future nurses go to camp
• Phelps ends meet with three more wins
• Where to see red, white and boom
• Weak link in Katrina fix
• Cemetery suspect stuck
• Miller, Grilli come up short
• Chrysler's China plan a go
• Bystander dies; woman sought
  

Phishers of Men

Department of Heavenland Security
Prayer Validation Department

Dear Supplicant,

We regret to inform you that your account has been temporarily deactivated. Your prayers to the Almighty will not be acknowledged or answered until you reactivate your account using the link below. We have taken this action in response to a potential security breach. We recently learned that our arch-nemesis, B. L. Zebub, has gained unlawful access to millions of our accounts. He has been fraudulently answering our customer’s prayers, with disastrous results. In light of the potential damage, we had no choice but to suspend the prayer privileges of everyone at risk.

To reactivate your account, click the link below. Before clicking the link, make sure you have available your driver’s license, social security number, and a detailed description of your last seven sins.

www.dhs.com/prayer_validation.html

We sincerely apologize for any inconvenience this may cause. A limited number of emergency prayers are still being answered on a case-by-case basis. Accordingly, we are asking you to refrain from non-emergency prayers—lottery winnings, fair weather for picnics, the Detroit Lions, etc.—until further notice.

Sincerely,
Your Prayer Validation Department Staff

And the Winner Is....

(Drum roll, please.)

Milinda! She was the 10,000^th official visitor to Meanderings and has won the valuable prize pictured at right. Milinda is a frequent visitor and a fellow blogger. Her blog, What Was I Thinking?, is definitely worth a visit. Milinda wasn't even trying to win the prize. She was checking to see if I'd updated my link to her blog's new address (I hadn't). But, wanting to win was not one of the requirements for winning. However, upon learning that she had won, she was ecstatic. "So, what am I supposed to do with another stupid toaster?" she gushed enthusiastically. She said something about saving it for the 10,000^th visitor to her blog, except that she has too much respect for her readers (whatever that means).

While we're at it, let's give a shout out to our two runners up. Visitor number 9,999 was my daughter, Caren George. Her blog, by george, consistently has the cutest baby pictures in the world. And visitor number 10,001 was Jim "always a bridesmaid" MacKenzie, a good friend who resides in Colorado Springs, CO. His blog is I Was Just Wondering.

Thank you, dear readers, for stopping by here periodically. It's been a joy.

Forever?

The Forever Stamp: good deal or bad deal? Let's see. Since 1995, postal rates have gone up, on average, every 2.5 years. The average increase has been 5.1%. Now, let's do a little hypothetical:

You buy 2,439 forever stamps today for $1,000 (you get a penny back in change). Then you stash them away for the next 2.5 years. At that time, postal rates go up to 43¢ (a 4.9% increase). You can now mail 2,439 first class letters for your original $1,000 outlay.

Your foolish neighbor, who bought no forever stamps, must spend $1,048.77 to mail 2,439 letters at the new rate. BUT, when you bought your forever stamps, your neighbor bought a $1,000 CD with an APY of 4.76%, today's going rate. Before going to the Post Office to buy his 2,439 stamps, he stops by the bank and cashes in his CD for $1,123.28. After buying his stamps, he has $74.51 left to spend on ice cream (or whatever).

Even when you subtract the penny you got in change, your neighbor still did $74.50 better than you did.

Michigan, My Michigan

Things I like about living in Michigan:

• Spring: beautiful flowers, green grass, warm days, cool evenings.
• Summer: riding my bike on a warm evening; realizing that even though I'm 10 miles away and it's 9 p.m., I can easily make it home before dark.
• Fall: the explosion of color, brisk air that makes a sweater feel just perfect.

Things I don't like about living in Michigan:

• The other ten months.
  

But Wait, There's More!

Teaser headlines from the cover of the June issue of the Woods-n-Water News (Michigan's Premier Outdoor Publication):

• Spoons: Not Just for Pike Any More
  
• Supercharged Smallmouths

Huh?

Try a New Church With an Edge!

The last few weeks, I've taken a bit of a sabblogital (a break from blogging for a while). But a full-color junk mail postcard for a new church in our community has moved me to break the silence.

The front of the card shows a climber suspended by ropes and pitons while scaling a sheer rock wall. "Life," the caption screams, "Live it on the edge." In the lower right-hand corner is a picture of Pastor Ron and his lovely wife Pam. No offense, but Pastor Ron doesn't look like he's in any better condition for climbing that rock wall than I am.

On the back is the headline, "Try a New Church With an Edge!" And what might that entail? Well, just feel the excitement as you read the description: "At FORECAST FOR LIFE CHURCH, you'll find a 'brand new' church family, teaching a solid Bible message. You'll find a guitar, a video projector, a unique worship style, PowerPoint and DVD presentations, and sermons that deal with real life issues."

I can just see unchurched Harry and Mary frothing at the mouth to get to that church. "Hey," Harry exclaims to Mary over Sunday morning coffee, "They got PowerPoint and DVD and a git-tar. Gimme a minute to unhook the boat from the SUV. Hot dog, we're goin' to church, baby!"

Mary, fairly trembling with anticipation, responds, "It sounds so trendy, so up-to-date, so modern. And look!" she exclaims, holding out the card for Harry to see, "They're showing that cool new movie, Left Behind, on June 10--and it's FREE!"

Yeah, like that's going to happen.

One last explanation before I quit. The church is named after Pastor Ron's book, Forecast for Life (which the card says is available at Amazon.com and BarnesAndNoble.com). I haven't written a book, but maybe I could rename our church after my blog. Anyone want to come flocking to MEANDERINGS CHURCH--A New Church With an Edge?

OK, I'm a Game Show Snob

I prefer the old-style game shows.

Old-style shows required an individual to demonstrate mastery of a wide range of educationally sophisticated topics. Think Jeopardy! here.

Newer game shows let people cheat: poll the audience, phone a friend, or copy from a fifth-grader, for pity's sake!

The newest game shows--Deal or No Deal, National Bingo Night--are just guessing games. Playing them requires the brains of a hibernating slug.

I prefer the old-style game shows. So why can't I stop watching the new ones?

False Selves

I'm back at another Pastors of Excellence Retreat. Yesterday, Terry Wardle talked about the "false selves" we develop in response to our wounds. They're protective personae we put on to shield ourselves from the rejection and abandonment we fear. Terry has names for his false selves, like "Poker Face" and "Solitary Man."

Today, I sat down and began naming my false selves. I'll spare you detailed descriptions, but here are the names of some of mine: Seinfeld, Mr. Know-It-All, Karma Chameleon, Super Competent Man, Ernest Empathy, and The Avoider.

Anyone else want to take a crack at naming their false selves? Or have I completely lost you on this one?

Linked Without Comment

Made me laugh:

If Someone Wanted To Publish My Blog Entries For Money, I Wouldn't Say No

*Ahem* Hot Spots

Those crazy guys over at the Woods-n-Water News ("Michigan's Premier Outdoor Publication") are at it again! I've written before about the teaser headlines they put on the cover that just make you want to buy it so bad (see my post on 12/13/06, Corn-Crazed Ducks).

Well, the cover of the May issue is no exception. Consider this one: "Crappie Hot Spots." Immediately I'm thinking about the Hollywood walk of fame, where in places the stench of urine is sufficiently strong to distract one's attention from the hookers who are accosting passers-by. Now that's a crappie hot spot!

Actually, I already knew that crappie was a kind of fish, a fact learned by embarrassing myself in front of hundreds of people. When I was in high school in Nashville, Arkansas, I worked part-time as an announcer for radio station KBHC (pronounced Kye Bay Ayech Say), "The 500-watt Voice of Southwest Arkansas." One afternoon, I read the local fishing report over the air. There were all kinds of reports of crappie catches from across the region. When I finished, the phone began to ring.

"It's pronounced croppie, you dunderhead!" the callers nicely explained. Right then and there, I was in a crappie hot spot. It's the only crappie hot spot I've ever been in or ever care to be in. So, I passed on purchasing the May issue of the Woods-n-Water News.

Random Thoughts on a Friday Morning

• Recently remembered proverb: "Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time...and it annoys the pig."
  

• I'm fond of saying, "A successful day is one where I cross four or five items off my 'to do' list and only add seven or eight more." It occurs to me that that statement says a lot about deficiencies in my spiritual life.

• Why is it that so many things on my "to do" list are things I don't want to do? I sometimes get real whiny about that until I remember that the cross was on Jesus' "to do" list.

• Recent favorite song to listen to: She Walked Away by BarlowGirl.

• I just finished a deep and meaningful conversation with a five-year-old girl. She had lost a tooth the night before Easter. The next morning, she had an Easter basket and money under her pillow. She and I are beginning to suspect that the tooth fairy and the Easter bunny are the same person.

• I used to have a recurring nightmare where I'm in church and we're singing the song before the sermon and I realize I'm only wearing my underwear. It used to happen once every couple of months or so. But I haven't had that one in a couple of years. I wonder what that means.

• I have a Far Side daily calendar on my desk. I especially look forward to the cartoons about hell. Like one that shows a demon ushering a short, portly, tuxedo-clad man into a room full of banjo players. "This is your room, Maestro," quips the demon.

Mourning for Ministry Marriages

A Tennessee jury today found Mary Winkler guilty of voluntary manslaughter in the killing of her husband Matthew. Matthew was the minister of the church of Christ in Selmer, Tennessee. The jury of ten women and two men rejected the charges of first degree and second degree murder. In Tennessee, voluntary manslaughter suggests that the crime was committed in an irrational state. Mary claimed that Matthew had been verbally, physically, and sexually abusive.

Thirty years ago, I had a coworker who was good friends with, and had great admiration for, Matthew's grandfather. That's my closest connection to this family. I don't have a right to an opinion on the matter. But I do believe the jury did their very best to render the verdict that best fit the circumstances.

However, the Winkler case serves as a warning to all of us in ministry. Of course, their situation was extreme. But how many ministry marriages are in crisis due to neglect, workaholism, pornography, disrespect, domineering attitudes, or outright abuse? And how many minister's wives keep silent because asking for help would jeopardize her husband's career (and thus her security)? How many ministry families work hard to project the image of perfection, shielding themselves from the kind of spiritual accountability and mentoring that could be their salvation?

How many church leaders simply assume that because a man preaches a decent sermon on Sunday, his marriage must be healthy? We in ministry need to prioritize our marriages and be the first to seek help when they are threatened. And church leaders need to become a lot more proactive in holding ministers accountable to their family responsibilities.

Virginia Tech and Bath

Last night in my Bible study group, two members were talking about the Bath school disaster. I had never heard of it. They explained that in 1927, a disgruntled school board member in tiny, rural Bath, Michigan detonated hundreds of pounds of explosives that he had secretly planted under the floors of the elementary school. Forty-five people were killed; another fifty-eight were wounded. Most of the casualties were school children in grades two through six.

There's no way we could have known that Virginia Tech was less than twenty-four hours away from a tragedy of similar proportions. We tend to think that mass murder at school is a recent phenomenon that began at Columbine High. We believe it's the product of a relationship-starved and values-poor society. We fool ourselves into believing that such things could not have happened back in the good old days, when folks lived in small towns with tight social structures, where everybody knew everybody else, and where children were taught values and all adults watched out for all kids.

The Bath tragedy from eighty years ago reminds us that we've always had people among us who have are capable of unspeakable horror: whether it's Eric Harris and Dylan Kleibold , or Timothy McVeigh, or Andrew Kehoe (the Bath bomber), or the yet-to-be-named Virginia Tech murderer. My guess is that they all have one thing in common: a perception that the world had treated them so unjustly and cruelly, that their mass slaughters were justified.

Andrew Kehoe left behind a message burned into a plank of wood in a fence on his farm. It read, "Criminals are made, not born." It's an implied indictment against the grief-stricken community: "You don't like what I did, but you made me this way." I reject that. Most of us have been treated unfairly. Those who have endured severe abuse, though only a small percentage of the populace, still number in the thousands, if not millions. Nearly all of us figure out how to cope and compensate for our hurt. But a tiny, tiny minority lash out with chilling viciousness. It's not a new phenomenon. And we will see it again.

So what do we do? We join in prayer for the families of the victims, we hug our own family a little tighter, and we recognize again that this world is not our home. But we also expect to be moved by another aspect of human nature that surfaces in tragedies like this. We will hear of the heroism of ordinary people who met unthinkable horror with sacrificial courage. And we'll be reminded of the nobility of character instilled in humankind by our gracious Creator.

In Response to Your Requests

OK, it wasn't that many requests...

Oh, all right, it was zero requests...

But I know you would have requested this picture of my granddaughter Maizie if you'd known how cute she was!

IMUS t've Missed Something

The media frenzy over Don Imus's insulting remarks seems strangely out of proportion to me. Last night the NBC Nightly News devoted over ten minutes--nearly half its daily allotment--to the story. Slow news day, you say? Sure, there were no "jetliner hits building" stories to displace the Imus piece, but c'mon, folks; we are still at war and gas prices are spiraling upwards. The attention given to the Imus story was seriously over the top.

Why would I say something so jarringly politically gauche? Is it because I don't think his remarks were all that bad? Not at all. I cringe at his brand of demeaning speech and have made a personal vow that anytime those kinds of words are said in my presence, they won't go unchallenged. Or is it simply that I'm resigned to the fact that, even in these enlightened times, there is still an irreducable minimum of ignor-Imuses out there? Nope. Imus deserves to be abandoned like a South Bronx tenement by advertisers and listeners alike. Or maybe I think Imus has been unfairly singled out. That's a bit closer. I have to admit that the I-man doesn't register anywhere near Howard Stern or Tom Leykis on the Gross-O-Meter. But that's really not why I think this thing is out of balance.

Here's my theory. We have severely whittled down the SWWPUW (Stuff We Won't Put Up With) list. Most the sins that used to be cause for public censure--adultery, drunkenness, cussing, pornography, temper tantrums, rudeness, and shirking of duty--have been recast as life-style choices or at worst, adjustment problems. You just can't get a consensus on any of them any more.

So what's left on the SWWPUW list? Racism and sexism (and in most elite circles, homophobia--however that's defined). That's about it. And since Imus committed two of the sins on this truncated list (and he's a repeat offender), he got the full force of the media's outrage.

Long ago, every town square had stocks and pillories specifically for publicly shaming those who dared violate the much more extensive SWWPUW lists of the time. We don't have such barbaric devices any more, but it doesn't change the fact that the public still enjoys a good pillorying from time to time. And the folks in power enjoy dishing out said humiliation, as long as they can maintain the appearance of righteous detachment in so doing.

The whole experience is cathartic for just about everyone. You have a few people who get caught publicly expressing thoughts and attitudes that many harbor secretly. Subjecting them to public scorn helps keep the focus off the personal (and secret) sins of the rest of us. Lots of us live with the guilt and fear of exposure that are the inevitable result of our sins--even if those misdeeds were struck from the SWWPUW list decades ago. Pillorying the likes of Imus, or Michael Richards before him, provides a temporary respite from our guilt. It also allows us to celebrate the fact that we're not so stupid as to actually express our basest impulses in public.

But if anything at all is to be learned from Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter, it's that the secret sins are by far the more dangerous ones. Pillory Imus to your heart's content, O Masters of the Media. His words were indeed reprehensible. But don't be fooled. It is the arrogance, greed, lust, anger, jealousy, and selfishness in all of our hearts--sins so subtle, internal and unverifiable that they never made the SWWPUW list--that threaten to unravel the gossamer fabric we call civilization.

From Gratitude to Generosity

Just a quick little truism: gratitude gives birth to joy, and joy gives rise to generosity. And gratitude is a decision. But it's more than a single decision. It's a discipline, in the sense that training for an athletic event is a discipline. It is a single-minded focus that governs many other decisions. You don't become a grateful person by accident. It's the result of hundreds of seemingly inconsequential decisions to choose thankfulness over griping, complaining and bitterness. But the fruit of those decisions is really sweet: a rich source of joy within and a spirit of generosity that blesses others.

Yet Another Reason Why I Don't Listen to Country Music

Scanning the dial this morning on the way to work. Stumbled across these romantic lines:

I 'd like to see you out in the moonlight.
I'd like to kiss you way back in the sticks.
I'd like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
And I'd like to check you for ticks.

--Brad Paisley
Ticks

Bill Knapp's Keeps Me Up At Night

Bill Knapp’s Restaurants were a Michigan institution. Most of them were built exactly alike, so they were instantly recognizable. You could walk into a Bill Knapp’s anywhere in the state and instantly feel at home. The food was good and the menu changed seldom, if ever. And they had a fiercely loyal clientele.

But Bill Knapp’s paid a terrible price for their decades of keeping everything the same. Their loyal customers got older. The college students who worked at our local outlet called it the old folks’ home. Cheryl and I began noticing that there were few customers at Knapp’s younger than we (and we ain’t no spring chickens). The chain’s aging demographic must have caught the attention of the folks at corporate as well. They evidently realized that unless they recruited younger diners, their restaurants would die along with their customers.

So, they changed. They tried to attract young families. They installed video games and other activities for the younger set. They dropped some old favorites from the menu and updated the fare. They started an advertising blitz with a new slogan: “That was then; this is WOW!” It didn’t work. No amount of décor and advertising could erase the widespread impression that Knapp’s was “your grandmother’s restaurant.”

Even worse, the changes at Knapp’s alienated their traditional clientele. The older folks didn’t like the new décor, menu, or games. Bill Knapp’s is no more. Out of business. Bankrupt. Two miles from our church building sits a familiar-looking building, deserted for years, a mute reminder to past glory. Meanwhile, newer restaurants nearby flourish.

So why does this keep me awake at night? A recent article in the Christian Chronicle said that Churches of Christ became a “franchise church” during the ‘50s, ‘60s, and ‘70s: you could walk into a Church of Christ anywhere in America and feel right at home. The order of worship was almost identical. The prayers used familiar phraseology. The sermons were drawn from a select group of “our” topics. Many of our buildings looked alike. And the clientele was fiercely loyal.

But Churches of Christ are getting older, dramatically so. John Ellas, the leading church growth guru among us, has thoroughly documented the shift. It’s a rare Church of Christ that’s attracting significant numbers of previously-unchurched twenty-somethings. In metropolitan Detroit, I can name maybe one—maybe. What does this mean for our brotherhood, and specifically for my congregation? The solution seems obvious: we need to reach young families. But, will we wind up pulling a Bill Knapp’s—alienating our traditional support base while at the same time failing to reach significant numbers of younger families?

That’s what keeps me up at night. In the Trenton church, we’ve made some changes to try to reach a younger crowd. And we’ve lost several of our older members who liked it just fine before we started “tinkering” with things. And yet, within the last two weeks, two more twenty-somethings who grew up at Trenton have announced that they will be attending a different church (not a Church of Christ). Both have significant others who do not share our heritage, and who find us too wedded to unvarying practice, too mired in issues that make no sense to them. To them, we are “your grandmother’s church.”

But let me not end on such a depressing note. There is a difference between the church and Bill Knapp’s. Knapp’s had a marketing department. The church has the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit alone can bring new life. My guess is that the Holy Spirit has a future in mind for us that none of us can quite envision yet. I would be surprised if his future involves us clinging desperately to all the old ways for fear of losing even more longtime members. But I also doubt that he wants to see us caught up in a bunch of gee-whiz, “that was then, this is WOW” church marketing schemes. My hope is that we will pray for his guidance, and then be humbly open to whatever direction he leads. And we need to be courageous enough to put everything on the table for him to either use or jettison: physical facilities, ministry staff, our pet programs—everything. If we can do that, trusting him fully, then we will have a future.

On Politics

I’m just not much of a believer in using the political process to bring about God’s will. Yes, I believe governments are ordained by God. And yes, I believe that God often works through governments to accomplish His will. And yes, I vote my conscience in every election and urge others to do likewise. But I don’t see a lot of good that has come from Christians organizing as a political action group.

Specifically, I think the Republican Party has sold the Christian Right a bill of goods. And I believe the too-close alliance between them has closed many doors to the gospel, while being ineffective in bringing about a more moral society. Here’s how it appears to me. The Republicans observed that evangelical Christians generally vote for pro-life, anti-gay candidates. So, they incorporated those issues into their platform and marketed themselves to us as God’s Own Party (a slightly different take on the initials GOP), as opposed to the “godless Democrats.” Unfortunately, this obscures two realities.

First, there are items on the conservative agenda that are inconsequential from a spiritual standpoint, but some Christians nonetheless treat them as biblical issues. I heard a Christian talk show host recently attack the idea of global warming. He strongly implied that anyone who believed in global warming was a secular humanist, brainwashed by the godless demagogues of the left. Now I admit I haven’t examined the issue closely. I don’t know whether Al Gore is a prophet or a fool. But if anything, biblical teaching leads me to suspect that global warming might be for real. After all, Paul taught in Romans that Creation itself suffers because of humankind’s sin.

The second reality is that, besides abortion and homosexuality, there are plenty of other moral issues with political implications. And I’m with the Democrats on some of them. Social justice and economic justice come to mind. Caring for our environment as stewards of Creation is another.

And while I’m venting here, let me say that the GOP seems willing to fulfill only enough of their promises to keep the Christian Right in their fold. For most of my adult life, I’ve been told that if we elect Republican presidents, they will appoint enough Supreme Court justices to overturn Roe v. Wade. And you know how disappointing the results have been on that. The hard line rhetoric about restoring morality to America flies fast and furious during elections. But afterwards, there’s little will to actually enact legislation on the issues they trumpeted in order to get elected.

I have a sneaking suspicion that genuine disciples of Jesus will either be apolitical, or will hold such an eclectic mix of political views that neither major party would be anxious to claim them.

Is It Just Me...

...or is the Academy totally wacko? I'll begin by saying that I am not a film aficionado. I see maybe four movies a year. I went to sleep last night before the major Oscars were presented. It's 10:00 the night after and I still don't know who won best picture, best actor, best actress, etc. And that doesn't bother me.

But...I did see the award for best documentary. Just going by the brief clips that were shown, Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth was conspicuously amateurish. He looked like "Mr. Policeman" in a preachy sixth grade safety movie. So how did that film win the Oscar?

Body Wars

She first gained recognition for her body. Light reflected by that body, captured by a lens and focused on a strip of photographic film rendered an image that was then converted into millions of tiny multicolored ink droplets on the glossy pages of a magazine. Millions of men looked at the resulting likeness of her and said, "I want her body." Women looked at her pictures and wished they could have a body like hers.

She lived in a society that idolizes bodily beauty, and she parlayed that idolatry into glamor, wealth and notoriety. She became "Playmate of the Month, May, 1992," making her a member of the elite pantheon of her body-worshipping world. That led to a sham of a marriage to an aged millionaire and the expectation that his riches would soon be hers.

Worship quickly turned to ridicule as her body ballooned to, shall we say, more generous proportions. Every late-night television comic had a field day making fun of her. Then, she starved her body back to a semblance of her former self. But few of her worshipers returned. She was yesterday's hot topic. Yes, a diet food company signed her up as a spokesperson, and the press took fleeting notice of her weight loss. But still she was more a joke than a goddess. She was a curiosity, relegated to the carnival side show while newer, more intriguing bodies took center stage. We now know that she kept her body going with chemical assistance, and that her body suffered greatly for it.

And now, Anna Nicole Smith is dead. And what of value is left for family and frinds to fight over? Her body!

Smart Cars

My in-laws are staying with us temporarily. While they're here, I sometimes drive their Cadillac, which is a very smart car. My car, a '93 Olds Cutlass, is by contrast as dumb as a sock full of chick peas. There are two keys to the Caddy, and it knows which one you have inserted. When I use my father-in-law's key, the car adjusts the seats and mirrors for him. He's a big guy, so I have to readjust the seat so I can reach the pedals. On the other hand, when I use my mother-in-law's key, I immediately feel like I'm in the trash compacter scene from Star Wars. It doesn't matter what controls you push, that seat is going to keep inching forward until it crushes you against the steering wheel. Only then will it return control to you so you can give yourself a little breathing space.

Does anyone else have a car that's too smart for its own good? Do you have any mechanical or electronic device that's "smart" in a dumb sort of way? Share some stories!

Roger and Me

I'm at Winterfest, a gathering of 12,000 teens and adult sponsors from churches of Christ across the country. In this morning's session, Jeff Walling interviewed Roger Crouch, a Shuttle astronaut. Like many kids of his generation, Roger wanted to be a fighter pilot, then an astronaut. But he was disqualified from both because he was colorblind. Undeterred, he kept knocking at NASA's door for seventeen years before he was finally accepted as a mission specialist--responsible for managing zero-gravity science experiements on board. Roger's first space flight came at the age of fifty-six. Although his two Shuttle missions were a decade ago, he kept the kids' attention with his folksy humor and unassuming style. Roger's comment on his first mission, which was cut short by a fuel cell malfunction (the same problem that doomed Apollo 13): "We lost one of our three fuel cells. If you should happen to lose another one, they make a movie about your life, so we decided to come on home." On the solid-rocket boosters that launch the Shuttle into orbit: "You just pray that the rocket scientists knew which way was up that day, because those things are going to take you somewhere real quick until they burn out."

I felt an immediate kinship with Roger, because I too had ambitions of being a fighter pilot and astronaut, and I too am colorblind. (And, not that it counts greatly in the coincidence department, I am currently fifty-six.) Roger achieved his dream of flight by pursuing a Ph.D. in science and working on projects in which NASA was interested. I achieved my dreams in a much more mundane way when I earned my private pilot certificate ten years ago.

Roger Crouch is a humble man with a servant spirit. He voluntarily stayed around after his presentation for an hour or so to sign autographs and to have his picture taken with a long line of space-travel junkies like me. He's a true American hero and a genuine follower of Jesus.

You're Welcome, Uh-Huh

WARNING! GEEZER ALERT! The following rant was written by a geezer who pines for the good old days when things were done right. If you are under the age of 35 and/or have the misguided notion that the good old days were just days and probably not all that good, read no further.

Otherwise...

Whatever happened to the words, "you're welcome"? I still say "thank you." But something has happened to the polite response, "you're welcome." It's been replaced with "uh-huh." That's if you're lucky. If not, your thanks will be met with a barely audible "mm-hmm" or a dismissive "yep." Yep?!! What's up with that?

You don't believe me? Go through a day saying "thank you" to as many people as possible. Then tell me how many "you're welcomes" you get in return. They're as scarce as hen's teeth, I tell you!

For those of you still reading, I thank you listening to my petty little tirade.

The Vine

The assignment was simple: go for a walk outside; ask God to reveal a lie about yourself that you have believed; then find a stick that is symbolic of that lie. The exercise was part of a Pastors of Excellence retreat in Ashland, Ohio.

Dutifully, I ventured into the great frozen outdoors to find my stick. But my heart wasn't in it. This was the third such exercise of the day. Each one involved asking God to reveal something and then listening for his response. If you share my background in the churches of Christ, you know that listening for God's voice "separate and apart" from studying the Bible is not one of my strong suits. I had put my heart into the exercises, but not much was happening and I was exhasted. All I wanted was to find a stupid stick and get back inside where it was warm.

"God," I prayed, without much conviction, "You and I both know lots of lies that I've believed about myself. Just pick one." And he did. A thought formed in my mind: "I believe that I have to receive positive reactions from other people in order to be loved." In other words, I'm a people pleaser. My identity as a worthwhile person is wrapped up in my ability to make others like me. Now this was no news flash to me; I've long been aware of this people-pleasing pathology. But God seemed to be saying that now was his chosen moment to address this particular lie.

"Fine," I thought, "but what kind of stick symbolizes that, and where am I going to find it?" Just then, I passed a tree. Like all trees in Ohio in January, it had no leaves. But growing up the side of the trunk was a vine, probably some kind of ivy. The vine sported bright green, heart-shaped leaves. With considerable effort, I pulled loose a foot-long section and broke it off. "This will do," I thought. At my people-pleasing worst, I felt I had to latch onto others and conform myself to their shape in order to be worthwhile. Right down to the heart-shaped leaves, the vine perfectly symbolized my lie about clinging to others in order to feel loved. Or so I thought.

Then I looked again. The green hearts on the vine were the only leaves to be found in the drab winter landscape. If anything, the vine was a symbol of life in all its resilient vitality. Then God spoke the truth to me, one reminiscent of my Bible reading from the day before. (It was Jesus' teaching about the vine and the branches in John 15.) "The vine doesn't derive life from the tree," I thought. "It receives life from the root. But it does need the support of the tree."

The little vine didn't illustrate a lie at all; it taught God's truth. The lie I had believed was a reversal of the vine's message. My life does not derive from the people to whom I tend to cling. My life comes from the root--my relationship with Jesus. I do need other people around me for support. When I draw life from Jesus and receive loving support from others, I flourish. But when I reverse the order--trying to draw life from other people while seeking a little support from Jesus--I live by a lie, a lie that can yield only barenness.

I'm keeping the vine. I need it to remind me that while I need the support of other people, real life only comes from being rooted in Jesus Christ.

The Penny Must Die!

A recent tour of the United States Mint in Denver served to harden a conviction I've long held: the penny should be abolished. The Mint makes more pennies each year than all other coins combined! It costs 1.23 cents to make a penny. Then they are sold to banks for, um, one cent each. We make almost 8 billion of them a year, representing an $18 million burden on the taxpayer. Two-thirds of each year's production winds up in mayonnaisse jars, coffee cans, or the trash. Many others are tossed into "Give a Penny/Take a Penny" cups at checkout counters. They are no longer taken seriously as a medium of exchange. When asked why the Mint continues to produce pennies, our tour guide answered, "Congress has mandated it." I think it's time we un-mandated it. So, what do you think? A nickel for your thoughts...

Lullabies

My Mom sang Rock-a-bye baby to us, but I was always troubled by the bough breaking and the cradle falling with the baby in it. So I never sang that one very much to our babies. Why unnecessarily traumatize them if you can avoid it?

When my grandfather walked the floor with fussy babies, he sang a song from his childhood about a heroic railroad engineer, Casey Jones. Although he remembered the tune, he had evidently forgotten most of the words, so he replaced them with nonsense syllables. So his lullaby went thus:

Casey Jones, badoodle doodle doodle.
Casey Jones, badoodle doodle doo.
Casey Jones, badoodle doodle doodle.
And a hi-de-hiddle and a hi-de-ho.

So what difference do babies know anyway? (The real lyrics are here.) When my children were babies, I sang Casey Jones to them, using my grandfather's lyrics, of course. With my daughter, I interspersed a song that I composed:

Daddy's precious girl, Daddy's precious girl,
Daddy's precious girl, yes her is.
Daddy's precious girl, Daddy's precious girl,
Daddy's precious girl her is, be-dooba-de-boop.

My wife hated it, because she's a school teacher and the song is grammatically incorrect. (My daughter has a degree in journalism and is a professional copywriter who uses flawless grammar, so I don't suppose my lullaby scarred her too badly).

When my granddaughter Maizie was born, I tried singing Casey Jones to her, but it just didn't sound right. And morphing Daddy's Precious Girl to Papa's Precious Girl didn't feel right either. So I composed a new song for Maizie:

Papa loves his baby girl friend.
Papa loves his baby girl.
He's plum crazy about his Maizie,
'Cause she's the cutest one in all the world.
Papa loves his baby girl friend.
Papa loves his baby girl.
There could never be another one like she,
Papa loves his Maizie girl!

Bad grammar seems to be a theme with my lullabies. My daughter likes this one, except after I've sung it 20+ times in a row. Maizie loves it--even when repeated ad nauseum--except for the one time I sang it for the video camera. She was screaming her head off by the time I reached the end of the song.

What about you? What songs do you sing to your little ones? What songs were sung to you? Have you made up any lullabies? If you have, would you share the words with us?

The Lord's Supper

Francisco is a brother in the Lord who lives in Recife, Brazil.¹ We met him on a mission trip several years ago. He was working as a custodian for the downtown church in Recife. Despite meager pay and an hour-long daily commute on hot, overcrowded buses, it was obvious that Francisco loved his job. And it was clear that he loved his job because he loved God and God's people.

Francisco went out of his way to welcome us and to attend to our needs. We were pretty naïve about the danger of theft (even in a church building), so when Chico (a common Brazilian nickname for "Francisco") saw an unattended bag, camera, or even a Bible, he would lock it away in a closet. Whenever we couldn't find our stuff, we would call out, "Chico, chave!" (chave is Portuguese for "key") and he would come running to retrieve it for us. Chico had learned a little English and he loved practicing it on us. Mostly, he just loved being around us. And we loved him back.

One Wednesday evening, our mission team visited the congregation nearest to Chico's house. He insisted that we come to his house after Bible class. We were worn out and must have shown some hesitation, but Chico insisted. "I live very close; you can walk there," he urged. "Just come for a few minutes." We couldn't say no, so off we went, following Chico down narrow, dimly lit, dusty streets.

It turns out that Chico's definition of "close" was somewhat different than ours. My guess is that we walked nearly a mile. Upon arriving at Chico's house, we were faced with a reality we had chosen to ignore: Chico was poor! Even by Brazilian standards, he lived in poverty. His apartment was just a couple of rooms with bare walls and naked light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. What little furniture he had was rickety and threadbare. But he beamed with pride as fifteen of us crowded into his sparse flat.

Chico squeezed into his tiny kitchen, past the mass of standing-room-only Americans. There, he opened a small 1950s-vintage refrigerator. He pulled out some small rolls, each about half the length of a hot dog bun, and began placing a half a slice of American cheese on each. He served us the cheese sandwiches along with small paper cups of orange soda. Mike Pruitt, our missionary in Recife, told us that Chico had been saving money for weeks in order to pay for this extravagance. When all the sandwiches and soda had been distributed, Chico got our attention and said, "This is the happiest day of my life, because today my brothers and sisters from America have come to my house."

When I was growing up, we studied hard to understand the requirements for the Lord's Supper. Only "authorized" elements were allowed. We argued that since Jesus, by his example, authorized unleavened bread and fruit of the vine, it would be sinful to substitute hamburgers and Coke at the Lord's table. We further argued that the first day of the week was the only day on which we had divine authority for partaking of the Supper.

But on that Wednesday night in Brazil, I realized how thoroughly we had dissected the form while missing the function of the Lord's Supper. For on that night, Chico's sacrificial provision of cheese sandwiches and orange soda clearly reflected Christ's sacrifice for us. And it was there, in Chico's tiny apartment that we all, as one Body, truly ate the Lord's Supper.
____________________
¹ I recently told this story in impromptu fashion at our church's Christmas Eve service. In that telling, a faulty memory caused me to identify Francisco as living in Honduras instead of Brazil. I've been to Honduras on mission trips also, and had some wonderful experiences with brothers named Francisco in both places. For those who heard me Christmas Eve, my apologies for the mistake.