Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Intuition
Living in California leaves us a continent away from family, particularly my mom and my mother-in-law, neither of whom is in the best of health. Typically I call mom a couple of times a week just to talk (listen!) and see how she's doing. We enjoy those phone visits and she looks forward to the call and with free long distance, we often "visit" for well over an hour. Janice almost always calls her mother on Saturdays ... same reason but Nana doesn't talk long on the phone since her strokes. Makes her a bit nervous.
This past week was one of those weeks I had several funerals to attend to, a very busy weekend w/ praise band rehearsal and a full day on Sunday. I simply never had a moment to give mom a call, but something kept telling me I should. It's so easy to ignore that something thinking I can always take care of it later. When I have more time. I doubt I'm the only one who does that.
Monday, we were out of town all day. Hiking in the mountains of San Diego county. Tuesday was Josh's day off so we planned a day of family fun, i.e., roller blading on the beach. Well, some people call that fun. (See yesterday's blog!)
Today I had to work a funeral for the mortuary that uses me part-time. I started to call mom this morning but knew I'd have to cut her short and decided I'd call her first thing after the funeral. About the time I was putting on my suit coat to leave for the mortuary, my sister called to say she was enroute to the hospital with mom. She'd fallen on Saturday and managed to get across the house and into her bed where she stayed four days. Four days without food. Four days of incredible pain. Four days completely alone.
She was admitted to the hospital with three broken ribs and some respiratory problems.
Some day I may learn not to ignore intuition. I believe it has far more to do with the Holy Spirit trying to get my attention than it does just some mental activity in this rapidly decaying brain of mine!
And once again, it's a day like today that makes me wish I didn't live 3,000 miles away.
This past week was one of those weeks I had several funerals to attend to, a very busy weekend w/ praise band rehearsal and a full day on Sunday. I simply never had a moment to give mom a call, but something kept telling me I should. It's so easy to ignore that something thinking I can always take care of it later. When I have more time. I doubt I'm the only one who does that.
Monday, we were out of town all day. Hiking in the mountains of San Diego county. Tuesday was Josh's day off so we planned a day of family fun, i.e., roller blading on the beach. Well, some people call that fun. (See yesterday's blog!)
Today I had to work a funeral for the mortuary that uses me part-time. I started to call mom this morning but knew I'd have to cut her short and decided I'd call her first thing after the funeral. About the time I was putting on my suit coat to leave for the mortuary, my sister called to say she was enroute to the hospital with mom. She'd fallen on Saturday and managed to get across the house and into her bed where she stayed four days. Four days without food. Four days of incredible pain. Four days completely alone.
She was admitted to the hospital with three broken ribs and some respiratory problems.
Some day I may learn not to ignore intuition. I believe it has far more to do with the Holy Spirit trying to get my attention than it does just some mental activity in this rapidly decaying brain of mine!
And once again, it's a day like today that makes me wish I didn't live 3,000 miles away.
Blading the Beach
My wife and I are 52 years old ... not in the best physical shape (but only because we don't eat well and don't exercise regularly and don't subscribe to other foundations of a healthy lifestyle) ... and probably shouldn't be roller blading. But we did. At the beach. In full view of the public. It's a bit embarrassing to have people (some even older) fly past you looking as if they were born with wheels instead of toes. Their movements are fluid and flawless.
My movements? ... Did you ever see the Clint Eastwood movie, Every Which Way But Loose? Do you remember his orangutan sidekick, Clyde? I resembled Clyde a lot on the beach today. Arms flailing helplessly in all directions as I attempted to keep my balance. It was not a pretty sight (and certainly a complete loss of cool on my part) but, apparently, an incredibly funny one for my children. I guess there's something to be said for providing comedic memories for the kids.
We bladed for maybe just over a half mile one way, which is nothing to brag about, but we were going for quality over quantity and achieved neither! Janice had a spill on the way out. Coming back we both took a spill about the same place. As I said, it wasn't pretty, but if Jan's first fall provided some comedy for the kids, our tandem fall provided a knee-slapping belly laugh for them!
Fortunately the only injury was a bruised ego for myself and a raspberry on Janice's left knee. In spite of injury, this was a dream come true for her and she can't wait to get home from her trip to Alabama so we can do it again! Josh and Jessica can't wait either, but for a different reason. There's no way to improve without practice so I'm sure I'll be blogging about this again in about two weeks. Until then, I'm sticking to walking and bicycling. At least I don't look completely un-cool.
My movements? ... Did you ever see the Clint Eastwood movie, Every Which Way But Loose? Do you remember his orangutan sidekick, Clyde? I resembled Clyde a lot on the beach today. Arms flailing helplessly in all directions as I attempted to keep my balance. It was not a pretty sight (and certainly a complete loss of cool on my part) but, apparently, an incredibly funny one for my children. I guess there's something to be said for providing comedic memories for the kids.
We bladed for maybe just over a half mile one way, which is nothing to brag about, but we were going for quality over quantity and achieved neither! Janice had a spill on the way out. Coming back we both took a spill about the same place. As I said, it wasn't pretty, but if Jan's first fall provided some comedy for the kids, our tandem fall provided a knee-slapping belly laugh for them!
Fortunately the only injury was a bruised ego for myself and a raspberry on Janice's left knee. In spite of injury, this was a dream come true for her and she can't wait to get home from her trip to Alabama so we can do it again! Josh and Jessica can't wait either, but for a different reason. There's no way to improve without practice so I'm sure I'll be blogging about this again in about two weeks. Until then, I'm sticking to walking and bicycling. At least I don't look completely un-cool.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
A Mountain Top Experience
I'm a bit later getting this blog out because my legs didn't want to cooperate with my mind this morning. Several weeks ago a friend, David, asked if we would be interested in going on a mountain hike with him and his wife, Linda. I asked Jan and she was interested. They picked us up yesterday morning at 6:30, we drove about 3 hours to San Diego County where we spent the next four hours making our way up a mountain trail to the granite top of a mountain (still don't know where we were nor the name of the mountain) that gave a gorgeous panoramic view of some of God's wonderful handiwork! Almost 6,000 feet above sea level. Had there been less clouds, we could have seen the ocean. We stayed there for about 15 minutes but I could have taken in the view for the rest of the day.
From the parking lot to the mountain top was a two-mile hike with a 1,000 foot elevation. We made the trip up in about 2 hours, stopping often to drink water, enjoy some shade, or just catch our breath. The other three were fascinated by the flowers ... I was the only sane one keeping a sharp eye out for the cougar we never saw. Remembering the cougar attacks recently that took the life of a biker and almost took the life of a woman in Orange County, I was not taking lightly the signs at the trail head warning us that we were now in cougar country. About the only threat we faced all day were the millions of bees.
The trip down was a bit faster, but not by much. The drive home seemed to take forever and I collapsed in my bed last night about 8:30 and had a wonderful night's sleep. Almost as wonderful as the sight from atop the mountain was the fellowship with a brother and sister in the Lord. That, too, is a part of God's handiwork.
My wife and kids want to go roller-blading down at the beach today. I agreed! Can't help but wonder ... do I have a death wish?
From the parking lot to the mountain top was a two-mile hike with a 1,000 foot elevation. We made the trip up in about 2 hours, stopping often to drink water, enjoy some shade, or just catch our breath. The other three were fascinated by the flowers ... I was the only sane one keeping a sharp eye out for the cougar we never saw. Remembering the cougar attacks recently that took the life of a biker and almost took the life of a woman in Orange County, I was not taking lightly the signs at the trail head warning us that we were now in cougar country. About the only threat we faced all day were the millions of bees.
The trip down was a bit faster, but not by much. The drive home seemed to take forever and I collapsed in my bed last night about 8:30 and had a wonderful night's sleep. Almost as wonderful as the sight from atop the mountain was the fellowship with a brother and sister in the Lord. That, too, is a part of God's handiwork.
My wife and kids want to go roller-blading down at the beach today. I agreed! Can't help but wonder ... do I have a death wish?
Sunday, June 26, 2005
A Man of Faith....
Because several friends who are not bloggers want to respond to my posts, I'm opening this up for anyone to respond and will keep it that way until it becomes abusive. Or people disagree with what I say, heaven forbid!
Sometimes I amaze even myself at the profound depth of my faith...lessness! For many years, our church has led a mission team to San Felipe, Mexico to build a house for either an individual or a family there. Each trip was amazing in its own rights. We've not gone for a while and I was feeling a prompting from the Holy Spirit to be involved again in some type of mission work. My friend, Randy, goes down to Ensenada each year and builds houses there so I asked if there was (were??) a possibility we could get a group together from Long Beach and go down with his team. He immediately gave an enthusiastic "Yes!"
So I got my team together ... about 17 of us, not everyone planning to stay the entire 10 days, but enough to contribute to the mission. As time drew nearer, those I knew would go began to tell me they could not make the trip now. Thinking we were now down to only about 3 of us staying the entire time, I was becoming quite discouraged and made an appeal Sunday to our church family for other team members. Not only for team members to make the trip, but for financial support to help Randy's church pay for the building materials.
Sunday night we had our monthly Celebration! (worship w/ our praise band) and a fund raising dinner for the trip. Typically we have about 100 people come to our Celebration!s. Because it's summer and so many of our people are already traveling, we had less than 50. Wasn't looking good. Before the evening was done, I had three other volunteers for the full trip as well as a couple of the part-timers committing to the full trip! One of our Senior members said she was willing to go but didn't know what she could possibly do. I told her the two of us could sit in the shade and sip on ice water while watching Randy work! We think that's a workable plan. I'm sure Randy will go along with it as well.
As for raising the $1,500 we wanted to raise ... didn't look good with such a slim crowd. But people gave cash. Checks. One zip-lock bag filled with change. Three people gave money this morning. When my son added it all up, we had $1,390 of our goal! And we've got another couple of Sundays to ask!
God does things like this all the time. If I'd only learn to trust completely. It's a process and I'm slowly arriving! We had a couple from my home state of Alabama visit this morning. Very nice people. I just knew our "progressive" worship would not appeal to them. Plus, we had the whole praise band equipment set up in the fellowship hall ... keyboards, amps, drums, etc. When that didn't turn them away, I knew they were different from most folks I know back home. On their way out after worship they told me, "Greg, what a blessing to be here today!" Then the wife added, "Isn't God so good?!" Yes, He is! So very good!
Sometimes I amaze even myself at the profound depth of my faith...lessness! For many years, our church has led a mission team to San Felipe, Mexico to build a house for either an individual or a family there. Each trip was amazing in its own rights. We've not gone for a while and I was feeling a prompting from the Holy Spirit to be involved again in some type of mission work. My friend, Randy, goes down to Ensenada each year and builds houses there so I asked if there was (were??) a possibility we could get a group together from Long Beach and go down with his team. He immediately gave an enthusiastic "Yes!"
So I got my team together ... about 17 of us, not everyone planning to stay the entire 10 days, but enough to contribute to the mission. As time drew nearer, those I knew would go began to tell me they could not make the trip now. Thinking we were now down to only about 3 of us staying the entire time, I was becoming quite discouraged and made an appeal Sunday to our church family for other team members. Not only for team members to make the trip, but for financial support to help Randy's church pay for the building materials.
Sunday night we had our monthly Celebration! (worship w/ our praise band) and a fund raising dinner for the trip. Typically we have about 100 people come to our Celebration!s. Because it's summer and so many of our people are already traveling, we had less than 50. Wasn't looking good. Before the evening was done, I had three other volunteers for the full trip as well as a couple of the part-timers committing to the full trip! One of our Senior members said she was willing to go but didn't know what she could possibly do. I told her the two of us could sit in the shade and sip on ice water while watching Randy work! We think that's a workable plan. I'm sure Randy will go along with it as well.
As for raising the $1,500 we wanted to raise ... didn't look good with such a slim crowd. But people gave cash. Checks. One zip-lock bag filled with change. Three people gave money this morning. When my son added it all up, we had $1,390 of our goal! And we've got another couple of Sundays to ask!
God does things like this all the time. If I'd only learn to trust completely. It's a process and I'm slowly arriving! We had a couple from my home state of Alabama visit this morning. Very nice people. I just knew our "progressive" worship would not appeal to them. Plus, we had the whole praise band equipment set up in the fellowship hall ... keyboards, amps, drums, etc. When that didn't turn them away, I knew they were different from most folks I know back home. On their way out after worship they told me, "Greg, what a blessing to be here today!" Then the wife added, "Isn't God so good?!" Yes, He is! So very good!
Thursday, June 23, 2005
A Good Report
Cancer is an unwelcomed guest in our family but all to often found among us. My grandfather died of lung cancer. My father died of multiple myeloma (sp?). My uncle died of lung cancer that metastasized throughout his body. My aunt took her life because of brain cancer. The list goes on and on.
So when my wife recently told me I needed to go and have a place on my back checked out, I wasted no time making the call. Of course, with HMO's, you can't just make a call and then go see your doctor. You have to call every morning at 7 sharp to see if there is an opening that day. When you finally get that allusive opening in some doctor's schedule, you re-arrange your schedule (easy for me, I'm a preacher) and go see the person who will, in turn, allow you to see the person you've needed to see all along. I think this is thought of by the medical profession as some type of improvement in health care.
So I saw doctor number one a couple of weeks ago and he told me he didn't think it was pre-cancerous, but "just to be safe" (interpreted, "Why are you seeing me about this? I'm not a dermatologist! But we are making huge improvements in the system!") he gave me a referral to dermatology. Step two of the process is to wait until people in dermatology call and tell you they have an opening. They called about a week later.
I had an 11am appointment on Thursday. Got there about 10:40, sat down in "Module 8" (formerly known as a "waiting room") and read about three sentences in my novel when my name was called. Usually that means you are then taken to an inner room where they tell you the doctor will see you shortly. Interpreted: "You have time to rebuild a car engine before anyone else will step foot in this room, but go ahead, undress and enjoy the air conditioning!"
I was obedient ... took my shirt off and started to open my novel when the doctor walked in. Friendly guy. A little older than myself. Looked at the three places in question, took a canister filled with liquid something and started spraying the questionable areas, all the while explaining to me that they are definitely not pre-cancerous and this will take care of the problem. I think he's a bit sadistic, but I could be wrong. I just know I'd rather suck on dry ice or stick my tongue to a frozen piece of metal than have that stuff sprayed on me again!
But he assures me when the skin falls off the treated areas in about three weeks, I'll be as good as a 52-year-old geezer can expect to be. That's what I was wanting to hear! I did ask about a place on my left ring finger that I've thought was a wart all these years. Can't remove my ring because of it and have treated it with every OTC product out there. He looked at it and said, "That has depth to it, you'll need to have surgery to remove that." He then asked if I wanted to be referred to a hand surgeon. I guess there's really no reason to remove my wedding band so I'll wait on that one. Maybe by then they will have greatly improved the system!
So when my wife recently told me I needed to go and have a place on my back checked out, I wasted no time making the call. Of course, with HMO's, you can't just make a call and then go see your doctor. You have to call every morning at 7 sharp to see if there is an opening that day. When you finally get that allusive opening in some doctor's schedule, you re-arrange your schedule (easy for me, I'm a preacher) and go see the person who will, in turn, allow you to see the person you've needed to see all along. I think this is thought of by the medical profession as some type of improvement in health care.
So I saw doctor number one a couple of weeks ago and he told me he didn't think it was pre-cancerous, but "just to be safe" (interpreted, "Why are you seeing me about this? I'm not a dermatologist! But we are making huge improvements in the system!") he gave me a referral to dermatology. Step two of the process is to wait until people in dermatology call and tell you they have an opening. They called about a week later.
I had an 11am appointment on Thursday. Got there about 10:40, sat down in "Module 8" (formerly known as a "waiting room") and read about three sentences in my novel when my name was called. Usually that means you are then taken to an inner room where they tell you the doctor will see you shortly. Interpreted: "You have time to rebuild a car engine before anyone else will step foot in this room, but go ahead, undress and enjoy the air conditioning!"
I was obedient ... took my shirt off and started to open my novel when the doctor walked in. Friendly guy. A little older than myself. Looked at the three places in question, took a canister filled with liquid something and started spraying the questionable areas, all the while explaining to me that they are definitely not pre-cancerous and this will take care of the problem. I think he's a bit sadistic, but I could be wrong. I just know I'd rather suck on dry ice or stick my tongue to a frozen piece of metal than have that stuff sprayed on me again!
But he assures me when the skin falls off the treated areas in about three weeks, I'll be as good as a 52-year-old geezer can expect to be. That's what I was wanting to hear! I did ask about a place on my left ring finger that I've thought was a wart all these years. Can't remove my ring because of it and have treated it with every OTC product out there. He looked at it and said, "That has depth to it, you'll need to have surgery to remove that." He then asked if I wanted to be referred to a hand surgeon. I guess there's really no reason to remove my wedding band so I'll wait on that one. Maybe by then they will have greatly improved the system!
Are We Dying?
After you read this, you may wonder why or how I ever entered ministry and what keeps me there? I have asked those questions many times, but am finally convinced that through a strange series of events God actually did call me to the ministry. I still struggle, though, with the role, the expectations placed on me, those I place on others, and the future of who we are in the kingdom. So either humor me or just bear with me as I share some things. If for no other reason, it helps to just process the thoughts in written form. Who knows, maybe you feel the same tension?!
Before I share my thoughts let me preface what I'll say with a bit of my religious bio.
_____________________________________________________
I am a generational member of churches of Christ, both maternally and paternally. My maternal grandfather was an excellent bible teacher, song leader, and church planter. My maternal grandmother continues to have a huge impact on me spiritually, though she's been "with the Lord" for over 30 years. She was one of those who got up every morning about 4am and sat at her kitchen table for three hours studying her Bible. You didn't want to lightly enter a bible discussion with her. She was a deep thinker and excellent student of Scripture.
Educated in church of Christ schools from 4th grade: Mt. Dora Christian Home and Bible School. Alabama Christian Junior High. Mars Hill Bible School. David Lipscomb College (now a university) w/ minor in Bible. Harding Graduate School of Religion ... the best graduate school, in my opinion, in our brotherhood.
In-laws spent their lives serving within the churches of Christ both as Christian school teachers and ministry. My father-in-law preached for over 50 years. Graduate of Lipscomb and Pepperdine.
My wife has taught in private Christian schools for over 25 years.
Summer youth camp: Central Florida Bible Camp (flunky to co-director). King's Kamp, a ministry of the Long Beach church of Christ.
Youth minister (before they paid people to do this) for youth group of about 50.
Song leader. Today I frequently sing on our praise team and am very involved in a praise band as an arranger, singer, instrumentalist on guitar, keyboard, bass, and banjo. (Yes, we occasionally do some songs bluegrass style and our church loves it!)
Sunday School teacher.
Taught psychology two years at a satellite campus of Faulkner University.
Pulpit minister, 30 years.
Family mission trips to Mexico. My children have done mission work in Mexico and the Bahamas. (For now they're sticking to that Bahamas story.)
Fifteen consecutive years attending Pepperdine Bible Lectureship. Speaker at Pepperdine lectureship five times ... before they really got to know me up in Malibu. Haven't been asked since.
_____________________________________________________
I have a deep respect for the American Restoration principles. I've poured much of my life into serving the Lord in the context of churches of Christ. I've met some of the most spiritually sensitive, spiritually mature people I've ever known in the context of our fellowship. I've been blessed richly. I've been equally disappointed by people and situations in our fellowship.
My concern is that, based on my experience and observations, the church of Christ side of the restoration movement seems to be dying. That's not to say there are no healthy churches out there nor is it intended as a broadstroke judgment against everyone in the churches of Christ. That would be presumptuous (not to mention ludicrous) on my part. Just my opinion, but an opinion that is causing me to do a lot of soul searching the past few years as to how much longer I choose to remain in the CoC side of the kingdom. I don't have a lot of hope for our future, though my hope in the future of the Lord's kingdom is unwavering.
There is something systemically wrong with how we "do church." We have some congregations that are growing, but they seem to be the exception rather than the rule. Historically our leadership style has been to maintain the status quo. I've yet to meet (certainly have never worked under one) the eldership that made a bold decision knowing it would upset people in the church. Our leadership style is to make decisions that will keep everyone, or as many as possible, happy. God forbid that we should upset anyone for the sake of growth or maturity or relevance. We tend to sacrifice our future for the sake of keeping people happy in the present. That's not leadership. That's cowardice.
When I ask my children where they see themselves when they are completely independent and on their own and both of them assure me it's not in the churches of Christ. I can't blame them. I have no argument to pursuade them to stay. They've been in fellowship with other Christian churches and have grown and matured. They've been brought closer to the throne of God in worship. They have seen Christ, unmistakably, in the lives of their friends outside "our" fellowship.
For now, I try to stay focused on the role to which I feel God has called me. Focused and faithful. But I have to admit I'm a bit excited about the possibility of being a part of God's kingdom at large that is growing and is excited about evangelism and seems to have a future. I wish I felt the same enthusiasm about "us."
Before I share my thoughts let me preface what I'll say with a bit of my religious bio.
_____________________________________________________
I am a generational member of churches of Christ, both maternally and paternally. My maternal grandfather was an excellent bible teacher, song leader, and church planter. My maternal grandmother continues to have a huge impact on me spiritually, though she's been "with the Lord" for over 30 years. She was one of those who got up every morning about 4am and sat at her kitchen table for three hours studying her Bible. You didn't want to lightly enter a bible discussion with her. She was a deep thinker and excellent student of Scripture.
Educated in church of Christ schools from 4th grade: Mt. Dora Christian Home and Bible School. Alabama Christian Junior High. Mars Hill Bible School. David Lipscomb College (now a university) w/ minor in Bible. Harding Graduate School of Religion ... the best graduate school, in my opinion, in our brotherhood.
In-laws spent their lives serving within the churches of Christ both as Christian school teachers and ministry. My father-in-law preached for over 50 years. Graduate of Lipscomb and Pepperdine.
My wife has taught in private Christian schools for over 25 years.
Summer youth camp: Central Florida Bible Camp (flunky to co-director). King's Kamp, a ministry of the Long Beach church of Christ.
Youth minister (before they paid people to do this) for youth group of about 50.
Song leader. Today I frequently sing on our praise team and am very involved in a praise band as an arranger, singer, instrumentalist on guitar, keyboard, bass, and banjo. (Yes, we occasionally do some songs bluegrass style and our church loves it!)
Sunday School teacher.
Taught psychology two years at a satellite campus of Faulkner University.
Pulpit minister, 30 years.
Family mission trips to Mexico. My children have done mission work in Mexico and the Bahamas. (For now they're sticking to that Bahamas story.)
Fifteen consecutive years attending Pepperdine Bible Lectureship. Speaker at Pepperdine lectureship five times ... before they really got to know me up in Malibu. Haven't been asked since.
_____________________________________________________
I have a deep respect for the American Restoration principles. I've poured much of my life into serving the Lord in the context of churches of Christ. I've met some of the most spiritually sensitive, spiritually mature people I've ever known in the context of our fellowship. I've been blessed richly. I've been equally disappointed by people and situations in our fellowship.
My concern is that, based on my experience and observations, the church of Christ side of the restoration movement seems to be dying. That's not to say there are no healthy churches out there nor is it intended as a broadstroke judgment against everyone in the churches of Christ. That would be presumptuous (not to mention ludicrous) on my part. Just my opinion, but an opinion that is causing me to do a lot of soul searching the past few years as to how much longer I choose to remain in the CoC side of the kingdom. I don't have a lot of hope for our future, though my hope in the future of the Lord's kingdom is unwavering.
There is something systemically wrong with how we "do church." We have some congregations that are growing, but they seem to be the exception rather than the rule. Historically our leadership style has been to maintain the status quo. I've yet to meet (certainly have never worked under one) the eldership that made a bold decision knowing it would upset people in the church. Our leadership style is to make decisions that will keep everyone, or as many as possible, happy. God forbid that we should upset anyone for the sake of growth or maturity or relevance. We tend to sacrifice our future for the sake of keeping people happy in the present. That's not leadership. That's cowardice.
When I ask my children where they see themselves when they are completely independent and on their own and both of them assure me it's not in the churches of Christ. I can't blame them. I have no argument to pursuade them to stay. They've been in fellowship with other Christian churches and have grown and matured. They've been brought closer to the throne of God in worship. They have seen Christ, unmistakably, in the lives of their friends outside "our" fellowship.
For now, I try to stay focused on the role to which I feel God has called me. Focused and faithful. But I have to admit I'm a bit excited about the possibility of being a part of God's kingdom at large that is growing and is excited about evangelism and seems to have a future. I wish I felt the same enthusiasm about "us."
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Retirement Tent
Since we cannot afford to take a real vacation, looks like we're opting to set aside a little money and go camping this summer. Not camping the way modern people camp, with a multi-gazillion dollar house on wheels you pull behind a tandem truck with the extra large engine and optional tow package. Nor is it a mini-mansion built on a grayhound bus chassis. You can buy a small farm in the midwest for that kind of money.
We're talking about real camping! Tent camping. Cooking over a Coleman propane stove. No electricity. Living out of an ice cooler. Back to nature camping. Bugs. Dirt. Heat. That kid of camping.
So I've been spending a lot of time lately (not on the church clock, just in case any of my flock reads this nonsense) looking at tents. We have a tent, a huge tent with a screen porch attached, but the floor is beginning to come out of it and when it rains (and it always rains when we camp), it sags and tries to implode on us ... especially when it rains during the night (and it always rains on us at least once during the night) and we have to continually push up on the eves to make the water drain off. Years ago we were camping in St. Augustine, FL, and the rain did collapse our tent, soaking everything we had. That's when we discovered if it rains at night someone has to stay up until the rain stops and keep the eves drained off. That's also why I want another tent.
The last time we tried camping here in California (which, at the time, I declared would be my last time to go camping) we took the wrong poles and the tent was an abosolute embarrassment to be seen! So I've looked at virtually every tent on sale within a 10 mile radius of our home. TIP: Never go to an outdoor-sy type of place to buy a tent. For a couple hundred dollars they will try and sell you a two-person tent that is so small you can only maneuver around like some special forces guy crawling under a barbed wire fence. I've paid less for used cars than they want for two-man tents! I can get a dog that won't mind for that kind of money. I have a dog that won't mind that cost less!
Finally found one at SAMs that is not only large enough to accommodate the two of us, it's large enough to be a retirement home in the event I'm asked to go preach anywhere but here. I don't anticipate that because for a white guy, I'm a pretty good preacher (see Father's Day post), but one never knows what evil conspiracy lurks behind the doors of a given elder's meeting.
This tent even has two closets, and will sleep ten adults, so when the kids come and visit with our grandchildren, we'll have a place for everyone to sleep. Reinforced flooring. Everything we ever dreamed of in a retirement home. Even comes in a rolling case because it's so heavy you'd need a small forklift or a pack mule to carry it around.
Right now it's sitting out back, still in the box. I have a strange feeling about even attempting to assemble the thing. I'm checking out the local junior college for "Intro to Basic Engineering Principles". Or, I may stoop so low as to read the instructions.
Either way, we're going camping and we're going to have our own "excellent adventure." I'll let you know later if I ever got it out of the box and free standing.
P.S. With great trepidation we actually opened the tent and assembled it in the front yard. Everything is color coded so it was actually rather simple. Which is good because I'm a rather simple guy.
We're talking about real camping! Tent camping. Cooking over a Coleman propane stove. No electricity. Living out of an ice cooler. Back to nature camping. Bugs. Dirt. Heat. That kid of camping.
So I've been spending a lot of time lately (not on the church clock, just in case any of my flock reads this nonsense) looking at tents. We have a tent, a huge tent with a screen porch attached, but the floor is beginning to come out of it and when it rains (and it always rains when we camp), it sags and tries to implode on us ... especially when it rains during the night (and it always rains on us at least once during the night) and we have to continually push up on the eves to make the water drain off. Years ago we were camping in St. Augustine, FL, and the rain did collapse our tent, soaking everything we had. That's when we discovered if it rains at night someone has to stay up until the rain stops and keep the eves drained off. That's also why I want another tent.
The last time we tried camping here in California (which, at the time, I declared would be my last time to go camping) we took the wrong poles and the tent was an abosolute embarrassment to be seen! So I've looked at virtually every tent on sale within a 10 mile radius of our home. TIP: Never go to an outdoor-sy type of place to buy a tent. For a couple hundred dollars they will try and sell you a two-person tent that is so small you can only maneuver around like some special forces guy crawling under a barbed wire fence. I've paid less for used cars than they want for two-man tents! I can get a dog that won't mind for that kind of money. I have a dog that won't mind that cost less!
Finally found one at SAMs that is not only large enough to accommodate the two of us, it's large enough to be a retirement home in the event I'm asked to go preach anywhere but here. I don't anticipate that because for a white guy, I'm a pretty good preacher (see Father's Day post), but one never knows what evil conspiracy lurks behind the doors of a given elder's meeting.
This tent even has two closets, and will sleep ten adults, so when the kids come and visit with our grandchildren, we'll have a place for everyone to sleep. Reinforced flooring. Everything we ever dreamed of in a retirement home. Even comes in a rolling case because it's so heavy you'd need a small forklift or a pack mule to carry it around.
Right now it's sitting out back, still in the box. I have a strange feeling about even attempting to assemble the thing. I'm checking out the local junior college for "Intro to Basic Engineering Principles". Or, I may stoop so low as to read the instructions.
Either way, we're going camping and we're going to have our own "excellent adventure." I'll let you know later if I ever got it out of the box and free standing.
P.S. With great trepidation we actually opened the tent and assembled it in the front yard. Everything is color coded so it was actually rather simple. Which is good because I'm a rather simple guy.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Road Closed
Linden Avenue is a mess. I know because I live on Linden Avenue. The city of Long Beach has been installing a new water delivery system on our street and that involves a new meter installed at each residence along this mile stretch of street. Until they complete the job, they temporarily fill in the ditches they've had to dig to run lines from the main over to each residence. Those temporary patch jobs are like speed breaks from the nether land! Now it's coming to our end of the street and I am so excited about it. Not only can we no longer drive down the street without taking the car in for suspension repairs, we get to spend a few days without water from 8am 'till 3pm.
Which leads to the point (if there is a point) of this blog. Friday I was taking a morning walk and noticed at our end of the street a sign: ROAD CLOSED. The sign was in the middle of the street with orange traffic cones from the sign to the curb, leaving one side open for local residents to enter / exit the neighborhood. I stood at the corner while two cars stopped, the drivers reading the signs, and then proceeding to either drive around the sign or through the cones into a closed road area.
Curiosity got the best of me (not being of the feline species, curiosity is not a lethal concern) so I stayed on the corner and watched the bright yellow SUV drive all the way up Linden to Bixby, where it made a U-turn and came back to Point A -- the ROAD CLOSED sign. What kind of moron would do that? I wanted to conduct an exit interview with the driver, but I could tell by the facial expression he was not in a good mood. The second car followed shortly thereafter and I continued on my walk.
Back to my question, So what kind of moron would do that? I suppose the same kind of moron who would go around any of the numerousspiritual "Road Closed" signs in God's Word thinking, "It may be closed to others, but I'm confident I can navigate it." Ever do that? I do more than I care to admit. Road signs such as any one of the 10 Commandments. Or any of the many verses calling for moral integrity. Sexual purity. Faithfulness. Putting away the old self and being clothed with the righteousness of Christ. Those kinds of signs. We, like the driver in the bright yellow SUV, tend to think we can navigate those closed roads and actually find a shortcut to happiness and fulfillment. In the end, we either make the U-turn. Or we face serious damage in our attempt to continue. Or life ends. We could avoid all three potential consequences by simply observing the signs!
God's rules for the road are not barriers to happiness and success. They actually offer tremendous freedom to live life to the fullest! Drive carefully.
Which leads to the point (if there is a point) of this blog. Friday I was taking a morning walk and noticed at our end of the street a sign: ROAD CLOSED. The sign was in the middle of the street with orange traffic cones from the sign to the curb, leaving one side open for local residents to enter / exit the neighborhood. I stood at the corner while two cars stopped, the drivers reading the signs, and then proceeding to either drive around the sign or through the cones into a closed road area.
Curiosity got the best of me (not being of the feline species, curiosity is not a lethal concern) so I stayed on the corner and watched the bright yellow SUV drive all the way up Linden to Bixby, where it made a U-turn and came back to Point A -- the ROAD CLOSED sign. What kind of moron would do that? I wanted to conduct an exit interview with the driver, but I could tell by the facial expression he was not in a good mood. The second car followed shortly thereafter and I continued on my walk.
Back to my question, So what kind of moron would do that? I suppose the same kind of moron who would go around any of the numerousspiritual "Road Closed" signs in God's Word thinking, "It may be closed to others, but I'm confident I can navigate it." Ever do that? I do more than I care to admit. Road signs such as any one of the 10 Commandments. Or any of the many verses calling for moral integrity. Sexual purity. Faithfulness. Putting away the old self and being clothed with the righteousness of Christ. Those kinds of signs. We, like the driver in the bright yellow SUV, tend to think we can navigate those closed roads and actually find a shortcut to happiness and fulfillment. In the end, we either make the U-turn. Or we face serious damage in our attempt to continue. Or life ends. We could avoid all three potential consequences by simply observing the signs!
God's rules for the road are not barriers to happiness and success. They actually offer tremendous freedom to live life to the fullest! Drive carefully.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Father's Day
As I write this, it's Sunday afternoon. Father's Day. Normally I've wrestled for weeks with a sermon to honor dads on this day. The past 30 years I've used every passage of Scripture I can find for a Father's Day sermon. Taken a few out of context to make them fit the day. I've stolen sermons from others. Adapted sermons from books. Whatever it takes to make it through this one day. (It's the same with Mother's Day, as well.) So when I was asked if one of our missionaries could have this Sunday to speak to our church (his only Sunday in town), I gladly vacated the pulpit. Not often do I get this opportunity, and less often on a Father's Day weekend.
So we skipped out on Long Beach and worshipped with a small congregation of very friendly folks up in Carson. African-American congregation. (Why can't we say "black" any more? Who decided that was politically incorrect when they refer to themselves as "black"? Okay, we went to a black congregation.) My daughter and some friends from Pepperdine worship there frequently and she'd been telling me, "Daddy, you've got to go to Metro church some Sunday." Worship was wonderful. Preaching was powerful. Fellowship was sweet. We felt very much at home, though it was obvious to everyone we were a little ... different. The preacher wasn't concerned about preaching a Father's Day sermon. He was doing a great job out of Hebrews 10, calling his people to abandon their legalistic tradition and heritage and embrace the grace of God and his gift of salvation.
I love my family at Long Beach. Occasionally it's good not to have to preach. Occasionally it's good just to get away. I know that's true because there was another family at Metro this morning that we know. They usually worship at Long Beach! They were quite surprised and slightly embarrassed to see us. I told them we were out looking for delinquent members. They came clean and confessed they come there often, "depending on how we feel on Sunday morning." I guess that means whether they want a high energy sermon or ... my preaching.
I told their preacher how much I enjoyed hearing him preach and how powerful it was. He suggested we get our congregations together some time for a joint worship. I'd love to do that. I'd love for our church to hear him preach. My son said, "You might not want to do that, Long Beach may not want you back." I told him Long Beach would enjoy Bro. Fate, but the Metropolitan Church would be bored to death that Sunday. My wife countered with what I assume to be a compliment. "Honey, you're a good preacher ... for a white guy." At least I'll take it as a compliment. After all, it is Father's Day.
So we skipped out on Long Beach and worshipped with a small congregation of very friendly folks up in Carson. African-American congregation. (Why can't we say "black" any more? Who decided that was politically incorrect when they refer to themselves as "black"? Okay, we went to a black congregation.) My daughter and some friends from Pepperdine worship there frequently and she'd been telling me, "Daddy, you've got to go to Metro church some Sunday." Worship was wonderful. Preaching was powerful. Fellowship was sweet. We felt very much at home, though it was obvious to everyone we were a little ... different. The preacher wasn't concerned about preaching a Father's Day sermon. He was doing a great job out of Hebrews 10, calling his people to abandon their legalistic tradition and heritage and embrace the grace of God and his gift of salvation.
I love my family at Long Beach. Occasionally it's good not to have to preach. Occasionally it's good just to get away. I know that's true because there was another family at Metro this morning that we know. They usually worship at Long Beach! They were quite surprised and slightly embarrassed to see us. I told them we were out looking for delinquent members. They came clean and confessed they come there often, "depending on how we feel on Sunday morning." I guess that means whether they want a high energy sermon or ... my preaching.
I told their preacher how much I enjoyed hearing him preach and how powerful it was. He suggested we get our congregations together some time for a joint worship. I'd love to do that. I'd love for our church to hear him preach. My son said, "You might not want to do that, Long Beach may not want you back." I told him Long Beach would enjoy Bro. Fate, but the Metropolitan Church would be bored to death that Sunday. My wife countered with what I assume to be a compliment. "Honey, you're a good preacher ... for a white guy." At least I'll take it as a compliment. After all, it is Father's Day.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Prayer
It's almost summer. Today is Janice's last day of this school year. Half day with the yard apes and she's smelling the freedom! I was thinking a lot about my dad yesterday morning as I showered and got dressed. I think it's because one of the two significant conversations I ever had with my dad was about this time of year. I'll come back to that.
I was 36 years old when Dad died of cancer. I don't remember ever being really close to him, though it was not an adversarial relationship. He was one of those guys who gave everything to his employer and we got what was left. I can only remember one family vacation and that was to the Smokey Mountains when I was rather young. We'd go to visit relatives in the summer occasionally and almost always to see his folks for Christmas. I've since learned that is about all the vacation one gets at a certain point in life.
As I said, Dad and I were never really close. Two conversations in particular stand out in my mind. One was in his hospital room after he'd had surgery for prostate cancer (I think ... not too sure on that). I had been trying to establish a counseling / hypnotherapy practice in north Alabama for several years and it was barely making money. To put out a shingle declaring "Hypnosis" in north Alabama at that time was about as inviting to those people as a sign stating, "I worship Satan!" But I tried. I was also preaching part time (full time preaching, part time pay) for a small church in Lauderdale County and had decided to fold up the satanic hypnosis practice and look for full time work in ministry. At least full time pay. After all, I could do the counseling I wanted in the context of ministry. When I went to visit Dad one evening and shared my decision, the disappointment on his face was evident. He seemed not only dissapointed, but concerned. He'd been a deacon in a church in Orlando when the preacher had to be forced out and it was not a pleasant experience. To his credit as a dad, he never wanted to see his son go through such an ordeal. To date, I've not, but then it's always a possibility in this line of work.
The other conversation was several years later, and within two years of his dying. I was preaching at a "gospel meeting" (very popular in the south, even to this day but a huge waste of time and energy in my opinion) near Huntsville, AL., and Dad came to the Sunday service. He was going to Georgia on business and this church was on his way. After lunch (pot luck, dinner on the grounds) he was saying "Good-bye" since we would be returning to our home in Florida at the end of the week. That was my 2nd and last involvement in a "gospel meeting." We hugged before he continued on his trip and it was then my dad told me, "Son, I want you to know I'm very proud of you and what you're doing." I'd waited years to hear those words from that man, and as far as my professional life is concerned, I've never heard sweeter words.
So ... what does this have to do with prayer? While showering this morning, I was praying about a situation regarding a friend of mine who is a missionary in Switzerland. Almost anytime I spend time in prayer I feel some sense of guilt that I don't pray more often than I do. Being the psychology educated & counselor trained person I am, I think one reason I struggle so much with prayer is because I could never talk with my father. Mom? Different story, especially the past 15 years. Dad? Forget it. He was always too busy, or out of town on business, or I just didn't think he'd care, though I'm sure he did far more than I knew. We just didn't talk much beyond the typical father-to-son conversations that are necessary in life.
So for me to naturally go to my heavenly FATHER to talk about anything or share my feelings, fears and concerns, not to mention my victories and joys, is just something very foreign to my experience as a son. But I'm trying. I've spent years trying to work through this process that allows me to experience God as my Father. The good side of all of this is that I've been very intentional about my relationship with my children. We talk. We share the serious and the silly. I tell them often how much I love them and how proud I am of them. I blog about them (just in case you didn't notice). I ask them, "Do you know your daddy loves you?" And then I make them tell my how they know. I never want to be a hindrance to the prayer life of my children because they could not relate to their Daddy. I've been intentional about making my wife my best friend (that was easy) and my children my best buddies. We did everything together in their childhood years. We still have a close relationship, but as they move further into their own independence, I want them to know Daddy is always just a phone call away.
Because whether or not I can relate to it on an emotional level, I know intellectually my heavenly Father is just a prayer away. But those prayers don't come easily to me. My hope is that my Father understands.
I was 36 years old when Dad died of cancer. I don't remember ever being really close to him, though it was not an adversarial relationship. He was one of those guys who gave everything to his employer and we got what was left. I can only remember one family vacation and that was to the Smokey Mountains when I was rather young. We'd go to visit relatives in the summer occasionally and almost always to see his folks for Christmas. I've since learned that is about all the vacation one gets at a certain point in life.
As I said, Dad and I were never really close. Two conversations in particular stand out in my mind. One was in his hospital room after he'd had surgery for prostate cancer (I think ... not too sure on that). I had been trying to establish a counseling / hypnotherapy practice in north Alabama for several years and it was barely making money. To put out a shingle declaring "Hypnosis" in north Alabama at that time was about as inviting to those people as a sign stating, "I worship Satan!" But I tried. I was also preaching part time (full time preaching, part time pay) for a small church in Lauderdale County and had decided to fold up the satanic hypnosis practice and look for full time work in ministry. At least full time pay. After all, I could do the counseling I wanted in the context of ministry. When I went to visit Dad one evening and shared my decision, the disappointment on his face was evident. He seemed not only dissapointed, but concerned. He'd been a deacon in a church in Orlando when the preacher had to be forced out and it was not a pleasant experience. To his credit as a dad, he never wanted to see his son go through such an ordeal. To date, I've not, but then it's always a possibility in this line of work.
The other conversation was several years later, and within two years of his dying. I was preaching at a "gospel meeting" (very popular in the south, even to this day but a huge waste of time and energy in my opinion) near Huntsville, AL., and Dad came to the Sunday service. He was going to Georgia on business and this church was on his way. After lunch (pot luck, dinner on the grounds) he was saying "Good-bye" since we would be returning to our home in Florida at the end of the week. That was my 2nd and last involvement in a "gospel meeting." We hugged before he continued on his trip and it was then my dad told me, "Son, I want you to know I'm very proud of you and what you're doing." I'd waited years to hear those words from that man, and as far as my professional life is concerned, I've never heard sweeter words.
So ... what does this have to do with prayer? While showering this morning, I was praying about a situation regarding a friend of mine who is a missionary in Switzerland. Almost anytime I spend time in prayer I feel some sense of guilt that I don't pray more often than I do. Being the psychology educated & counselor trained person I am, I think one reason I struggle so much with prayer is because I could never talk with my father. Mom? Different story, especially the past 15 years. Dad? Forget it. He was always too busy, or out of town on business, or I just didn't think he'd care, though I'm sure he did far more than I knew. We just didn't talk much beyond the typical father-to-son conversations that are necessary in life.
So for me to naturally go to my heavenly FATHER to talk about anything or share my feelings, fears and concerns, not to mention my victories and joys, is just something very foreign to my experience as a son. But I'm trying. I've spent years trying to work through this process that allows me to experience God as my Father. The good side of all of this is that I've been very intentional about my relationship with my children. We talk. We share the serious and the silly. I tell them often how much I love them and how proud I am of them. I blog about them (just in case you didn't notice). I ask them, "Do you know your daddy loves you?" And then I make them tell my how they know. I never want to be a hindrance to the prayer life of my children because they could not relate to their Daddy. I've been intentional about making my wife my best friend (that was easy) and my children my best buddies. We did everything together in their childhood years. We still have a close relationship, but as they move further into their own independence, I want them to know Daddy is always just a phone call away.
Because whether or not I can relate to it on an emotional level, I know intellectually my heavenly Father is just a prayer away. But those prayers don't come easily to me. My hope is that my Father understands.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Random Thoughts & Selected Peeves
Josh and I went out for an early lunch on his day off ... ended up at "of the taco." English: "Del Taco." At least that's what Josh says the translation would be. I do well just to speak American! I ordered the best thing on their menu, a double cheeseburger. Josh ordered the same thing he always orders -- six soft tacos, no lettuce, nachos and a large drink. In the years we've been eating at such fine dining establishments, not once have we ordered regular tacos. Always soft tacos. There's a reason I make this point.
But before getting to that point, I need to get rid of a slight peeve I have with "of the taco" as well as Toxic Belch (Taco Bell). They have on their menu an item called "nachos." Nachos sell for a dollar and consists of a little container of chips and a small dish of melted cheese. They also have, for over $3, a larger nacho item. At Del Taco they call it "Macho Nachos." Cute. I don't remember what they call it at Toxic Belch because I'd just as soon eat Chipper's left over dog food than eat at Toxic Belch. But sometimes I'm overruled, so I know they have the larger nacho item. But I digress....
Every time we order the $1 nachos, I am asked, "Do you want the regular nachos or the macho nachos?" I just want to scream at them, but I usually take a deep breath, calm myself w/ a quick prayer and recitation of one of the psalms and then reply, "I want the menu item that says 'nachos.' " To which they usually reply, "But we have two menu items for nachos." I'll spare you the rest of this conversation, but if they have two menu items with different names, why is it such a hassle for them to figure out what I'm ordering? Just what is the low end of the IQ range where they cut off applicants seeking employment at these places?
Back to my point earlier. We got our food, including nachos (after I clarified that I wanted the menu item of nachos, refusing to use the words "macho nacho" in this conversation) and Josh's tacos were not of the soft variety. They gave us the hard shell tacos instead. I returned them to the counter and said, "I ordered soft tacos. You gave me regular tacos." Didn't cop an attitude. Even smiled as I said it. The girl who took my order said, "No, you ordered tacos." There are moments when I am grateful to live in a state that doesn't allow me to legally carry a loaded firearm. I would have done the world a favor to shoot this person, bless her heart! I kept my cool, didn't say a word. She gave us the soft tacos we originally ordered and I decided to use the moment for a blog rather than causing a scene.
Peeve number two: People who work the counter taking orders at those places never seem to listen to what you order. Case in point, Josh always orders sandwiches plain. He just wants the meat and bun. It's a given that at least 50% of the time they don't hear what we order and we end up returning the food to a less-than-joy-filled minimum wage employee. They typically say that I did not specify plain with my order. See paragraph above....
But occasionally I get even in the payment process. Most of these kids are mathematically challenged, to put it kindly. So once they ring up my total, say $8.56, I hand them a $10. They enter that amount in the machine and come up with the correct change of $1.44. They can handle that because the amount is there on the screen. It is at that point that I'll say, "Here, I have six cents." Now they have no idea what to do! And I love to watch them sweat it out. Better, to avoid receiving a lot of $1's in change, I'll wait until they put in the amount and then add not only change to make it an even return of change, but add a couple of dollar bills so they have to give me back a five rather than singles. I've had them actually call a manager to the counter to tell them what to do. Bless their hearts.
So ... when someone says, "Where are we eating lunch / dinner?" it really doesn't matter to me so long as I have a bunch of loose change in my pocket and the total for the meals comes out to an uneven amount! But when I tell the stories to others, I always add, "Bless their heart," which makes it all above reproach.
But before getting to that point, I need to get rid of a slight peeve I have with "of the taco" as well as Toxic Belch (Taco Bell). They have on their menu an item called "nachos." Nachos sell for a dollar and consists of a little container of chips and a small dish of melted cheese. They also have, for over $3, a larger nacho item. At Del Taco they call it "Macho Nachos." Cute. I don't remember what they call it at Toxic Belch because I'd just as soon eat Chipper's left over dog food than eat at Toxic Belch. But sometimes I'm overruled, so I know they have the larger nacho item. But I digress....
Every time we order the $1 nachos, I am asked, "Do you want the regular nachos or the macho nachos?" I just want to scream at them, but I usually take a deep breath, calm myself w/ a quick prayer and recitation of one of the psalms and then reply, "I want the menu item that says 'nachos.' " To which they usually reply, "But we have two menu items for nachos." I'll spare you the rest of this conversation, but if they have two menu items with different names, why is it such a hassle for them to figure out what I'm ordering? Just what is the low end of the IQ range where they cut off applicants seeking employment at these places?
Back to my point earlier. We got our food, including nachos (after I clarified that I wanted the menu item of nachos, refusing to use the words "macho nacho" in this conversation) and Josh's tacos were not of the soft variety. They gave us the hard shell tacos instead. I returned them to the counter and said, "I ordered soft tacos. You gave me regular tacos." Didn't cop an attitude. Even smiled as I said it. The girl who took my order said, "No, you ordered tacos." There are moments when I am grateful to live in a state that doesn't allow me to legally carry a loaded firearm. I would have done the world a favor to shoot this person, bless her heart! I kept my cool, didn't say a word. She gave us the soft tacos we originally ordered and I decided to use the moment for a blog rather than causing a scene.
Peeve number two: People who work the counter taking orders at those places never seem to listen to what you order. Case in point, Josh always orders sandwiches plain. He just wants the meat and bun. It's a given that at least 50% of the time they don't hear what we order and we end up returning the food to a less-than-joy-filled minimum wage employee. They typically say that I did not specify plain with my order. See paragraph above....
But occasionally I get even in the payment process. Most of these kids are mathematically challenged, to put it kindly. So once they ring up my total, say $8.56, I hand them a $10. They enter that amount in the machine and come up with the correct change of $1.44. They can handle that because the amount is there on the screen. It is at that point that I'll say, "Here, I have six cents." Now they have no idea what to do! And I love to watch them sweat it out. Better, to avoid receiving a lot of $1's in change, I'll wait until they put in the amount and then add not only change to make it an even return of change, but add a couple of dollar bills so they have to give me back a five rather than singles. I've had them actually call a manager to the counter to tell them what to do. Bless their hearts.
So ... when someone says, "Where are we eating lunch / dinner?" it really doesn't matter to me so long as I have a bunch of loose change in my pocket and the total for the meals comes out to an uneven amount! But when I tell the stories to others, I always add, "Bless their heart," which makes it all above reproach.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Jessica
I don't say a lot about my daughter, Jessica, in my blogs mainly because she is seldom at home and we don't have a lot of experiences together these days that I can write about. But there's not a father out there who loves his daughter any more than I love mine nor is any prouder of a daughter than I am of mine. (I just needed to say that.) She's been in Florida the past 10 days or so, spending most of that time working on staff at the Central Florida Bible Camp. That is so typical for Jessica, though. She not only has loved youth camps from the first year of her life, but has loved the Lord and walks by her faith. When she found out she would not be able to work at our church camp this summer, she immediately thought of CFBC. A summer without a Christian camp experience simply would not be summer for her.
She is an amazing young lady. Absolutey beautiful both physically and spiritually. She's so much like her mama in that way. I never cease to be amazed by her faith. Her commitment to Christ. Her involvement in the lives of others. Her faithfulness to the moral values that are the foundation to her life. Her willingness to get involved in messy situations with her friends to help show them the way out. (In a sociology class at college, the question was asked "What do you look for in a friend?" Jessica was the only one in the class to answer, basically, that any human being is potentially her friend. She doesn't look beyond that.) Her involvement in the spiritual life of Azusa Pacific University. Her ability to make straight A's in her academic pursuit (I think she's only made three "Bs" since she started in pre-school; graduating from high school with an above 4.0 GPA). The closeness she has with her brother, in spite of their ability to push each other's buttons. Her absolute love for her mama and daddy. Any time Jessica is home for the weekend, at some point in her stay, you'll find her in the den, curled up in her mama's lap, watching TV together, sharing popcorn. Her tenderness with children and animals. And I am equally amazed that in all of that, she somehow prefers the music I hate! How can someone who otherwise has it so together enjoy RAP, which is the antithesis to music?! I can understand the hip-hop techno garbage (my humble opinion) that masquerades as music, but RAP? I need a Tylenol just thinking about it. But it does help me understand how my parents felt as I was growing up ... the music part. I was never the joy to my parents that Jessica is to us. She was raised listening to "oldies" and for a long time her favorite song was "Love Potion #9"! It was only a matter of time before she would discover there actually is music out there that isn't 30 years old.
I guess the fact that she is away so much during the year makes what little time we can spend together even more precious to me, so I can't wait to pick her up at LAX this evening (Tuesday as I write this ... Wedensday when you read it) and hear all about her Florida trip. She thrives in social situations and was able to re-connect with people in Florida who knew her as an infant, a little girl growing up and moving away when she was 8 years old. Now they know her as a young adult who is vibrantly alive for the Lord. I've heard just a little about her impact on the teens at camp and the popularity of her devotions with them. The directors told me she was adored by the campers. (If you know me at all, you know she takes after her daddy in that respect! :)
We're also finishing up our 2004 Christmas when Jessica gets home. My mother was ill during the latter part of last year and unable to her get gifts to us mailed out for the holidays. We received our Christmas package just after Jessica left to go to Florida. I called and told her we had a problem: Josh wanted to open the gifts without her (Josh is so magnanimous when it comes to opening gifts!), would she be okay with that? She said, "Josh never lets me open a gift early on Christmas Eve." [He's a legalist to the core when it comes to waiting until Christmas morning to open gifts!] "Let him wait to open his gifts until I get home, just like he makes me wait to open mine on Christmas morning." So we've been patiently waiting and keeping Josh away from the presents until she gets home. The joy of sibling rivalry.
She called from the airport in Orlando to chat. She told me they tried to talk her into staying another week or so and go with them on a mission trip to West Virginia. She declined. After ten days in hot, humid, bug-infested Florida you're given a choice of going to West Virginia or Southern California and you think my daughter is going to choose West Virginia?? Hello?? Like I said, she's a very smart young lady. Told me she was also offered a job next summer as a youth intern at a church there. My guess is we'll be making a trip to Florida next summer to see our daughter.
If my life were to end today, it would be complete and full in every way, except that I've never owned a Gibson Les Paul guitar, but I'm working on that. I only have 7 guitars and no one should stop on an odd number. I've walked for years in the love, grace, and mercy of the Lord. I've feasted on his Word and had the joy of teaching it for 30 years. Though I struggle with it for reasons I may share at a later date, I'm learning the value of prayer. I know the unmerited and unconditional love of my wife and God has blessed me beyond measure with two incredible children. And for icing on the cake ... I've always had a dog in my life. Only heaven could be better.
She is an amazing young lady. Absolutey beautiful both physically and spiritually. She's so much like her mama in that way. I never cease to be amazed by her faith. Her commitment to Christ. Her involvement in the lives of others. Her faithfulness to the moral values that are the foundation to her life. Her willingness to get involved in messy situations with her friends to help show them the way out. (In a sociology class at college, the question was asked "What do you look for in a friend?" Jessica was the only one in the class to answer, basically, that any human being is potentially her friend. She doesn't look beyond that.) Her involvement in the spiritual life of Azusa Pacific University. Her ability to make straight A's in her academic pursuit (I think she's only made three "Bs" since she started in pre-school; graduating from high school with an above 4.0 GPA). The closeness she has with her brother, in spite of their ability to push each other's buttons. Her absolute love for her mama and daddy. Any time Jessica is home for the weekend, at some point in her stay, you'll find her in the den, curled up in her mama's lap, watching TV together, sharing popcorn. Her tenderness with children and animals. And I am equally amazed that in all of that, she somehow prefers the music I hate! How can someone who otherwise has it so together enjoy RAP, which is the antithesis to music?! I can understand the hip-hop techno garbage (my humble opinion) that masquerades as music, but RAP? I need a Tylenol just thinking about it. But it does help me understand how my parents felt as I was growing up ... the music part. I was never the joy to my parents that Jessica is to us. She was raised listening to "oldies" and for a long time her favorite song was "Love Potion #9"! It was only a matter of time before she would discover there actually is music out there that isn't 30 years old.
I guess the fact that she is away so much during the year makes what little time we can spend together even more precious to me, so I can't wait to pick her up at LAX this evening (Tuesday as I write this ... Wedensday when you read it) and hear all about her Florida trip. She thrives in social situations and was able to re-connect with people in Florida who knew her as an infant, a little girl growing up and moving away when she was 8 years old. Now they know her as a young adult who is vibrantly alive for the Lord. I've heard just a little about her impact on the teens at camp and the popularity of her devotions with them. The directors told me she was adored by the campers. (If you know me at all, you know she takes after her daddy in that respect! :)
We're also finishing up our 2004 Christmas when Jessica gets home. My mother was ill during the latter part of last year and unable to her get gifts to us mailed out for the holidays. We received our Christmas package just after Jessica left to go to Florida. I called and told her we had a problem: Josh wanted to open the gifts without her (Josh is so magnanimous when it comes to opening gifts!), would she be okay with that? She said, "Josh never lets me open a gift early on Christmas Eve." [He's a legalist to the core when it comes to waiting until Christmas morning to open gifts!] "Let him wait to open his gifts until I get home, just like he makes me wait to open mine on Christmas morning." So we've been patiently waiting and keeping Josh away from the presents until she gets home. The joy of sibling rivalry.
She called from the airport in Orlando to chat. She told me they tried to talk her into staying another week or so and go with them on a mission trip to West Virginia. She declined. After ten days in hot, humid, bug-infested Florida you're given a choice of going to West Virginia or Southern California and you think my daughter is going to choose West Virginia?? Hello?? Like I said, she's a very smart young lady. Told me she was also offered a job next summer as a youth intern at a church there. My guess is we'll be making a trip to Florida next summer to see our daughter.
If my life were to end today, it would be complete and full in every way, except that I've never owned a Gibson Les Paul guitar, but I'm working on that. I only have 7 guitars and no one should stop on an odd number. I've walked for years in the love, grace, and mercy of the Lord. I've feasted on his Word and had the joy of teaching it for 30 years. Though I struggle with it for reasons I may share at a later date, I'm learning the value of prayer. I know the unmerited and unconditional love of my wife and God has blessed me beyond measure with two incredible children. And for icing on the cake ... I've always had a dog in my life. Only heaven could be better.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Chapter Closed
Saturday night a group of about 60 parents, players and family from Brethren Christian High School gathered in the fellowship hall of our church to celebrate the conclusion of their successful baseball season. It was also the night my son, Josh, announced his resignation as head coach of the varsity team.
It seemed his senior year at BCHS there would be no baseball team. The school had moved from one campus to another, about 25 miles south and with the move lost many of the better athletes. With one year to go, Josh chose not to transfer to another school. He had a long love affair with baseball that dated back to T-ball in Florida and had no intention of not playing ball his senior year. With almost no support from the school administration he and another senior, Josh Harmon, pulled together a ball team, raised the money for uniforms, took responsibility to organize the team, recruit a team mother and basically kept baseball alive at Brethren.
The school scrambled to find a coach and hired a man who was a good man but a joke as a coach. He came into the program with the attitude these kids were hopeless. It was a dismal year for Josh, though he was captain of the team, Most Valuable Player, and elected by the coaches of his league into the First Team All-Stars. He showed leadership skills we'd suspected, but to date had not seen.
Following graduation, he returned as an assistant coach. They managed to post a .500 season. Not bad for a bunch of kids who won only one game (as I recall ... could have been two games) the previous year and were considered hopeless by the head coach. The next year, the head coach was dismissed and Josh was hired as varsity head coach. A dream come true for him. His first year at the helm was rewarded with a winning season, if only by one game. Then came a couple of dismal years where early season injuries plagued them the entire season.
Knowing he would graduate from college this Spring and his coaching career was indefinitely postponed, if not over, he challenged this team to make the state playoffs. Brethren had not been in playoffs in a decade or longer. Though they lost in the first round (they beat themselves with mental errors, but also endured some of the worst officiating I've ever witnessed) they achieved their goal. They made the playoffs! One of the coaches and many in the home crowd showed an almost total lack of class during the game (and it was against another supposedly Christian school), but our guys and coaches showed their Christian values and acted as gentlemen, even in defeat. (I must confess, though, we were quite happy to hear the next week that team was defeated in round two of the playoffs.)
It was a difficult season in many respects, trying to finish up his final semester of college, working part time as a Funeral Director and driving well over a hundred miles a day to coach baseball. Needless to say, he was very tired of the ordeal by the end of the season. Even looked forward to having it all behind him. But when the time came Saturday night to actually verbalize the words, "I won't be back next season," his voice quivered and his eyes teared. I don't think he ever anticipated it being so hard to walk away from the love of his life and from those young men and assistant coaches that he esteemed so highly. I was so very proud of him! His mama did a fine job raising this boy in spite of my influence. The team stood to applaud him and the parents quickly followed. They truly appreciated his leadership and regretted hearing this news.
So a chapter that began in Rockledge, Florida for a lanky 6-year-old who would wait for a groundball to stop rolling before going near it, ended with a team captain, All-Star catcher, MVP, assistant coach, head varsity coach moving into a new chapter and entirely different direction for his life. But we expect to see those qualities of a leader and a team player take him far in his career. We are confident (but pray nonetheless) Josh will continue to make an impact for the kingdom of God with his sensitive, servant heart.
It seemed his senior year at BCHS there would be no baseball team. The school had moved from one campus to another, about 25 miles south and with the move lost many of the better athletes. With one year to go, Josh chose not to transfer to another school. He had a long love affair with baseball that dated back to T-ball in Florida and had no intention of not playing ball his senior year. With almost no support from the school administration he and another senior, Josh Harmon, pulled together a ball team, raised the money for uniforms, took responsibility to organize the team, recruit a team mother and basically kept baseball alive at Brethren.
The school scrambled to find a coach and hired a man who was a good man but a joke as a coach. He came into the program with the attitude these kids were hopeless. It was a dismal year for Josh, though he was captain of the team, Most Valuable Player, and elected by the coaches of his league into the First Team All-Stars. He showed leadership skills we'd suspected, but to date had not seen.
Following graduation, he returned as an assistant coach. They managed to post a .500 season. Not bad for a bunch of kids who won only one game (as I recall ... could have been two games) the previous year and were considered hopeless by the head coach. The next year, the head coach was dismissed and Josh was hired as varsity head coach. A dream come true for him. His first year at the helm was rewarded with a winning season, if only by one game. Then came a couple of dismal years where early season injuries plagued them the entire season.
Knowing he would graduate from college this Spring and his coaching career was indefinitely postponed, if not over, he challenged this team to make the state playoffs. Brethren had not been in playoffs in a decade or longer. Though they lost in the first round (they beat themselves with mental errors, but also endured some of the worst officiating I've ever witnessed) they achieved their goal. They made the playoffs! One of the coaches and many in the home crowd showed an almost total lack of class during the game (and it was against another supposedly Christian school), but our guys and coaches showed their Christian values and acted as gentlemen, even in defeat. (I must confess, though, we were quite happy to hear the next week that team was defeated in round two of the playoffs.)
It was a difficult season in many respects, trying to finish up his final semester of college, working part time as a Funeral Director and driving well over a hundred miles a day to coach baseball. Needless to say, he was very tired of the ordeal by the end of the season. Even looked forward to having it all behind him. But when the time came Saturday night to actually verbalize the words, "I won't be back next season," his voice quivered and his eyes teared. I don't think he ever anticipated it being so hard to walk away from the love of his life and from those young men and assistant coaches that he esteemed so highly. I was so very proud of him! His mama did a fine job raising this boy in spite of my influence. The team stood to applaud him and the parents quickly followed. They truly appreciated his leadership and regretted hearing this news.
So a chapter that began in Rockledge, Florida for a lanky 6-year-old who would wait for a groundball to stop rolling before going near it, ended with a team captain, All-Star catcher, MVP, assistant coach, head varsity coach moving into a new chapter and entirely different direction for his life. But we expect to see those qualities of a leader and a team player take him far in his career. We are confident (but pray nonetheless) Josh will continue to make an impact for the kingdom of God with his sensitive, servant heart.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Too Young to Die
It's certainly not the preferred way to spend a Saturday, but this past Saturday I was up and out of the house about 7am to work a funeral in Fullerton. Our manager had asked me earlier in the week if I would keep the day open ... the funeral was for her neice, Mayra. Twenty seven years old. Married to Tim just 3 years ago. The cancer that took her life was diagnosed shortly after their wedding so this marriage was one that consisted of Christ, hope, prayers, pain, chemo, hospitals, drugs, friends, family and death.
I was deeply touched by the faith of the family. Tim stood before hundreds of fellow-grievers and spoke of the love of his life. I don't know how he pulled himself to do that, but he did. He spoke of faith in God and hope of seeing his Mayra again. He also helped carry the casket of his wife.
The church building was filled to capacity. A couple of guys on guitar played while a third sang one of my favorite songs (a song I want sung at my funeral, if I have any say), "I Can Only Imagine." If you've never heard it, here are the lyrics (written by Bart Millard / Mercy Me).
_____________________________________________________
I can only imagine what it will be like when I walk by Your side.
I can only imagine what my eyes will see when Your face is before me.
I can only imagine.
I can only imagine when that day comes and I find myself standing in the Son
I can only imagine when all I will do is forever, forever worship You.
I can only imagine.
Surrounded by Your glory, what will my heart feel?
Will I dance for You, Jesus, or in awe of You be still?
Will I stand in Your presence or to my knees will I fall?
Will I sing hallelujah? Will I be able to speak at all?
I can only imagine. I can only imagine.
_____________________________________________________
Mayra was buried in the presence of about 150 people. Tim handed out roses for his family and friends to place in her grave and then we did what we all eventually have to do at a grave side. We left to go home. I've been to cemeteries hundreds of times and I've always gone home after the burial. I've never gone home to an empty house, though. I can only imagine....
It's not the way you want to spend a Saturday, but it sure did enflesh the words the Holy Spirit had John specifically write in Revelation: "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord!"
I could have done a lot of things on Saturday that would not have been as impressive as witnessing the deep, abiding faith of a young widower, his family and his church.
I was deeply touched by the faith of the family. Tim stood before hundreds of fellow-grievers and spoke of the love of his life. I don't know how he pulled himself to do that, but he did. He spoke of faith in God and hope of seeing his Mayra again. He also helped carry the casket of his wife.
The church building was filled to capacity. A couple of guys on guitar played while a third sang one of my favorite songs (a song I want sung at my funeral, if I have any say), "I Can Only Imagine." If you've never heard it, here are the lyrics (written by Bart Millard / Mercy Me).
_____________________________________________________
I can only imagine what it will be like when I walk by Your side.
I can only imagine what my eyes will see when Your face is before me.
I can only imagine.
I can only imagine when that day comes and I find myself standing in the Son
I can only imagine when all I will do is forever, forever worship You.
I can only imagine.
Surrounded by Your glory, what will my heart feel?
Will I dance for You, Jesus, or in awe of You be still?
Will I stand in Your presence or to my knees will I fall?
Will I sing hallelujah? Will I be able to speak at all?
I can only imagine. I can only imagine.
_____________________________________________________
Mayra was buried in the presence of about 150 people. Tim handed out roses for his family and friends to place in her grave and then we did what we all eventually have to do at a grave side. We left to go home. I've been to cemeteries hundreds of times and I've always gone home after the burial. I've never gone home to an empty house, though. I can only imagine....
It's not the way you want to spend a Saturday, but it sure did enflesh the words the Holy Spirit had John specifically write in Revelation: "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord!"
I could have done a lot of things on Saturday that would not have been as impressive as witnessing the deep, abiding faith of a young widower, his family and his church.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Oops! Wrong Door
Usually I write my blog the day before it's published and simply change the date and time so that it will appear top of the list when you open the site. It also gives the appearance that I'm up and blogging before 6a.m. when, in reality, I'm sleeping rather soundly at 6a.m. I'm not one of those geezers that gets up with the sun. However, this morning I actually did get up just after 6, had breakfast with my wife and am actually blogging this in real time. I'll probably go back to bed in a few minutes!
Have you ever done something just really stupid and there's no way to recover from it? I did on Wednesday. As I mentioned in yesterday's blog, I did the funeral of a member of our church family. It was held at Green Hills Chapel over in San Pedro. I've been out to Green Hills a few times as a funeral director and many years ago preached a funeral service there, but for the most part I'm not familiar with the place.
They treat ministers a little differently at Green Hills. Usually I like to mingle with the people coming into a funeral service. At Green Hills, they prefer to stick the preacher in a small room behind the chapel and then escort him into the chapel at the appropriate time. I guess they don't trust ministers to be where they are supposed to be when the funeral is scheduled to begin. So I'm sitting at this little table, reading the L. A. Times (which is generally a waste of time unless you love reading a very liberal, anti-American newspaper), when the Funeral Director told me the family was in the "family room" and wanting to speak with me. He pointed me down a long, dark hallway (one place you never want to be in a mortuary, unless you're comfortable in long, dark hallways in mortuaries) that connected where I was to where they were.
I walked in, introduced myself to a room full of very friendly people, and we talked for about 10 minutes. Actually, they talked and I listened as they shared memories of their loved one. When it was just about time for the funeral to begin, I dismissed myself to go back down that long dark hallway, make a couple of notes about our conversation to be used in the service, and await my escort to the chapel. I hadn't really paid much attention to doors as I entered the family room from the long dark hallway, so when I turned to leave them, I didn't notice a second door to my right. The door I did notice was one that had a sign over it: Rest Room. I figured the rest rooms were somewhere down that long dark hallway and I just hadn't noticed them earlier, so I opened the door and walked right into the rest room! Not having any immediate business there, I turned and walked out, rather embarrassed, took the other door and entered the now familiar long dark hallway. I didn't say anything nor did they, but I wondered what they must have thought of a preacher that can get lost in a room!
Have you ever done something so moronic you just smile and go about your business as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened? The worst part of such an experience is that there's simply no way to look cool. Happens to me more than I like to admit.
So have a great day ... and when you do the moronic, just smile and be thankful it didn't involve a long dark hallway in a mortuary!
Have you ever done something just really stupid and there's no way to recover from it? I did on Wednesday. As I mentioned in yesterday's blog, I did the funeral of a member of our church family. It was held at Green Hills Chapel over in San Pedro. I've been out to Green Hills a few times as a funeral director and many years ago preached a funeral service there, but for the most part I'm not familiar with the place.
They treat ministers a little differently at Green Hills. Usually I like to mingle with the people coming into a funeral service. At Green Hills, they prefer to stick the preacher in a small room behind the chapel and then escort him into the chapel at the appropriate time. I guess they don't trust ministers to be where they are supposed to be when the funeral is scheduled to begin. So I'm sitting at this little table, reading the L. A. Times (which is generally a waste of time unless you love reading a very liberal, anti-American newspaper), when the Funeral Director told me the family was in the "family room" and wanting to speak with me. He pointed me down a long, dark hallway (one place you never want to be in a mortuary, unless you're comfortable in long, dark hallways in mortuaries) that connected where I was to where they were.
I walked in, introduced myself to a room full of very friendly people, and we talked for about 10 minutes. Actually, they talked and I listened as they shared memories of their loved one. When it was just about time for the funeral to begin, I dismissed myself to go back down that long dark hallway, make a couple of notes about our conversation to be used in the service, and await my escort to the chapel. I hadn't really paid much attention to doors as I entered the family room from the long dark hallway, so when I turned to leave them, I didn't notice a second door to my right. The door I did notice was one that had a sign over it: Rest Room. I figured the rest rooms were somewhere down that long dark hallway and I just hadn't noticed them earlier, so I opened the door and walked right into the rest room! Not having any immediate business there, I turned and walked out, rather embarrassed, took the other door and entered the now familiar long dark hallway. I didn't say anything nor did they, but I wondered what they must have thought of a preacher that can get lost in a room!
Have you ever done something so moronic you just smile and go about your business as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened? The worst part of such an experience is that there's simply no way to look cool. Happens to me more than I like to admit.
So have a great day ... and when you do the moronic, just smile and be thankful it didn't involve a long dark hallway in a mortuary!
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Funerals and Family
Yogi Berra said it best, "You should always go to other people's funerals; otherwise they won't come to yours." I think he meant well in his attempt to speak his thoughts.
Since this is my blog spot, please permit me to fuss a little today. I grew up in the deep south and remember a time when traffic stopped for funerals to pass by. Police officers would stand beside their car, hand over heart. Farmers would do the same, holding their cap over their heart. People turned out for funerals, especially church people.
When my grandfather died, his body was brought to the house where it laid in state from Monday until Friday. People streamed in all week to pay their respects. Family members volunteered to stay up all night in the living room next to the open casket. I thought that was a bit weird, but that was the way we showed respect back then.
Even in today's south, the "viewing" (usaully the night before) draws a large number of people, depending on family size and church size. When my father-in-law died, people stood in line for well over an hour just to spend maybe a minute with his widow, expressing their love and support. We estimated well over 1,000 at his "viewing." The funeral itself drew less people simply because it was a work day and not everyone can get off of work. Not even for a funeral.
Yesterday I officiated the funeral services for a member of our church family. He was 86 years old and had been ready to die for a long while. Never thought he'd live to be 80. Constant pain has a way of doing that to a person. I met with his immediate relatives to talk about how they wanted the funeral to look. Though I knew none of them, I felt as if they were life-long friends. I was curious as to how many from our church would attend the funeral of a man who had been worshipping at Long Beach for the past 35 years! Three people. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement.
I'll refrain from completing my thoughts at this point because it would do no one any good, though I might feel a little better for the catharsis. I do think we need to reprioritize our lives enough to at least pay some respect to those among us who die.
Since this is my blog spot, please permit me to fuss a little today. I grew up in the deep south and remember a time when traffic stopped for funerals to pass by. Police officers would stand beside their car, hand over heart. Farmers would do the same, holding their cap over their heart. People turned out for funerals, especially church people.
When my grandfather died, his body was brought to the house where it laid in state from Monday until Friday. People streamed in all week to pay their respects. Family members volunteered to stay up all night in the living room next to the open casket. I thought that was a bit weird, but that was the way we showed respect back then.
Even in today's south, the "viewing" (usaully the night before) draws a large number of people, depending on family size and church size. When my father-in-law died, people stood in line for well over an hour just to spend maybe a minute with his widow, expressing their love and support. We estimated well over 1,000 at his "viewing." The funeral itself drew less people simply because it was a work day and not everyone can get off of work. Not even for a funeral.
Yesterday I officiated the funeral services for a member of our church family. He was 86 years old and had been ready to die for a long while. Never thought he'd live to be 80. Constant pain has a way of doing that to a person. I met with his immediate relatives to talk about how they wanted the funeral to look. Though I knew none of them, I felt as if they were life-long friends. I was curious as to how many from our church would attend the funeral of a man who had been worshipping at Long Beach for the past 35 years! Three people. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement.
I'll refrain from completing my thoughts at this point because it would do no one any good, though I might feel a little better for the catharsis. I do think we need to reprioritize our lives enough to at least pay some respect to those among us who die.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Lost Child
When we moved to Long Beach back in '93 of the previous century, we had heard horror stories of children being kidnapped in shopping malls in California. The MO was to entice a child into a store's dressing room or restroom, using either pretty clothing or candy, drug the kid, shave their head and change their clothing then walk out carrying the child, claiming he or she was sick to anyone who might stop you. The stories turned out to be just that ... stories, but we came here thinking the worst could happen. After all, this is California and California has never had a good reputation in the south.
You can imagine the trauma of one of our first trips to the nearest mall in the children's clothing area upstairs in JCPenney. We were looking for school clothes when suddenly Jessica was nowhere to be found. Janice immediately went into "mother mode" while I did the manly thing. I panicked, and did a darn good job of it. Janice began to call out Jessica's name loudly and instructing store personnel to lock the doors and not let anyone out of that store until we found our daughter. As it turned out, Jessica had wandered over into the girl's clothing area (we were shopping for Josh) and decided to hide in one of the round display hangers. The relief of finding here was beyond description.
We had a similar experience this afternoon with another "chid." A two-year-old. If you've kept up with my blogs, you know her as Chipper. She normally stays in the back yard and is contented to play by herself. This afternoon, one of the gates didn't shut properly and we heard the wind blow it shut about 30 minutes after going inside. I was almost in a coma watching a baseball game (sorry, those of you who find that sport exciting to watch) and didn't give it much thought. Maybe 15 minutes later we decided to go out for a bite of supper, went to our favorite geezer spot (Hof's Hut where you almost never see anyone under 70 years) and shared a meal. We drove home and decided to take our 2-mile walk, only tonight we'd treat our little girl and take her for a walk. Chipper was nowhere to be found and the back gate was partially open. By now she'd been gone at least an hour and a half.
She's been known to take a "walk about" now and then, but usually we discover her gone rather quickly and almost always find her up at the towers just north of us, a residence for seniors. Sure enough, she'd been there, but they chased her away.For some reason that defies explanation, they are not too comfortable with a 100-pound puppy who loves to jump on you or wrap her leg around your foot when you try to walk away from playing with her. Go figure, huh? We checked a coffee shop further north. She'd been by there as well. Some boys saw her go up another block. By then Janice was chasing leads while I returned home to get the car and cover ground faster. It was then she wandered back into the yard, breathing heavily from her little journey into independence, but safe nonetheless.
It wasn't nearly as traumatic as the thought of losing my 8-year-old daughter ... but in a way, she's the only "child" we have left. The down side of all of this is that Janice and I, at our rapidly advancing age, must now try and remember to keep the gates closed when we go in and out of the yard. That's going to be a challenge to these dying brain cells.
You can imagine the trauma of one of our first trips to the nearest mall in the children's clothing area upstairs in JCPenney. We were looking for school clothes when suddenly Jessica was nowhere to be found. Janice immediately went into "mother mode" while I did the manly thing. I panicked, and did a darn good job of it. Janice began to call out Jessica's name loudly and instructing store personnel to lock the doors and not let anyone out of that store until we found our daughter. As it turned out, Jessica had wandered over into the girl's clothing area (we were shopping for Josh) and decided to hide in one of the round display hangers. The relief of finding here was beyond description.
We had a similar experience this afternoon with another "chid." A two-year-old. If you've kept up with my blogs, you know her as Chipper. She normally stays in the back yard and is contented to play by herself. This afternoon, one of the gates didn't shut properly and we heard the wind blow it shut about 30 minutes after going inside. I was almost in a coma watching a baseball game (sorry, those of you who find that sport exciting to watch) and didn't give it much thought. Maybe 15 minutes later we decided to go out for a bite of supper, went to our favorite geezer spot (Hof's Hut where you almost never see anyone under 70 years) and shared a meal. We drove home and decided to take our 2-mile walk, only tonight we'd treat our little girl and take her for a walk. Chipper was nowhere to be found and the back gate was partially open. By now she'd been gone at least an hour and a half.
She's been known to take a "walk about" now and then, but usually we discover her gone rather quickly and almost always find her up at the towers just north of us, a residence for seniors. Sure enough, she'd been there, but they chased her away.For some reason that defies explanation, they are not too comfortable with a 100-pound puppy who loves to jump on you or wrap her leg around your foot when you try to walk away from playing with her. Go figure, huh? We checked a coffee shop further north. She'd been by there as well. Some boys saw her go up another block. By then Janice was chasing leads while I returned home to get the car and cover ground faster. It was then she wandered back into the yard, breathing heavily from her little journey into independence, but safe nonetheless.
It wasn't nearly as traumatic as the thought of losing my 8-year-old daughter ... but in a way, she's the only "child" we have left. The down side of all of this is that Janice and I, at our rapidly advancing age, must now try and remember to keep the gates closed when we go in and out of the yard. That's going to be a challenge to these dying brain cells.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Randy, I Think I Found Us a Gig!
Last Friday afternoon, my wife and I drove up to Burbank to spend the evening with good friends. We allowed two hours for the 32-mile trip but were able to make it in just under an hour (one never knows in LA traffic, especially the 3 - 5pm rush hour), so we parked under a shade tree and drifted off into the world of books for about an hour while waiting for our friends to meet us at their home.
They were right on time and we were off to a Brazillian feast, and I mean a feast! I'd never been to such a place, but you have all the salads you can possibly want along with some unique cheese rolls. During the course of this culinary adventure, waiters come by the table carrying large skewers of meat: Ribs. Beef. Garlic chicken. Barbequed chicken. Filet mignon, to name a few. You can eat as much of any or all of them as your heart desires and stomach allows. I think I ate just a bit more than my stomach allowed.
After about an hour and a half of this experience, we walked along San Fernando Avenue of beautiful downtown Burbank, enjoying a few unique shops along the way, enjoying one another's company (we don't see our friends enough on a social basis), and enjoying watching others out for a stroll. That, in itself, was interesting because it wasn't too many years back that no one would walk those streets, day or night, without fearing for their safety. Today you see young families, teens, older couples and even geezers such as myself out there with no fear for personal safety.
We looked through an outlet stores that specialized in Italian clothing and, particularly shoes. I know I'm not a fashion statement, but they had dozens of the absolute ugliest shoes I've ever seen! I know the employees there were glad to see me leave. I was less than complimentary of their taste in shoes. We also browsed through a used books store where I found a Stooge trivia book I didn't have. Got it now. A little serendipity for the evening.
Speaking of a serendipity, at one point, we drifted into the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory to sniff around a bit. Jessica had recently teased us with what was left of an apple pie covered caramel apple a few weeks ago and I was looking to see if they had the same offering, like I could eat it after the Brazillian experience. As we were about to leave, a beautiful little girl walked in on her own (actually, her mother was about 3 feet behind her) and went straight to the glass display of candy from heaven. She could not talk, but she was jabbering as fast as she could, eyes wide open, hands slapping the glass front. She was having the time of her life looking at all those sweets. We found out she was 16 months old and candy had never touched her lips. Interesting! Though she had no idea how any of that might taste, she seemed to instinctively know that it was very, very good! She was a sweetheart. I have a feeling our first stroll down the street of gold in heaven will be somewhat similar to her stroll into the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory! Only we'll get to eat the sweets, so to speak.
But the thing that sort of intrigued me the most were the street entertainers. They are pretty much in a world of their own. Two guys were playing guitar and singing a Beatles' song. They were actually pretty good. They call themselves, appropriately so, "The Guys Who Play At the Mall." There were two one-dollar bills and some loose change in the open guitar case, strategically (though not effectively) placed for cash donations. Further down was a guy playing a classical guitar and playing it rather well. We had some Coldstone ice cream (like we needed that) just to ensure we didn't stop short of a monthly caloric intake that evening and started back toward the parking deck. It was then that we heard the last of the street entertainers. A guy w/ his guitar and a kazoo taped to his microphone. He never quite got his guitar in tune but started his show nonetheless. It was horrible! Fortunately I had enough pecan and creme delight ice cream to distract me from his performance.
That's when I decided the next time my friend, Randy (see my link to his blog site ... you'll enjoy reading what he has to say), is in town, we may tire of playing with Chipper and head up to Burbank and do our own little gig on the sidewalk. I know I can at least tune a guitar (w/ the help of my Fender stage tuner) and am very confident we can upstage that guy with out any rehearsal at all. So if you're ever in Southern California on a Friday night and have nothing in particular to do, I'd recommend you have a meal at the Brazillian place and then enjoy some street music in downtown Burbank. You could do a lot worse!
They were right on time and we were off to a Brazillian feast, and I mean a feast! I'd never been to such a place, but you have all the salads you can possibly want along with some unique cheese rolls. During the course of this culinary adventure, waiters come by the table carrying large skewers of meat: Ribs. Beef. Garlic chicken. Barbequed chicken. Filet mignon, to name a few. You can eat as much of any or all of them as your heart desires and stomach allows. I think I ate just a bit more than my stomach allowed.
After about an hour and a half of this experience, we walked along San Fernando Avenue of beautiful downtown Burbank, enjoying a few unique shops along the way, enjoying one another's company (we don't see our friends enough on a social basis), and enjoying watching others out for a stroll. That, in itself, was interesting because it wasn't too many years back that no one would walk those streets, day or night, without fearing for their safety. Today you see young families, teens, older couples and even geezers such as myself out there with no fear for personal safety.
We looked through an outlet stores that specialized in Italian clothing and, particularly shoes. I know I'm not a fashion statement, but they had dozens of the absolute ugliest shoes I've ever seen! I know the employees there were glad to see me leave. I was less than complimentary of their taste in shoes. We also browsed through a used books store where I found a Stooge trivia book I didn't have. Got it now. A little serendipity for the evening.
Speaking of a serendipity, at one point, we drifted into the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory to sniff around a bit. Jessica had recently teased us with what was left of an apple pie covered caramel apple a few weeks ago and I was looking to see if they had the same offering, like I could eat it after the Brazillian experience. As we were about to leave, a beautiful little girl walked in on her own (actually, her mother was about 3 feet behind her) and went straight to the glass display of candy from heaven. She could not talk, but she was jabbering as fast as she could, eyes wide open, hands slapping the glass front. She was having the time of her life looking at all those sweets. We found out she was 16 months old and candy had never touched her lips. Interesting! Though she had no idea how any of that might taste, she seemed to instinctively know that it was very, very good! She was a sweetheart. I have a feeling our first stroll down the street of gold in heaven will be somewhat similar to her stroll into the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory! Only we'll get to eat the sweets, so to speak.
But the thing that sort of intrigued me the most were the street entertainers. They are pretty much in a world of their own. Two guys were playing guitar and singing a Beatles' song. They were actually pretty good. They call themselves, appropriately so, "The Guys Who Play At the Mall." There were two one-dollar bills and some loose change in the open guitar case, strategically (though not effectively) placed for cash donations. Further down was a guy playing a classical guitar and playing it rather well. We had some Coldstone ice cream (like we needed that) just to ensure we didn't stop short of a monthly caloric intake that evening and started back toward the parking deck. It was then that we heard the last of the street entertainers. A guy w/ his guitar and a kazoo taped to his microphone. He never quite got his guitar in tune but started his show nonetheless. It was horrible! Fortunately I had enough pecan and creme delight ice cream to distract me from his performance.
That's when I decided the next time my friend, Randy (see my link to his blog site ... you'll enjoy reading what he has to say), is in town, we may tire of playing with Chipper and head up to Burbank and do our own little gig on the sidewalk. I know I can at least tune a guitar (w/ the help of my Fender stage tuner) and am very confident we can upstage that guy with out any rehearsal at all. So if you're ever in Southern California on a Friday night and have nothing in particular to do, I'd recommend you have a meal at the Brazillian place and then enjoy some street music in downtown Burbank. You could do a lot worse!
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Maybe I'll Keep Preaching
I've been in preaching ministry for 30 years, which I find all but impossible to comprehend. How can I be in the ministry 30 years when I don't feel a day over 25? Anyway, for the past year or so I've been giving a lot of thought to the next chapter in my life. A chapter in which I am not a paid preacher, but just another member who goes to church so I can fuss at the preacher and frustrate the elders over such minor issues as worship style, length of sermons, Sunday School, etc. In other words, be a regular church member.
In this next chapter of my life, I would live somewhere back in the south, work as a funeral director (or greeter at the local Wal Mart), maybe teach part-time at a junior college and try to hang in there long enough to pay off the kid's college loans. You can see why I'm anxious to move into that chapter.
Well, Friday evening I was listening to a lecture by Rick Atchley and David Stone that was given at the Pepperdine lectureship last month. Rick preaches for the largest church of Christ in our fellowship and Stone preaches for the largest Christian church in our fellowship. Both men have had offers for other employment outside of pulpit preaching. Both have declined the offers for the same reason. They love preaching! Atchley explained how he is motivated by the scene near Caesarea Philippi where Jesus asks his disciples, "Who do men say that I am?" Peter replies, "You are Messiah, Son of the Living God." Jesus then says that upon that confession he would build his church and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.
Rick says the most exciting experience of life is in the future when Jesus comes back and takes his church, flawed as we are, and assaults the very gates of hell ... and we will be victorious! What could possibly be more exciting than helping believers prepare for that day and that assault?! Rick touched my heart to the point I've been having second thoughts this weekend about my plans to leave preaching to others and move into another aspect of ministry.
So this morning as I closed my sermon regarding the function of the church, I shared with my church family my thought processes over the past few months ... my dreams of moving out of ministry and into other work ... and how Rick's teaching is giving me second thoughts, to the point that I now find myself thinking of staying in ministry after all. They applauded! Completely took me by surprise.
God has an interesting way of speaking to us through others, doesn't he? I guess that's why we make our plans in pencil and give God the right of erasure.
In this next chapter of my life, I would live somewhere back in the south, work as a funeral director (or greeter at the local Wal Mart), maybe teach part-time at a junior college and try to hang in there long enough to pay off the kid's college loans. You can see why I'm anxious to move into that chapter.
Well, Friday evening I was listening to a lecture by Rick Atchley and David Stone that was given at the Pepperdine lectureship last month. Rick preaches for the largest church of Christ in our fellowship and Stone preaches for the largest Christian church in our fellowship. Both men have had offers for other employment outside of pulpit preaching. Both have declined the offers for the same reason. They love preaching! Atchley explained how he is motivated by the scene near Caesarea Philippi where Jesus asks his disciples, "Who do men say that I am?" Peter replies, "You are Messiah, Son of the Living God." Jesus then says that upon that confession he would build his church and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.
Rick says the most exciting experience of life is in the future when Jesus comes back and takes his church, flawed as we are, and assaults the very gates of hell ... and we will be victorious! What could possibly be more exciting than helping believers prepare for that day and that assault?! Rick touched my heart to the point I've been having second thoughts this weekend about my plans to leave preaching to others and move into another aspect of ministry.
So this morning as I closed my sermon regarding the function of the church, I shared with my church family my thought processes over the past few months ... my dreams of moving out of ministry and into other work ... and how Rick's teaching is giving me second thoughts, to the point that I now find myself thinking of staying in ministry after all. They applauded! Completely took me by surprise.
God has an interesting way of speaking to us through others, doesn't he? I guess that's why we make our plans in pencil and give God the right of erasure.
Friday, June 03, 2005
CFBC
In my short 52 years of inhabiting this earth, I've been amazed at life's cycles. In another life (pre-40 years), I preached for a small church on the east coast of central Florida and worked one week each summer at Central Florida Bible Camp. The first two years were ... how do I say this ... a less-than-desirable experience. That particular week of camp had been run for 20 years by an older, rather traditional minister who remained quite popular in spite of his years. That surprised me considering ....
.... Camp under his dynasty included 4 bible classes each day. Campers were not allowed to wear short pants during those four hours of class. Can you imagine summer camp in central Florida (we were not near either coast ... this was as middle of the state central Florida as one could be) and having to wear long pants until mid-afternoon, and then only for sports? Classes, devotionals, worship, and meals required long pants.
When he retired, we went to a co-directorship of myself and my friend, Steve Puckett, affectionately known as "The Puckster." Steve has preached for the same church in Melbourne, FL, for almost 25 years. Then we were joined by a third close friend, Cecil Walker (see his blog link on this page, West Cocoa Chat). The three of us directed that week of camp for about 6 years, as I recall. Steve and Cecil continue to direct the "SpaceCoast Encampment." Our children grew up going to a camp for campers much older than they, but you would never know it. Camp was the highlight of their year! A week away from home. To some extent, away from both mom and dad. A week with their closest church friends. It was a bit of heaven on earth.
Camp there is different from camp in California. Camp here is almost a sterile experience in comparison. I remember several early mornings, looking across the lake at the bottom of the hill and seeing an alligator glide across the glassy surface.
And those dastardly pranks that directors abhor, although not encouraged at CFBC, were nonetheless expected for no other reason than Director Walker's wife was the main prankstress. I should say "alleged," but I know better, for my wife was just as guilty. In spite of the alligators and occasional sighting of a coral snake (the most deadly snake in North America) it was always an environment of fun.
There, we played "Capture the Flag" at midnight with everyone dressed in dark clothes. We had ball games where the bases were wading pools filled with soapy water. We had a slip-n-slide made of plastic sheeting, cheap dish soap, and running water. The "slide" was down a rather steep hill just outside the director's cabin. You stopped when you hit grass (so you wore long pants to temper the friction burns) or one of several trees at the bottom! Amazingly, the injuries were few and always minor.
California? ... When we tried to introduce some of the fun from Florida, the camp staff here looked at us as if we'd come in on the latest space ship from a galaxy far, far away. My daughter, Jessica, loved camp here. Josh (my son), for the most part, hated it. They both returned to work on staff several years, but Josh always compared the sterile camp here with the fun in Florida and could never quite embrace the difference.
Yesterday morning, I took Jessica to LAX to catch her first solo flight (without family) back to Florida where she will work on staff at CFBC SpaceCoast Encampment next week. She is quite excited about "going home" and spending about 10 days with our closer-than-family friends, Cecil and Barbara Walker and their son / our nephew, Steven. I can't wait to hear how CFBC at 20 years of age and a staff counselor compares to her childhood memories of being a camper from 6 months of age until 7 years.
Most of all, I just look forward to having her home again.
On another subject altogether, today - Friday, June 3 - is National Donut Day. Would someone out there please explain to me why this is not a federally observed, take-the-day-off, national holiday?
.... Camp under his dynasty included 4 bible classes each day. Campers were not allowed to wear short pants during those four hours of class. Can you imagine summer camp in central Florida (we were not near either coast ... this was as middle of the state central Florida as one could be) and having to wear long pants until mid-afternoon, and then only for sports? Classes, devotionals, worship, and meals required long pants.
When he retired, we went to a co-directorship of myself and my friend, Steve Puckett, affectionately known as "The Puckster." Steve has preached for the same church in Melbourne, FL, for almost 25 years. Then we were joined by a third close friend, Cecil Walker (see his blog link on this page, West Cocoa Chat). The three of us directed that week of camp for about 6 years, as I recall. Steve and Cecil continue to direct the "SpaceCoast Encampment." Our children grew up going to a camp for campers much older than they, but you would never know it. Camp was the highlight of their year! A week away from home. To some extent, away from both mom and dad. A week with their closest church friends. It was a bit of heaven on earth.
Camp there is different from camp in California. Camp here is almost a sterile experience in comparison. I remember several early mornings, looking across the lake at the bottom of the hill and seeing an alligator glide across the glassy surface.
And those dastardly pranks that directors abhor, although not encouraged at CFBC, were nonetheless expected for no other reason than Director Walker's wife was the main prankstress. I should say "alleged," but I know better, for my wife was just as guilty. In spite of the alligators and occasional sighting of a coral snake (the most deadly snake in North America) it was always an environment of fun.
There, we played "Capture the Flag" at midnight with everyone dressed in dark clothes. We had ball games where the bases were wading pools filled with soapy water. We had a slip-n-slide made of plastic sheeting, cheap dish soap, and running water. The "slide" was down a rather steep hill just outside the director's cabin. You stopped when you hit grass (so you wore long pants to temper the friction burns) or one of several trees at the bottom! Amazingly, the injuries were few and always minor.
California? ... When we tried to introduce some of the fun from Florida, the camp staff here looked at us as if we'd come in on the latest space ship from a galaxy far, far away. My daughter, Jessica, loved camp here. Josh (my son), for the most part, hated it. They both returned to work on staff several years, but Josh always compared the sterile camp here with the fun in Florida and could never quite embrace the difference.
Yesterday morning, I took Jessica to LAX to catch her first solo flight (without family) back to Florida where she will work on staff at CFBC SpaceCoast Encampment next week. She is quite excited about "going home" and spending about 10 days with our closer-than-family friends, Cecil and Barbara Walker and their son / our nephew, Steven. I can't wait to hear how CFBC at 20 years of age and a staff counselor compares to her childhood memories of being a camper from 6 months of age until 7 years.
Most of all, I just look forward to having her home again.
On another subject altogether, today - Friday, June 3 - is National Donut Day. Would someone out there please explain to me why this is not a federally observed, take-the-day-off, national holiday?
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Riverside National
As most of my friends and family know, I have two part-time jobs. The first I've had for just over 12 years, preaching for the Long Beach Church. Well, if you ask my friend, Tom, he'd tell you I only work part-time. The other is for a local mortuary, Stricklin-Snively. Depending on the need, I work evening viewings (which means sitting at a desk for four hours with absolutely nothing to do but rearrange objects on said desk) or drive the limo or assist the funeral director with a service, or direct the service with someone assisting me, or deliver a body to other mortuaries or to a cemetery. Least in the pecking order of the profession is delivering flowers ... just above being responsible for keeping the mortuary vehicles washed and serviced. Of them all, I prefer working part-time for the church!
We are often called on for burials at Riverside National Cemetery, about 70 miles east of Long Beach. Riverside is reportedly the busiest cemetery in our nation, averaging as many as 60 services a day, seven days a week. That's a sad statistic when you consider how many dying veterans (or a spouse) that requires. They schedule services about every 13 minutes and if you are scheduled for, say, a 1:06 service and you show up at 1:10, you can go home and re-schedule your service. Fortunately, that's never happened to me. I did take a family over last year only to learn that our paperwork had been messed up in cyber-space and they had no record of our having a service, though we had a record from them! You just wouldn't think anything run by the government could go so wrong, would you?! But they accommodated us and eventually buried the body.
Recently I took a very nice family from Chicago over to Riverside for the burial of an aunt (spouse to a veteran already buried there). As usual, we left with plenty of time to make the drive in So. California traffic (if you doubt the concept of eternal punishment, come drive in this traffic for a week!) and arrived with about 15 minutes to spare. The family was not too sure exactly what religion is and was quite vague as to what religious faith they might happen to subscribe to, so they requested a cemetery chaplain to do the service. I am still amazed at the number of people (and I often get them) who want a Christian burial, but if you mention the name of Jesus, they assume you're referring to an Hispanic man and will let you know it should be pronounced "Hay-zoos." They have no idea who Jesus is let alone have any relationship to him.
To their credit, this was a most forgiving family. The A/C on the limo malfunctioned about 10 miles into the 140 mile round-trip and it was not a pleasant drive over. Riverside is usually very hot this time of year. For that matter, any time of year. The good Lord gave us a cloud cover for the return trip so it was far more bearable. The cool breeze in Riverside that day was heaven-sent. I think God was trying to show them he exists and he cares. I'd love to know if they got the message. I mentioned that he'd sent us a beautiful and cool day after such a miserable ride over. They just smiled.
During the service, the rent-a-preacher went through his prescribed ritual, having to finally be corrected by the family during a prayer for continually using the wrong name for the deceased! (If you're getting $150 to read a 10 minute ritual, seems to me the least one can do is get the name correct. I did another funeral for a man named Francis and the priest referred to this man as a "Frances" -feminine gender- the entire service!) The priest asked a question I know I would have regretted had I been in his shoes. He asked if he could be of any further assistance to them (after having botched the name repeatedly). The nephew asked, "Would you mind saying the 23rd Psalm?" The priest, retired from decades of parish ministry, replied, "I have that at home, but I don't know it by heart. I'm sorry." End of service.
I wanted to say the psalm for them, but hesitated to further embarrass this humble "man of God" so I kept quiet. I've often wondered if maybe I should have gone ahead and granted the family's final wish for their aunt.
Just another day in the ministry / funeral business.
We are often called on for burials at Riverside National Cemetery, about 70 miles east of Long Beach. Riverside is reportedly the busiest cemetery in our nation, averaging as many as 60 services a day, seven days a week. That's a sad statistic when you consider how many dying veterans (or a spouse) that requires. They schedule services about every 13 minutes and if you are scheduled for, say, a 1:06 service and you show up at 1:10, you can go home and re-schedule your service. Fortunately, that's never happened to me. I did take a family over last year only to learn that our paperwork had been messed up in cyber-space and they had no record of our having a service, though we had a record from them! You just wouldn't think anything run by the government could go so wrong, would you?! But they accommodated us and eventually buried the body.
Recently I took a very nice family from Chicago over to Riverside for the burial of an aunt (spouse to a veteran already buried there). As usual, we left with plenty of time to make the drive in So. California traffic (if you doubt the concept of eternal punishment, come drive in this traffic for a week!) and arrived with about 15 minutes to spare. The family was not too sure exactly what religion is and was quite vague as to what religious faith they might happen to subscribe to, so they requested a cemetery chaplain to do the service. I am still amazed at the number of people (and I often get them) who want a Christian burial, but if you mention the name of Jesus, they assume you're referring to an Hispanic man and will let you know it should be pronounced "Hay-zoos." They have no idea who Jesus is let alone have any relationship to him.
To their credit, this was a most forgiving family. The A/C on the limo malfunctioned about 10 miles into the 140 mile round-trip and it was not a pleasant drive over. Riverside is usually very hot this time of year. For that matter, any time of year. The good Lord gave us a cloud cover for the return trip so it was far more bearable. The cool breeze in Riverside that day was heaven-sent. I think God was trying to show them he exists and he cares. I'd love to know if they got the message. I mentioned that he'd sent us a beautiful and cool day after such a miserable ride over. They just smiled.
During the service, the rent-a-preacher went through his prescribed ritual, having to finally be corrected by the family during a prayer for continually using the wrong name for the deceased! (If you're getting $150 to read a 10 minute ritual, seems to me the least one can do is get the name correct. I did another funeral for a man named Francis and the priest referred to this man as a "Frances" -feminine gender- the entire service!) The priest asked a question I know I would have regretted had I been in his shoes. He asked if he could be of any further assistance to them (after having botched the name repeatedly). The nephew asked, "Would you mind saying the 23rd Psalm?" The priest, retired from decades of parish ministry, replied, "I have that at home, but I don't know it by heart. I'm sorry." End of service.
I wanted to say the psalm for them, but hesitated to further embarrass this humble "man of God" so I kept quiet. I've often wondered if maybe I should have gone ahead and granted the family's final wish for their aunt.
Just another day in the ministry / funeral business.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Beware of the Swings
Trying to decide what to do with a long weekend, our family decided to spend a day at a local theme park, Knott's Berry Farm. It's been at least five years since I was last there and I don't handle many of the rides outside of "Camp Snoopy," but I wanted to be with my children. We'd heard Memorial Day was a rather quiet day for Knott's so we made our plans ... which included getting discount tickets at a local fast food place.
Then Josh learned that his first day on his new full-time job would be Monday. Memorial Day. So we pushed our schedule back to Sunday afternoon. Short sermon (right!) ... quick lunch ... and we can get in, say, 8 hours of fun. The sermon was short, but it was Missions Sunday, so the offering filled in any savings my short sermon might have gained. But that's okay ... our missionaries need all the support they can get.
We headed out to Knott's after a less-than-delicious, yet nutrition-free, lunch at McDonalds. We took a couple of guys from church along with us. Jordan, graduating from high school and entering Pepperdine on a water-polo scholarship and Nick, who graduated a couple of years ago and works at a motorcycle dealership. Fun guys. They quickly mapped out the afternoon, strategically deciding on which ride to take on first, depending on length of lines and wait time. Me? I was content to watch people ride the "Perilous Plunge" ... a "boat" ride up to a height of about Mount Everest and then a straight drop down before leveling out in a small pool so that 150 morons standing on a bridge just ahead could get completely soaked along with everyone in the boat. Earlier, so the story is told, a rather obese lady fell out of the boat at the height of the ride and died. No one in our group was interested in dying at Knott's Berry Farm on Memorial Day weekend, so they opted to ride less dangerous rides ... such as the one that shoots you out of the gate at 85 miles an hour, straight up a loop that towers over anything this side of Arizona, and drops you straight down about 200 feet. No thanks!
Jan and I did ride the log flume, but then most pre-schoolers will take on that ride. We also did the Jaguar, which is a moderate roller-coaster. Most of our time was spent watching Josh, Jessica, Jordan and Nick take on rides designed and engineered in the depths of hell itself. I was impressed that my daughter was game to ride anything. They kept pushing me to try the "Silver Bullet." I watched it a couple of times and blew off their line that "it's the smoothest, quietest ride in the park." True. But it still turns you upside down, inside out, and backwards and hits G-forces that would make an astronaut faint. I told them I would get just as wet on that ride as others were on the "Perilous Plunge," and there's no water involved on the "Silver Bullet." Why embarrass myself by spewing human waste products all over Knott's Berry Farm and innocent bystanders, not to mention the traffic on the 91 freeway just about a half mile away?
We completed the day at the swing ride. Now Jordan has riden everything in the park, but he shook with fear at the very thought of getting on the swings. Honestly! He has some kind of fear that goes back to childhood of a swing coming loose and throwing him across Knott Avenue. We finally convinced him to ride the swings ... "if all of us ride together." When it came our turn, Janice and I were the only ones to get a swing. (Far too many younger children wanting to ride this attraction.) So Jordan, Jessica and Nick waited for the next group. Josh opted not to try and fit into a swing designed for Barbie and Ken dolls. It was tight. We rode and rode and rode and rode. Eventually the swings came to a stop and we got off to watch Jordan freak out on the easiest ride in California. The operator then informed us that the swings had malfunctioned and would not stop, which is why we got the extra-long ride. Jordan escaped the dreaded swings once again. After a quick trip through Camp Snoopy where Jordan was asked by park employees to please get off the rides and let the children have them, we left for a late supper at Claim Jumper.
If you're ever near a Claim Jumper and it's late evening but you decide a small salad and bowl of their famous steak chili wouldn't hurt, then you should go stand on the bridge overlooking the pool at the end of the "Perilous Plunge" ride! I ate half a small bowl (shared it with my wife who, for the past five years has forbade me from eating a complete meal without her help) of the chili and half a salad and spent most of Sunday night with heart burn, indigestion, acid reflux, or maybe just a mild heart attack. Could have been a combination of all the above, I never was sure what was causing the pain and burning.
That's our Memorial Day weekend. One I'll long remember.
Then Josh learned that his first day on his new full-time job would be Monday. Memorial Day. So we pushed our schedule back to Sunday afternoon. Short sermon (right!) ... quick lunch ... and we can get in, say, 8 hours of fun. The sermon was short, but it was Missions Sunday, so the offering filled in any savings my short sermon might have gained. But that's okay ... our missionaries need all the support they can get.
We headed out to Knott's after a less-than-delicious, yet nutrition-free, lunch at McDonalds. We took a couple of guys from church along with us. Jordan, graduating from high school and entering Pepperdine on a water-polo scholarship and Nick, who graduated a couple of years ago and works at a motorcycle dealership. Fun guys. They quickly mapped out the afternoon, strategically deciding on which ride to take on first, depending on length of lines and wait time. Me? I was content to watch people ride the "Perilous Plunge" ... a "boat" ride up to a height of about Mount Everest and then a straight drop down before leveling out in a small pool so that 150 morons standing on a bridge just ahead could get completely soaked along with everyone in the boat. Earlier, so the story is told, a rather obese lady fell out of the boat at the height of the ride and died. No one in our group was interested in dying at Knott's Berry Farm on Memorial Day weekend, so they opted to ride less dangerous rides ... such as the one that shoots you out of the gate at 85 miles an hour, straight up a loop that towers over anything this side of Arizona, and drops you straight down about 200 feet. No thanks!
Jan and I did ride the log flume, but then most pre-schoolers will take on that ride. We also did the Jaguar, which is a moderate roller-coaster. Most of our time was spent watching Josh, Jessica, Jordan and Nick take on rides designed and engineered in the depths of hell itself. I was impressed that my daughter was game to ride anything. They kept pushing me to try the "Silver Bullet." I watched it a couple of times and blew off their line that "it's the smoothest, quietest ride in the park." True. But it still turns you upside down, inside out, and backwards and hits G-forces that would make an astronaut faint. I told them I would get just as wet on that ride as others were on the "Perilous Plunge," and there's no water involved on the "Silver Bullet." Why embarrass myself by spewing human waste products all over Knott's Berry Farm and innocent bystanders, not to mention the traffic on the 91 freeway just about a half mile away?
We completed the day at the swing ride. Now Jordan has riden everything in the park, but he shook with fear at the very thought of getting on the swings. Honestly! He has some kind of fear that goes back to childhood of a swing coming loose and throwing him across Knott Avenue. We finally convinced him to ride the swings ... "if all of us ride together." When it came our turn, Janice and I were the only ones to get a swing. (Far too many younger children wanting to ride this attraction.) So Jordan, Jessica and Nick waited for the next group. Josh opted not to try and fit into a swing designed for Barbie and Ken dolls. It was tight. We rode and rode and rode and rode. Eventually the swings came to a stop and we got off to watch Jordan freak out on the easiest ride in California. The operator then informed us that the swings had malfunctioned and would not stop, which is why we got the extra-long ride. Jordan escaped the dreaded swings once again. After a quick trip through Camp Snoopy where Jordan was asked by park employees to please get off the rides and let the children have them, we left for a late supper at Claim Jumper.
If you're ever near a Claim Jumper and it's late evening but you decide a small salad and bowl of their famous steak chili wouldn't hurt, then you should go stand on the bridge overlooking the pool at the end of the "Perilous Plunge" ride! I ate half a small bowl (shared it with my wife who, for the past five years has forbade me from eating a complete meal without her help) of the chili and half a salad and spent most of Sunday night with heart burn, indigestion, acid reflux, or maybe just a mild heart attack. Could have been a combination of all the above, I never was sure what was causing the pain and burning.
That's our Memorial Day weekend. One I'll long remember.
