Mom's House

We had a great estate sale about a month ago at Mom's house. Amazingly, only a few small items didn't sell. We had a couple of investors make bids on buying the house, but not surprisingly, their offers were low. My siblings and I want to be rid of the house (note: did it quit being a "home" when Mom died?), but we also don't want to just wash our hands of it and allow someone else to make all the profit.

About 12 days ago, we noticed that the tile in the utility room was buckling and there was a nice "bubble" forming in the adjacent kitchen tile. Oh, no. Water had leaked from the now-sold washing machine and we had a problem...because the tile from the kitchen wrapped through the breakfast nook, around a bar, and throughout the den. Nothing to do but replace it. But Mom was in good hands with Allstate (nothing like the good hands that comfort her now!) and the financial hit wasn't onerous. In fact, it's probably a blessing that now this house will have something new in it to help it sell.

When the rooms had been cleared of furniture, the obligatory bumps, bruises, scrapes, marks, and bomb craters of 46 years were exposed. Dad had Parkinson's, and sadly there are a couple of dents in the walls where he had fallen hard. But my siblings and I had long since decided that we weren't going to put a lot of time and effort into sprucing the place up. However, the longer I looked at those walls, the more of a punch to the gut the neat freak in me was taking. Finally, I could take it no more. Last night, I had Carole pick out the color and we bought some paint, man! And today, while the tile crew was ripping out the old tile, I was slathering "Sesame" on the walls of the living room, cackling like a hyena.

At my age, painting hurts. Hey, anything hurts. But on the ectasy scale, the joy of covering up scars and blemishes ranks right up there with O.J. going to prison. Tomorrow (Saturday), Carole and I plan to return and paint until we're silly.

I just hope the prospective buyers didn't want "Guacamole" instead of "Sesame".

The doctor will see you now...well, maybe later

I think one of the hardest things a Christian has to decide is when to be confrontational. Of course we should be confrontational when confronting sin. But what about those other situations that seem to pop up in our lives with regularity?

I had a busy morning planned out for today. Leave the bus lot 30 minutes early (and lose half-an-hour's pay) so I could be at my orthopedic's office for a 9 AM appointment. I figured it would be quick because all I needed was another elbow cortisone injection. Then, I would meet up with Carole and Macie and head over to Garland for a 10:30 app't with a floor tile guy. We planned to be back at the house a little after 11:30 for lunch.

Well, I didn't get called out of the waiting room until 10:07, exactly 67 minutes late. The assistant walked me past the doctor who was standing at a counter, writing something in a patient's folder. As we approached the doc, the assistant asked me how I was doing. In a voice loud enough for the doctor to hear, I said, "Well, y'all are 67 minutes late and I'll have to cancel a 10:30 appointment, but other than that, I'm doing great." A few minutes later, a tech x-rayed my elbow and he also inquired as to how I was doing. I told him. Then he correctly put me in my place by saying he was sorry, but that this wasn't his fault. For the first time in many minutes, I started to cool off.

Later, I was escorted to the observation room to wait on the doctor to see me. I noticed there was a Bible over there by the stack of generic magazines. That caused me to wonder about how to handle a situation like this. The doctor clearly was doing his patients a disservice by over-scheduling - you know, booking 3 patients for each quarter-hour so that you start off behind and the mess grows exponentially the rest of the day. But do I confront him? Is it always the Christian thing to do to avoid situations like this? I decided that I had already made my feelings known once to him - when I had walked behind him. I opted to not to say anything and wait and see if he came in and apologized.

He didn't. He was cheery and caring, asking all sorts of questions about the swimming activities that have led to me getting tennis elbow in each arm. The best I could figure out was that he was that he was going to take the high ground...but not apologize. I got the shot (did I feel him sticking it in unnecessarily deep?) and that was that. As another assistant escorted me out, he apologized quietly for the time I had lost.

These are difficult situations for me. For one, I hate confrontations. Two, I never seem to know WWJD. Would He demand a high standard of behavior for all with whom He interracted on a daily basis? Or would He be pleasant and smiling regardless of the circumstances? I'd love to hear how you handle situations like I faced today.

Walter Hoye sentenced today...

If you read the previous blog entry and want to know what happened today at the sentencing of the Baptist minister, click on the link below.

<http://www.insidebayarea.com/oaklandtribune/localnews/ci_11743601>

Trying to stop the baby killers is dangerous...

On May 18 of last year, a black Baptist minister in Oakland, California was arrested for obstructing the normal business operations of an abortion clinic. Amazingly, a jury convicted him on two of the four counts being considered. He faces sentencing on Thursday of this week at 1:30.

So, what was Walter Hoye doing? He was walking back and forth in front of the clinic holding a sign that read, "Jesus loves you and your baby. We can help." At no time was he confrontational, at no time did he cause any trouble. He was merely exercising freedom of speech. Click on the link below and see a quick video of what he was doing that day. Note the lady trying desperately to block the message on his sign...she works for the clinic.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dcKPndbwKsg

Please pray that the judge will be lenient. Pastor Hoye could get two years in jail and be fined $4000. Given what we know about California judges, he may be in real trouble. Pray for a miracle.

The King is Coming...Here!

For the folks in the Dallas area...did you see the sunset tonight (Friday)? It was an easy "top 5-er". Of course, I've seen 30 or 40 "top 5-er" sunsets so the math is funny. I couldn't take my eyes off the rear-view mirror as I drove eastbound on I-30. Is there any place other than the sky where orange, pink, and blue go together?

I've come to believe, after reading a number of brilliant books on this, that our heavenly home will be right here, "here" being a new earth, an earth that has been renewed, redone, restored, reinvigorated, and re-everythinged (see Rev. 21). I think what God is doing with us on this "old earth", if you will, is giving us glimpses of the glory that will be on display in the New Jerusalem. He's giving us a tease, as they say in the mass media. When I see the ultimate sunset here on this earth, God is merely showing me what He is capable of...a gem dropped from a jeweled crown. He's not showing us His full hand - no, that would remove any and all doubt from us and not leave any room for faith. It's much better for Him to dangle glory in front of us in small portions. Those lucky guys John and Paul, who did get a glimpse across the river, had their descriptive powers fail them when it was time to write about what they'd seen.

It's been decided here, under our roof, that we will return to Vermont this October for the sixth time, with the sole purpose of seeing trees color up with such fervor that your eyeballs scream for mercy. Some folks don't get it. The only time I did this trip alone was 1988, and the lady next to me on the plane from Chicago to Albany was the talkative sort who quickly got into some serious prying. She found out where I was from and then wanted to know what business was bringing me to New England. "I'm coming to see the leaves." Well, you could have knocked her over with one of those leaves. "All the way from Dallas to see leaves?" "Yep."

And when I see a Vermont vista like the one above, my will to walk with God gets stronger. 'Cause I don't want to miss the real show. The best is yet to come and babe, won't it be fine!

Surprise trip

I've been sitting on a couple of free round trip tickets from Southwest Airlines, good until the end of '09, wondering how best to use them. I have enough miles on our AAdvantage program for Carole and me to take a trip later this year, so I was free to plan a trip of some sort that didn't have to include her. So I was sittin' around Saturday when it hit me: go to Surprise!

All my life I've wanted to go to a Texas Ranger spring training, but circumstances were never right. Well, I have Spring Break coming, I've got two free tickets...now's the time! So I called Blake. Sorry, Brett, maybe next time. Blake, of course, was as ecstatic as a hobo with a baloney sandwich. He'd had the same dream of sitting in the warm, spring sun, basking in the warmth of the greatest game ever designed. A quick check with our wives to see if this was okay with them (an incredibly essential and smart thing to do), and full of unselfishness, they gave us their blessing.

So we'll be flying out to Phoenix and then to the strangely named suburb of Surprise, an oasis of green diamonds where millionaire ballplayers assemble every spring to work the kinks out. Another item scratched off my bucket list.

Step Back, Please

I thought it might be interesting to do this: tell me where you were (geographically speaking) and what you were doing 20 years ago this month.

Ice Fog

The temperature this morning was in the mid-20's and fog had settled in during the night. It was perfectly calm. I was driving home after a frenetic rush hour experience...it had taken over an hour and a half to ferry my students from the first bus stop to the school. There were traffic jams all along the interstates and we crept along for so long that
the kids had finished all their homework that was due today.

So I get about a half-mile from home and find myself driving into a magical kingdom (sorry, Walt). It was as though God had sprayed all the vegetation with a fine mist - which then coated everything with the most delicate ice imaginable. Scenes which usually were ordinary now overwhelmed my eyes. I told Carole about it when I arrived home and she had to come see what I was having trouble describing. So we loaded up Macie, grabbed my camera, and drove two minutes from the house to this wonderland. Here are some pictures we took:

Back at it

It had been a wonderful day. School called off because of ice. Slept late. Ran errands. Go upstairs to clean up a bedroom. Took a regular step, carrying nothing. Suddenly lower back goes into spasm. I pulled something, obviously. Now I'm walking like Walter Matthau. Evening plans shot. It had been a wonderful day. Being 60 is a daily adventure.

Down is up...

It's a banner day for the baby-killers as Obama, by executive order, has lifted the ban on U.S. money funding international abortion centers. This is wrong on so many levels that I'll just let it stand on its own demerit. Again, I am so puzzled by the support this guy got from believers. Is the "change" that they found so appealing?

And, have any of you run into folks who are excited by Obama's wish to close Gitmo? Now this makes great sense. After all, we've been cruel to the prisoners there - the ones, you know, who are cold-blooded terrorists. Let's trot them over to the U. S. and put them on trial here (good luck rounding up witnesses to their crimes). If just one of these losers manages to be set free and then does something very Islamic, like murder 1000 innocents, won't we be so proud that we were so careful about their human rights?

Up is down, down is up these days.

Honoring MLK

When I was teaching at my urban middle school, there were always three occasions that drove me nuts: MLK day, Black History Month, and Cinco de Mayo. Here's why. Can we agree that we are all Americans? Should we agree that assigning ethnic labels to groups of Americans (like African-Americans, Mexican-Americans, etc.) does nothing in the way of improving our national pride and togetherness? I say "Yes" to both questions.

What I saw happening during these three occasions was a celebration of "look how we are different from you" mentality, further driving wedges among the varied groups within our great nation. I think Dr. King should be honored in a huge way. All celebration, however, should be about his courage and his message of non-violence. I attended assemblies at my school that were supposed to about MLK. What I heard from the black speakers brought in was a frightening message about how awful white folks are. Not "were", but "are". Once we trucked in John Wiley Price...and he refused to stand for the national anthem. I really wanted to do something, anything, at that point to change the way the message was going to come down. But I was badly out-numbered, so I kept my seat.

February is Black History Month, designed to honor significant black people and their contributions to society. The idea is to somehow make amends for the all of the history books written prior to 1970 that excluded black heroes and their amazing accomplishments. But the deal is that all the history books have not only been fixed but have become overloaded with pages honoring the contributions of minorities. What I'd like to see is a movement emphasizing our shared allegiance to our country. Aren't we all products of people who immigrated (one way or another, even forced) to this continent?

You may see where I'm headed. I'd love to replace these 3 occasions with programs that simply honor America. Bring in some wounded veterans and let them tell their stories...and try to give the kids a sense of the cost of freedom. Have a "Constitution Month", where every facet of this great document is heralded and all our wonderful freedoms are analyzed for their brilliance. And instead of treating all wars as bad, explain the terrible threats that forced us respond in wars past. Arrange field trips to cemeteries, where students can see the gravestones of those who perished so that we might be free.

Sadly, anyone brandishing ideas such as these within the educational realm is quickly branded as a racist. And trying to explain patriotism these days immediately gets shouted down. I sincerely hope that this is just a sign of the times, a cycle if you will, that the country must go through to get to a better place.

Now that was cool...

There had never been a successful water landing of a commercial airliner...until yesterday. The more we find out about this amazing incident, the more one thing becomes boldly apparent...the pilots did something that borders on impossible. Chesley Sullenberger and Jeff Skiles represent the incredible skill that sits up there in the front of the plane. Sullenberger is himself a "check pilot". All pilots have a semi-annual "check" flight in which they are graded by someone who could be called a master pilot. Fail the flight and you are pulled off the line for more training.

The fortunate passengers had perhaps the best pilot possible for what happened to them. Not only is Sully a check pilot, he owns a company devoted to airline safety. A former F-4 Phantom fighter jock. And a very cool customer. The Hudson River appears wide but from where the plane was when all this came down (so to speak), it must have looked like a dirty silver ribbon. Sully made this "landing" as gentle as snow falling on a calm wintry day. Had either wing been tilted down a bit, it no doubt would have sheared off and the enormous load of fuel would have exploded. Didn't happen. The relatively calm manner in which the passengers exited the fuselage is a credit to the whole crew of five. Skiles, the co-pilot, even gave one of the passengers the shirt off his back.

Since I'm an aviation geek and a frustrated pilot wanna-be, I've always held these men and women in high esteem - right up there with brain surgeons and missionaries to Burkina Fasso. One of the highlights of my life was a tour given me of a privately owned Saudi 747. I had been invited by the owner's publicist to photograph the takeoff of the plane at Love Field, where it had been idle for 17 months having an $80 million refurbishing. Yeah, $80 million. There was an amazing amount of gold used...in the bathroom sinks, along the walls, and even the seat-belt buckles. My tour guides were the two pilots, both retired 747 captains from United Airlines. What blew me away was how deferential and obsequious their treatment toward me was. They acted like I were the cool person, not them. When the tour was over (20 minutes worth), I thanked them profusely.

Yeah, they are the really cool ones. Thank you Sully and Jeff for reinforcing what I already believed - pilots are as cool as the other side of the pillow.

So, what about Paradise?

I've been reading Surprised by Hope by imminent theologian N.T. Wright. It is an extremely tough read since Wright writes a lot like Paul...lots of extra long sentences filled with long words and references to people and things with which he thinks I'm familiar. But I love what he says about the afterlife, not only because it makes me really anticipate what God has in store for us, but because there is strong scriptural basis for his beliefs.

I may use several blog entries to shine the light on Wright's views of heaven. If you think we are destined to float among the clouds in an endless, spirit-like, nebulous way for eternity, you'll be thrilled with what he says.

There's not room in a blog entry to fully develop what Wright says about paradise. So instead, let me drop some random statements he makes on the subject:

All departed Christians are in substantially the same state, that of restful happiness. Though this is sometimes described as sleep, we shouldn't take this to mean that it is a state of unconsciousness. Rather "sleep" here means that the body is "asleep" in the sense of "dead", while the real person - however we want to describe him or her - continues.

This state is not, clearly, the final destiny for which the Christian dead are bound, which is the bodily resurrection. But it is a state in which the dead are held firmly within the conscious love of God and the conscious presence of Jesus Christ while they await that day.

I do not, however, find in the New Testament or in the earliest Christian fathers any suggestion that those at present in heaven or (if you prefer) paradise are actively engaged in praying for those of us in the present life. Nor do I find any suggestion that Christians who are still alive should pray to the saints to intercede to the Father on their behalf.

Dealing with history...

It's been a mellow exercise, this business of sifting through the lives of our parents, both of whom are denizens of paradise at the moment. The boxes and scrapbooks may be dusty on the outside, but inside there is gold. So many black-and-white photos have seemingly appeared out of thin air...since none of us has ever seen them before. So many of them show a terribly young couple, he - sharp and spiffy in his military uniform, the one that had the belt around the middle of the coat...she - tall, statuesque, proper...both smiling like there's no tomorrow; and for all they knew, what with a war going on, there might not be...

What to throw away, what to keep. Will there be a great-great-grandchild who digs history and draws family trees in quiet moments? Someone who would savor these pictures and other things, the letters we've found, the cards to each other, the tangible evidences of commitment in an age when that was the norm, not that love-it-and-leave-it mentality which pervades our society. Is the attic really a suitable place for a scrapbook with pictures of their early parenthood, beaming ear-to-ear while holding their firstborn, or do you make sure that every great-grandchild gets to memorize each page, each circumstance? Do you dishonor in them in any way by putting a small portion of their memories in the trash? Or do you realize that this world is...not...our...home and know that if they could render advice on this matter, they'd say chunk it, chunk all of it! That's not what matters!

Ah, decisions, decisions.

Deep Diary Delving

Yesterday evening, Carole made the mistake of handing me one of my granny's old diaries. This particular one dealt with years 1947 and 1948. Needless to say, the next two hours were spent in total absorption of the day-by-day events of those two years in her life. Here are some revelations I uncovered:

1. During the summer of '48, Granny got her first phone. Needless to say, this changed her life much like computers changed our home lives back in the '90's. She proudly noted that she made numerous calls and received bunches of calls in return.

2. She married her second husband in 1928, a wonderful fellow named Pat Fenn. BTW, my father was the product of her first marriage, having been born in 1915. Pat Fenn was never called by his name in our family; he was always "T". I guess it had something to do with the last letter of his first name. Anyway, I always wondered about how spiritual he was. Since he died when I was but a lad, I never knew much about his church life. But the diary revealed an extremely religious guy. He never missed a church service and was often used as a speaker at "prayer meetings". And, one of the posts, in big letters, reveals that he baptized his mother! I plan to look up "T" when I get to where he is.

3. The Texas City explosion happened during this span and Granny was devastated by the news. She heard about it over the radio and mentioned that the rumblings were felt as far north as Palestine! She was deeply troubled by the hundreds who died and the thousands who were seriously injured.

4. The most startling revelation to me was the use of leisure time back then. Remember, this was prior to television, computers, and air-conditioning. Granny and T spent nearly every evening (and many afternoons) either visiting friends and relatives or hosting those folks in their home. Interaction with others was so important that if two or three days went by without hearing from someone close to her, Granny would start fretting. They assembled in others' houses to sing church hymns, to play "42", or simply talk.

I couldn't help but conclude that we aren't that way anymore. Our toys (laptops, tv's, etc.) work like magnets to pull us indoors and hold us there, isolating us from others. Now I'm something of an ascetic anyway and I love quiet evenings at home with my wife. But I fully admit that I should be more involved in the lives of others. Granny and T leave me a strong example of "authentic community" and I would do well to follow their lead.

I will likely have more to say on Granny's life as I explore more of her diaries. They are so fascinating!

Delicious anticipation...

When I was growing up back in the '50's, one of the highlights of my life was Dad taking me to the public library. Once inside the door, we would separate for a couple of hours. I generally would start perusing the card catalog (gone forever, now) for books on dinosaurs, volcanoes, trains, or bees. Those were my main interests at the time, and I would always check out an armload of pertinent books on these fascinating subjects.

Since we didn't have much in the way of television entertainment and since video games and computers were still a long way off, I found myself on the couch a lot, eagerly diving into these books, learning all I could and enjoying every second of it. One of the saddest commentaries on kids today is their lack of interest in books. Instead, their time goes to stuff that runs on electricity or batteries. I wish I could explain to them just how delicious it is to have in hand a couple of books that will give you hours and hours of intellectual stimulation. It's the academic equivalent of having the waitress tell you that the cobbler of the day is cherry.

So I've got a couple of books to savor at the moment - that's where this whole soliloquy got started. One was given me by Brooke for Christmas...Let Me Finish by Roger Angell. Angell may be my favorite author. He's an absolute craftsman with words, and people who make writing look easy are heroes of mine. Angell will write about anything, even sports, but he's getting old and I fear that his pen might be laid down for the final time sometime soon. The other is Surprised by Hope by N. T. Wright. I'm fascinated by eschatology topics and this book delves into popular misconceptions about paradise, heaven, and dying. I'm 20 pages into it and already know that Wright agrees with Randy Alcorn about God's renewed earth as our final destination. Oh, it's gonna be rich reading!

Dear Diary...

Yesterday, several family members descended on my Mom's house for a work day. There was a ton of culling, filtering, sorting, and sibling brotherly love to fight through. It was a day of surprises as it seemed around every corner and in every drawer we found the unexpected. Amazing and hitherto unknown pictures of Mom and Dad popped up repeatedly, some from their early marriage days. If you can believe the pictures, they were crazily in love.

Somehow I ended up in the garage, and I began work on a stack of boxes over there with the leaf rake and rusty shovels. About three boxes into this fun activity, I opened a box, blew decades of dust away, and stared directly into the life of my father's mother. For here lay bunches and bunches of diaries - a mother lode of personal history from the 60's and 70's. Curious guy that I am, I immediately began pulling back the curtain on her innermost thoughts.

So this leads to an important question. Do diary writers write for themselves or for others? Is the diary for their eyes only or for those who find them in dusty boxes years later? Was Granny Fenn hoping that no one would ever read her words but her or was she penning words with an eye towards getting feelings and facts right for someone else's eyes? Hopefully I'll know the answer soon. Pleasure reading rarely gets better than this.

By the way, on a random note, as a teacher I was tormented by the word "diary". Often the word would come up as we looked at civil war resources, and inevitably, the kids would spell it "dairy". This led to hysterical sentences like, "We learned a lot about this Tennessee rebel soldier by examining his dairy." Oh boy, thank goodness for moments like that to give a teacher a break from the torture of endless papers to grade!

3 pretty good parents

Ever think about Jesus' 3 parents? You could do worse, you know.

First, you have his heavenly father, the Heavenly Father. They had such a tight relationship, such love, that when the Father needed a sacrifice big enough to show his love for mankind, he gave up that son. Now I don't want to explore the concept of the Holy Trinity...because it can't be understood this side of heaven. One needs only to listen to Jesus' words on the cross to grasp the love..."Father, why have you forsaken me?" So it goes without saying, parent #1 was special.

Then there is Joseph, the humble carpenter. I see him as a man of quiet class and dignity. Did you know that there are no recorded words of Joseph in the Bible? We all know that he could have become quite the angry man upon learning that his betrothed was pregnant. We know he received instructions in a dream and did what he was told. And strangely, he isn't mentioned in the Scriptures after his 12 year-old's son's little incident at the Temple. But he must have had an incredible influence on his boy. One can almost see him in the workshop, patiently teaching Jesus about tools for wood...and life.

And there is Mom. The one selected to participate in the strangest plan possible, to smuggle the Saviour into the earthly realm against all sensibility. The one who was there to the end. Can her faith be adequately described? Did she wake up from her vision and say, "Naw, that didn't happen"? Nope, she resolutely understood and obeyed. And through her, we've all been blessed. We'll never know the depth and scope of her influence on her boy, but it must have been considerable.

Quite a triumvirate.

Behold, Steve Morris

The plan was, this morning, to roll out of bed fairly early and head to Love Field for some airline photography. After all it's been since early October since I pointed a loaded camera at unsuspecting aircraft. My passion became an afterthought with all that was going on with Mom.

But the bed was just too warm. I did briefly peek out the window at the sky and saw wispy clouds, enough to discourage a guy who likes full sun to shoot planes. So I slithered back between the sheets and edged toward the warm wife. The cold aluminum fuselages would have to wait for another day.

Then, this evening, I find the above photo, taken by the incomparable Steve Morris, a retired British Airways pilot. He has a zoom lens that has to be carted around on a dolly. And, he's a genius. So, when I see that shot, I get the fever again. Makes me want to get out of bed early and get a few sunrise pics. Except, tomorrow is Christmas Day. Rats!

Catharsis

Today provided a much needed injection of warm fuzzies into my system. On Wednesday, I had basically watched Mom die, and it was tough. From 6 AM until she died at 2:30 PM, she had to battle for each breath, her chest heaving, her head thrown back when she inhaled and thrown down as she exhaled. This even with oxygen being administered. So when it was finally over, there was palpable relief in the room that heaven had a new occupant.

I had real trouble sleeping that night, unable to rid my brain of (1) what I had witnessed during the day, and (2) flashbacks of memories of Mom from my childhood. But today, I listened as two ministers who knew my parents well reminisce about them during the graveside service. And I learned things I had not heard before. One minister had decades ago decided to forego a normal preaching job and launch out in an individual mission to save souls on his own. He told me after the service that had it not been for an injection of cash from my folks, the idea would have never gotten off the ground.

We were introduced to a man with a 3rd grade education who was wearing a suit my father had given him. Through the efforts of my parents and others, he became an amazing student of the Bible and is now office manager at Mom's church. Scores of others descended on my siblings and me with similar stories. What a boost! How great is it to find out things that they had done without tooting their horn, just trying to be Jesus to those who needed Him. Things of which we had no knowledge.

So the transition has been made and nothing in our lives will be the same. But this is all good...especially with such an amazing heritage passed on to us kids. What an awesome example they left for us!