Going outdoors with Macie

The incredibly beautiful weather today afforded Carole and me the rare chance to get Macie outdoors. Macie is our 2 year-old grand-daughter and is prone to stuffiness if presented with cold weather or wind. But today was as ideal as it can get, so we armed ourselves with a camera, adjusted a ballcap to fit her head, and headed outside.

The first thing on the agenda was some tricycle time on the driveway pad. Macie is totally oblivious as to how silly/cute she looks.

Then, we moved to the front porch. Like all good Republicans, we fly our flag 24/7...and suddenly, I thought this would be a good teaching opportunity. So we explained to Macie the word "salute" and showed her how.

Then, things really got interesting when I noticed that a neighbor of ours had moved some of his cattle to a close-by field. Well, we know all 2 year-olds can mimic a cow's "moooo" but that few ever see one up close, so we walked over to the cows.

What we had before us was a bovine harem. About nine cows and one angry-looking bull.

Macie was enthralled. A whole lot of pointing with a whole lot of questions. She also found out not to touch a barbed-wire fence. But the harem began to move away slowly, not knowing what to make of the gabby humans. Carole lingered for a few more livestock shots while Macie and I headed back to the porch. She snapped a wonderful shot of us, a happy grandfather with a cute grandkid.

The funny thing is, I almost went to the airport today to have some photography time. At the last minute, I decided to come home because days with any of our grandkids are so precious, so fleeting...they must be seized. Seems like I made the right choice.

Green, green grass of home

These wonderful, every-fifth-day May rains have filled the reservoirs and provided a nice supply of moisture for our yards to tap into this summer. That's the good news. The bad news is that everything is growing Amazon-like and that means I need to be outside nearly every evening mowing, cutting, and trimming lest our neighbors get angry.

The problem is that my mind still assumes I'm in my 30's. That was 3 decades and five surgeries ago, however. The boys and I used to knock out 14 yards in a single Saturday and laugh and joke the whole time. Now, the joke is on me.

We live on 1.7 acres. Before we even bought the land, I remember Carole asking, "Are you sure you can take care of all that landscaping?" What was I supposed to say, "No, I'm not man enough, dear."? Now, when the temperature is 98 and the field next to our house needs to be knocked out, I struggle with whether I should: (1) just let it turn into a preserve of sorts and sell tickets, or (2) call one of my kids, or (3) teach Carole how to drive a John Deere lawn tractor. But since I'm only 60 and real men don't quit when they're "just" 60, I straggle out there and fantasize about a postage stamp lawn.

Mayfest

I looked at the calendar today and we are nearly halfway through May. Wasn't it winter a few moments ago? Does time stomp on the accelerator when one is as old as I?

Today, I was in the office of Thomas R. Conner, DDS., and Dr. Tom told me a story. His church had honored their high school seniors last Sunday, and the gentleman who spoke to them said:

"Let me tell you seniors something. I returned home from my senior prom at 2 A.M. When I woke up, I was 55 years old."

So true. And if time truly zooms by this quickly, our motto, our creed, our mantra should be carpe diem. With no guarantees about tomorrow and with opportunities to do good popping up all around us every day, and with time running hard in the inside lane, we had better carpe our diems.

The Company Line

Today I called TXU Energy to discontinue electric service to Mom's house. One of the problems I have with "customer service" these days is the totally transparent, overly friendly, read-from-the-script attitude from the human at the other end of the line. Of course, just getting a breathing, living organism to talk to you is something of journey.

Anyway, after 3 or 4 minutes of talking to a machine that refused to understand my words, I got a live fellow to talk to me. Here is exactly how the conversation went down:

"Good afternoon, how may I assist you today?"

"Yessir, my mother passed away in December and now we've sold her house and are ready to discontinue the electricity."

"I apologize for your inconvience, sir. And I can take care of this for you."

Yep, Mom's passing did mean that I had to miss work a couple of days. The funeral was during a time I normally take a nap, you see. I didn't really say that, but I was so shocked that I didn't say anything. This guy was so intent on regurgitating the company line at all costs that he glossed over my mother's death.

Advice to customer service supervisors: Just put friendly, caring people on the phones. Don't give them any lines to say. Don't tell the caller that "you are one of our valued customers." And please, prohibit this line at the end of the conversation: "Are there any other ways I can be of assistance to you today?" Caring is one thing. Artificial caring is an affront to the caller and as easily recognized as wart on your nose.

Mom's House is Sold

We have sold Mom's house and the closing is tomorrow. Words can't express how thrilled we are. The past four months or so have been filled with hard work, tough decisions, inevitable surprises, and hasslin' lawyers. The lawyer reference has to do with a title company which wanted to circumvent my brother's authority as executor of Mom's will. That got solved today as my cell phone bill probably shot past $200 for the month.

It will be the first house for the young couple who've bought it. I know very little about them other than the fact that the guy is a teacher. Hmmmm.....I remember when Carole and I settled into our 57 sq. ft. house after the wedding. There was no room to throw a pity party.

We all wish that the buyers will enjoy the house to the extent that our family did. That may be a tall order.

Bittersweet

Well, the good news is that it appears we've sold Mom's house. The bad news is that it appears we've sold Mom's house. I did not spend that much time in the house...barely a year and a half after coming home from the Army in 1970. But for my younger two siblings, the house represents a significant chunk of their childhood.

Yesterday, the irony of selling the house was brought home to me (so to speak). I was waiting for a sub-contractor to arrive and look at some small repairs that will need to be done very soon. I had eaten lunch and this guy wasn't due by until nearly 2 PM. Since the house is bereft of furniture, and since I value naps more than my AARP card, there was little to keep me from stretching out on the living room carpet and grasping a few zzzz's. But as I lay there, the memories from the past 39 years began to seep into my brain - specifically, the family stuff that had occurred in that very room.

The room shares space with a dining room, in fact my feet were in the dining room while my head was clearly in the living room. Every year, there would be at least two magnificent meals served there - Thanksgiving and Christmas. Mom would spend hours whupping up home cooking at its finest; then when we all sat down to eat, she would either serve us continually or hold the ever-present grandbaby in her lap. She would grab a bite here and there, but her joy was always service.

The room was also Ground Zero for opening Christmas presents after the aforementioned meal. Who will ever forget my parents' aluminum tree with the color wheel...the one they used even into the 21st century? Or the night Brett, Blake, Drew, and Casey ALL got remote-controlled emergency-response vehicles? It sounded like Ground Zero! I also remember it as the place where Mom and I had long talks about her failing health, what that meant for the family, and about her longing to be with Dad again.

And all these memories came flooding through my consciousness as I pondered whether I should ease into a nap. I could have easily succombed to all of it and cried my eyes out. But these were all happy memories, unblemished by sadness or permanent good-byes. And after a few minutes, I drifted off to sleep.

Hoping America Can Hang On

Sadly, Obama is worse than we all feared. Fred Thompson has called him "arrogant, naive, and inept". That pretty well sums it up.

So he allows his appointee to label vets, pro-lifers, and folks who believe in end-time prophecy as domestic terrorists. This coming from someone who is reluctant to use the term "terrorist" for Taliban and al-Queda types.

And what is scarier is that his approval rate is hanging in there at 60% or so. Maybe this is what we get for watering-down our educational system for the past few decades...a generation of non-thinkers who make up their minds based upon whether someone is attractive.

I'm praying that the nation survives the next 3 years and 265 days or so. By then, even the silly people should have seen enough.

The day I made the paper

Little did I know when I awoke that March morning in 1968 that the events of that day would result in a front-page story in the Abilene Reporter-News entitled, "Yes, Upside-down Driving Can Get Expensive". It was the ides of March so I shoulda known. I was going to get one more morning class at ACU out of the way, pick up Carole, and head home for spring break.

I had some free time since we weren't going to leave until mid-afternoon. So I decided to take care of something that had been bugging me for several weeks. The dashboard lights were out on my '62 Chevy Bel-Air and I thought I'd replace them. I enlisted the help of my roommate, Terry, and we got started. My car was in the dorm parking lot. Now getting to dash lights can be problematic. The way I did it was to hang my legs over the top of the front seat and lower my head down until it rested on the brake pedal.

I swapped out good lights for bad and pulled out the light switch. Terry told me that the dash lights still weren't working. That's when good ole Terry uttered some fateful words, "Why don't we start the car and see if that helps?" So I took my right hand and pushed back on the clutch pedal, and then reached up and started the engine with my left hand. When I let up on the clutch, my right shoulder pushed the accelerator to the floor. Unfortunately, I had not put the car in neutral before we started this comedy routine. The car was in low gear.

The vehicle took flight. The car was parked angled-in to a median. Across the median were other cars parked parallel to the median. Poor Terry hung on for dear life, because he had been standing next to the open right door, with one foot on the car frame and the other on the ground. With acrid smoke filling the air from the rubber burning off my rear tires, my sweet little Chevy roared over the median and started the process of plowing into a VW Bug parked on the other side of the median. All this time, I'm upside down, knowing something terribly wrong is happening. I pressed the back of my head on the brake pedal and pushed down as hard as I could. Eventually, the eternity of those five seconds was over. I backed up my car over the median and returned it to its original location. Terry and I literally picked up the Bug (hey, we both had a lot of adrenalin pumping) and put it back next to the median. It was badly smashed on the driver's side.

I left a note in the windshield telling the owner how to find me. I figured I didn't have enough space on the note to explain how it had all happened. Later that day, I had to tell Mom and Dad the whole story. Dad was not pleased. A month or so later, my journalism teacher overheard me telling the story of the flying Chevy to a friend and asked for permission to write an article about it. Since his 2nd job was as a reporter for the Abilene paper, it was no surprise when the story appeared a couple of days later. And the headline was indeed, "Yes, Upside-down Driving Can Get Expensive." And it seems like he won some sort of award in a contest for feature stories in Texas.

Amazingly, Carole was sympathetic that day and, to her everlasting credit, married me four years later. The VW got repaired, paid for by the befuddled insurance company. The color returned to Terry's face about 3 weeks later.

Times Have Changed

This morning I was cruising on I-20 with my usual load of students. The girls immediately behind me were enthralled by the carpet of bluebonnets alongside the road and were wondering about bluebonnet seeds. I started to speak up and tell them that the seeds were about the size of BB's and just about as hard. But I held up when I realized that kids today probably don't know much about BB's. Sure was different in the '50's when I was a Culver Street urchin.

I think every household was home to at least one BB gun back then. Of course, there was no government watchdog to bark loudly about all the inherent dangers to having this weapon around the house. In retrospect, these things shouldn't have been allowed in the hands of anyone under 21, but back then Moms everywhere would just say, "Be careful...that thing could put somebody's eye out."

This was so typical of the laissez faire attitude of parents back then. Crime was almost non-existent. And kiddoes getting hurt with frightful Christmas toys was extremely common and to be expected. Parents just patched you up and sent you out the back door for more fun and deathly games. "Billy, grab that Daisy BB gun and see if you can shoot this can off my head!"

Another example of how carefree times were occurred during my summers on Culver Street. We lived 2 blocks from the railroad tracks, and I spent hours there nearly every day except Sunday. Again, in retrospect, this was crazy to the max. I chatted up winos and hobos on a daily basis. I would crouch in the trestle over Samuell Blvd. as a fast freight blew past at over 60 mph...just inches from my fairly empty head. There was another trestle a mile away that crossed another track, with a drop of about 70 feet to the rails below. One day, my older brother decided we would cross the trestle by walking on the rails. This particular trestle didn't have the steel sides to it. It was just bare track. Charlie went first and made it. I couldn't afford to be cowardly or indecisive in his presence, of course, so I started out. I remember vividly concentrating only on the rails, but I could easily see the track way down below using my peripheral vision. I guess God had plans for me and I somehow made it.

If there's any good to come from my parents' transition to heaven (other than the obvious), it's that they never knew about the winos or the hobos or the trestle trek. Here's what scares me, though. What haven't our 3 kids told us about??

It Ain't about the Easter Bunny

He is risen.

Satan loses.

Doubt is erased.

Hope becomes reality.

His hands are healed.

Sin's reign becomes temporary.

He punches our ticket.

The pearly gates swing open.

Free at last!

How I Met My Queen

Well, not much in the way of bloggie ideas tonight, so I might as well tell you how I met the love of my life.

I shared a sophomore English class at ACU with a Dallas girl named Carolyn Bullard. We had become acquainted because she was in my freshman English class the previous year. So, in October of 1967, I'm walking through the ACU post office and there stands Carolyn with this beautiful, tall girl. I don't remember much other than I immediately sized her up as uncatchable, meaning "not in a thousand years would someone that pretty go out with me".

But there were underlying issues. Carolyn and Carole had gone to Dallas Christian together. Carolyn had been valdectorian and Carole had missed being salutatorian by 22/100's of a point. They were good friends. And, they would be needing rides back to Big D and I had a car. But there's more to the story.

Carole's grandmother had been one of my Sunday School teachers during my primary years. She liked me and had a world of respect for my parents. She must've been praying that God and circumstances would bring us together. Also, Carole and I have determined that we had crossed paths before that fateful day in the P.O. It turns out that she had come to a couple of VBS's at my church...and, of course, we were the same age. Could we have sat next to our future spouse in that room and not known it? One of the first things I want to do in heaven is go to the video library and check out "Tim Perkins, The Early Years", and see the tape of us in the same class. Did I notice her? Did she pester me, in sort of a harbinger of things to come? (Just kiddin', dear.)

God moves in mysterious ways and I love it.

The Worship Leader

Here's a quote from someone named Patrick Mead:

If you are going to hire a second minister, make it a worship minister, NOT a youth minister. Youth ministers are wonderful and useful, but they should be your fourth hire, not your second. The first can be either a great preacher/pastor or a great worship leader. Whichever one you hire first, hire the other one second. Your third hire should be a children’s minister. THEN you hire a youth minister. It is amazing to me how few congregations know that. By hiring in the wrong order, you strangle your growth potential and increase the odds that some will leave by the back door. A lot of the glue of a church centers around the worship experience. It is one area that should never be economized, placed on the back burner, or ignored. That said, the best worship in the world won’t help anyone if you don’t move it out of the building and into the lives of the people. A good worship minister will find creative ways to do that.

I could not agree more. There's an old line heard frequently in church buildings that "you only get out of church what you put into it." That's one of those platitudes that seems like everyone would accept, but inherently has flaws. I think our Sunday worship is an oasis where thirsty Christians come to be filled. If the worship leader is gifted and enthusiastic, he can almost single-handedly empower the masses to take on the devil for another 7 days. Such is the power of Christian music handled correctly.

Of course, the converse is true. If Chad Higgins of Highland Oaks is out sick and they ask me to take his place, everyone will leave the church totally defeated and probably 45 minutes early.

Terry Rush, the brilliant minister from Tulsa, responded to the above quote by saying he felt the children's minister was the most important hire, followed by the worship leader, the youth minister, and then the preaching minister. He said his reason for making the preacher #4 was because there are so many good ones.

Makes for interesting conversation, eh?

Miss Longet

It was she who affirmed in my subconscious that I wanted to someday marry a tall, beautiful brunette. Claudine Longet burst into my world in 1968, along about the middle of my stay at Abilene Christian. She was married to Andy Williams and frequently appeared on his extremely popular weekly variety show. The more I saw her, the more obsessed I was with her. Never mind that her singing voice was a joke...if you duct-taped a moose's jaw then strangled the animal, you'd pretty much would have Claudine's voice down pat. Never mind that she was married. I was around twenty years old and at that age, thinking clearly about the opposite sex didn't come easily.

I had all her albums. The songs were fantastic, until, that is, she opened her mouth. But I was willing to forgive her for her voice. My male friends were all too aware of my borderline-stalking of this lady. One day, I finished sixth out of a 100 or so in a two-mile cross-country intramural race...during final 100 yards, I was aided by the fact that my buddies brought a portable tape recorder and played my favorite Claudine hit at high volume. I'm sure the guys I beat out that day are still wondering where that moose was near the finish line.

Another time, in the dormitory, I was awakened at midnight by the soft, mellow moose calls of Mrs. Andy Williams. Naturally I got up, and like Abilene's own pied-piper, I followed the music down the hall until I found the source...a friend was playing Claudine's greatest hits, none of which, by the way, have made it to platinum yet. I listened awhile, and directly returned to bed. Once there, I was almost asleep when I felt a cold wetness touch my thigh. It was very quick, like maybe for a second, then it was over. I dismissed it and hurriedly returned to sleep, hoping to dream about Claudine. Then it happened again. An unmistakeable cold, clammy touch on my leg. I slid my hand down to where the touching seemed to be, felt a foreign object, and grabbed it. It was a frog...a frog which had been planted surreptitiously in the bed during the time I had been lured away by Ms. Longet (pronouced "lawn-zhay'" or something close). I flipped on the light with my dry hand, saw what I was holding, and screamed. I had never even touched a reptile before, let alone a stone-cold toad. My buddies were outside the room, rolling on the floor, unable to speak they were laughing so hard. Wouldn't have happened were it not for Claudine's magnetic power over me.

Sadly, the beautiful native Parisian, Ms. Longet, left Andy for a wonderfully gifted skier named Spider Sabich. And happily, I left Claudine for a wonderfully lithe, beautiful brunette named Carole. You probably know the rest of the story. Claudine, uh, shot and killed Spider because, uh, judge, the gun went off. The jury believed it and acquitted her. She married her lawyer and they still live in Aspen. Supposedly she rarely shows her face, something of a national tragedy akin to the Johnstown flood.

So, it all worked out. I could not have asked for a better, more beautiful, more spiritual mate than Carole. Plus, I've forgiven Claudine for mishandling the gun. Accidents happen, you know. My fantasy world with her was worth all the trouble it brought, frog and all.

Down is Up (again)

I've got this feeling that won't go away. It's a gnawing, ominous feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. It's analagous to watching a car on an icy road that has lost traction, pinwheeling as it heads for the inevitable crash with the innocent parked car. Of course, I'm speaking of what's going on in our nation under the "leadership" of Obama.

I think if I hear the word "trillion" again in regards to government spending, I'll self-destruct. It would seem that even Democrats who voted for this guy must hear a small, still voice in the back of their consciousness whispering warnings about foolhardy economic practices. How can a government, a government which in the old days had to justify every nickel spent, suddenly pass out blank checks ("just fill in any amount, sir!") and act like all is well?

Suppose you had a child in college who went crazy with a credit card. Would the proper punishment be to cover the ill-advised purchases, quadruple the credit line, and say, "No harm. Now go to the mall and charge to your heart's content!"?

But maybe of more concern than these financial foibles is the sinking sensation that we have a president who is clueless with regards to morality, judgment, and common sense. The details will have to wait for another blog-day, but they aren't pretty. Many were sounding the warning when the campaign was happening last fall. Many thought that Americans were being swept up by style instead of substance (which isn't surprising given the godlessness of society these days).

I sense we, as a country, are at a crossroads. We can put our collective feet down and demand an immediate end to this mind-boggling mess, or we can quietly and submissively be shoved along with the masses toward a world that has nothing in common with the America we once knew. The question is: Can enough of us be finally moved to jettison our lethargy and make our voices heard? It may involve risk and it may involve saying good-bye to a life of privacy and anonymity. But it's beginning to look like we no longer have a choice.

Amazing

The 6th-graders who sit behind me on the bus have no memory of 9/11.

Missing the Point

Larry James spoke at Highland Oaks this morning. I always hate/love to hear Larry...he's got such a brilliant mind and such a rabid commitment to Jesus, but he always convicts me of the need to help society's disenfranchised people, and I don't often jump in line to help 'em.

Let's be honest here. There are reasons that when we go out to eat, we eat at Cotton Patch in Rockwall and not the McDonalds near Fair Park in South Dallas. There was a reason we left a paid-for house in Dallas and moved to almost-crime-free Rockwall, starting from scratch with a new mortgage. Associating with people on the fringe of society is something I try to avoid for the most part. It's dangerous, they can take advantage of you, and they don't smell so good.

But if Jesus had been born in Balch Springs instead of Bethlehem, and if the year of birth had been 1979 instead of 0, I think He would be seeking out these folks on a daily basis, perhaps living amongst them. And His disciples would be clocking in every day at Central Dallas Ministry, the amazing brainchild of Larry James. And, given those circumstances, would anything change in the way I live life?

I pretty much content myself with trying to help those in my circle of family and friends. I do randomly slip some cash to guys in South Dallas that I see on my school bus route, but that's a once-a-month thing. I guess what I'm saying is that I wish I were doing more for the down-and-out, that I realize of whom much has been given, much is required. Have I got the guts to do that?

Surprise, Surprise, Surprise!

My sons and I are back from Surprise, Arizona, home of the Texas Rangers' spring training. With the exception of a personal airline ticket faux pas, the trip far exceeded our loftiest expections. The three of us want to do it again now that we know the ropes, but that will mean saving for a rainy day, a weather feature that rarely occurs in Arizona. Here are the highlights of the trip:

On Monday afternoon, the players were taking the afternoon off, so we ended up at an Arizona State Park at the foothills on the western outskirts of Phoenix. Once in the park, somehow we concluded that we should follow the suggestion on the park map and hike a mile uphill to a waterfall - on a trail that was "without barriers". I guess the boys figured it would be hilarious to see their daddy get most of the way there and then have to quit. But I perservered and had no trouble making it to the waterfall.

The problem was that there was no waterfall once we arrived at the end of the trail. Just a trickle. In retrospect, we probably should have expected this since, after all, we were in a desert. We saw cool stuff, however, including bizarrely-shaped cacti and a ominous-looking lizard sunning on a rock.

One of the goals of our trip was to make contact with Josh Hamilton, the already legendary Ranger outfielder who is as well known for his Christian witness as he is his athletic prowess. A little over three years ago, Josh was a crack-head, hanging around tattoo parlors and mobile homes belonging to folks he didn't even know. But his grandmother took him in and pushed him to turn his life over to Christ. Josh did what Granny said and now he is as effective an evangelist as anyone in Christiandom and perhaps the most coveted player in the American League.

Hamilton will sign autographs for as long as his schedule permits. We saw him do this for over 75 minutes on Sunday, standing in the sun with an equipment bag slung over one shoulder. I talked to a lucky fan yesterday who had gotten Josh's signature and found out that Hamilton not only signs his name, he writes down a favorite scripture. It goes without saying that there might not be another athlete in America who doing stuff like that in these days of anti-Christian leanings in our country.

Unfortunately, I didn't get to meet the guy. I could have tried to force my way through the crowds, but that would have meant being rude and stepping on little 8 year-olds.

The time with my sons was great. We laughed, we shared memories, we got serious, and we laughed some more. It was an enormous family kind of a thing. And that's another thing I noticed about spring training. Everywhere, there were families who had made the spring break pilgrimage to, as a family, see and interact with the baseball team. I saw numerous dads with their young sons having the time of their lives as they got closer to their athletic heroes than they ever will again. The important thing ain't the sports part, it's the father-son part.

So we guys vowed to "Surprise" each other again sometime. Maybe not next year, but for sure not too distant in the future.

So harried...

On Monday morning this week, I arose at 5 and went to the laptop to check the weather forecast. But the silly thing wouldn't connect to the 'net. I tried all the tricks. Nada. The whole week has been a merry-go-round with AT&T, with modems sent to replace an allegedly bad one and even a visit from one of their techs. Now, five days later, we still can't connect and further tech visits are pending.

We've been coping with this dastardly attack on our leisure time by, uh, "stealing" an unsecured signal from a house down the way. The signal is the very epitome of intermittent and this leads to head-rattling frustration. Carole and I don't cope well without our lifeline to the world. And since I leave for Arizona in a little over 24 hours, this is a bad time. I need to nail down things and I can't do it with a willy-nilly signal.

I'm also trying to avoid catching a cold, something that's proving very tough with this crazy weather. Because of my schedule the past two days, I've been out in this mess a lot. Last evening, my throat started cratering and I quickly ran to CVS and got some AirBorne (sp), a concoction designed to ward off evil germs. I quickly took a dose, then another around 3 AM. The stuff seems to work, as I didn't get worse today and actually improved a bit. I can't afford to get sick and ruin this upcoming trip.

But life is good, particularly the life of a sinner saved by grace through faith. I'll hopefully check in again from the curiously named Surprise, Arizona...with a report of how unmerciful my sons are being to me in my old age.

Just hurry...

This time of year is analagous to late May. This time of year, those in the education business grow weary of other people's kids. The things they were doing months ago were cute and funny. Now it's all just obnoxious. We need a break. Later in the school year, it'll be summer we crave. Now the break we need is Spring Break.

This particular break will be different from any I've ever experienced. As noted in a previous blog entry, I'm fulfilling a dream this year by actually going to Spring Training (has to be capitalized...it's that important) in Surprise, Arizona, where the Texas Rangers work out. To make it all the more palatable, my two sons are joining me. We share of love of the great game of baseball, warm weather, and acting silly. It'll be a wonderful time. I must apologize to my sports-minded daughter, Brooke. Hey, Brooke, maybe next year we can go to Stars' camp in Frisco.

We leave in a week. The three of us are expectantly counting down the days like giddy teens waiting on a Hannah Montana concert. My only concern is that my boys mercilessly make fun of me whenever we're together, always pointing out the garish mistakes and judgment lapses I've made in their presence in their 3 decades of life. I'd be getting depressed were it not for the wealth of material they've left me during the same time frame. The cool thing is that this 3-day experience should leave us with a vast storehouse of memorable tales for the next 3 decades. Now if we can just get this week to hurry by.

Late and not so great...

I had an interesting couple of events one morning last week. The first occurred at my final bus stop. It's well-publicized that my arrival/departure time at this final stop is 7:55. I very consistently arrive exactly at that time and it takes about a minute to board the students. The trouble lies with a daddy who brings his daughter and another student to the bus stop every morning in his white Escalade.

They are always late. Usually, he pulls up about the time I'm shutting the doors. I always wait for the girls to slowly get out, gather their stuff, and walk slowly to the bus. I may be smiling, but I'm frying on the inside. I have repeatedly warned the girls that they need to be on time, that it's not fair to the others to have to wait for them every morning.

This particular morning, there was no sign of the Escalade, even by 7:57. So I started to roll away. Immediately, half the girls on board started begging me to wait on the tardy ones while the other half begged me to carry on and just leave them. About that time, the Caddy appeared in the distance. Reluctantly, I stopped and waited for the girls. The Dad waved at me and grinned...I just stared at him.

That same morning, I had a field trip at Rangel, the same school where I deliver the girls every day. So I just parked the bus and waited for 9:00. Now school begins at 9, but everyone is expected to be in their first period class by 8:45, ready to go. I had a ring-side seat, watching kiddoes being rushed to the front door by frenzied-looking parents. But there were some parents and some kids who were arriving late and not showing the least bit of concern or giddyup in their step. It was as though they were expecting time to stand still while they leisurely strode up to the building. I even saw a couple of teachers arrive after 8:45 and even they showed no spark.

What my momma would have done to me had I lollygagged up to school like that, either as a student or a teacher! So I guess that it all started with my parents, this business of being on time as a way of showing respect to whomever...your teacher, your classmates, your doctor, your church, whatever. And what they drilled into me meant that while I was teaching, I did not cut a great deal of slack to those who chose to be tardy. I hope that somehow I was able to inject some standards into their gray matter where obviously a parent hadn't.

So, one day this week, in all likelihood, I'm going to finally teach Mr. Escalade something about promptness. Be there or be square, brother. Maybe when he has to drive an extra 17 miles from deep SW Dallas County to the school at Fair Park in rush-hour traffic, it'll hasten a slight behavioral change. And I bet it cures the problem. I also bet he'll call Dallas County Schools and complain that I drove away without picking up his girls even though they were almost there on time.

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!