TFD: Like Looking in the Mirror

I am always mindful of writing for a varied audience -- granted, my 'usual audience' could probably assemble in a standard cubicle, and my circle of acquaintances doesn't reach the level of diversity of the average reality show cast (or war movie, if you prefer). A high proportion of my connections are made through the church, so we share that faith vocabulary; others of my readers don't relate to that topic as much. So while one of my major categories is "Theology For Dummies", I try to balance out my subjects.

Last year during Holy Week, I tried something a little different... I was a bit tentative about combining, you know, crucifixion & jokes. I'm not sure there's a huge overlap between my audience and Monty Python's, but I just read it again and I think it came out all right. It still makes me smile a little, at least.

Anyway, here we are at Holy Week again and I didn't set out to write a "Holy Week piece", but I kind of fell into it by rereading the story. The story of Holy Week is of course focused on Jesus and His sacrifice; but what struck me on this reading was really the story of the people around Jesus:

• Judas is of course the agreed-upon villain of the piece, and he makes such an inviting target. Probably the most famous betrayal in history, don't you think? And none of us would ever do a thing like that. Except... some scholars think he really did it to try to force Jesus to do something miraculous, or publicly declare himself a king. We can't know for sure, of course, but something about that explanation resonates with me. Is it just vaguely possible that the reason that makes so much sense to me is that I'm personally familiar with the concept of Knowing Better Than God? No, Lord, your timing's pretty good, but you'd be better off doing it my way...
• Peter takes a fair amount of abuse too, traditionally. He's the one who takes front & center claiming, "What, are you kidding, Lord? I've got your back!" and then of course, given that blatant foreshadowing, it's seemingly a matter of moments before he's saying, "What, are you kidding? Never heard of the guy!" Now most of us probably don't cuss out somebody who "accuses" of of being Christians... but I know for myself it's not quite unprecedented to make a promise to God about my behavior or my attitudes, only to see that promise slip away when the opportunity comes to follow through.
• You can group the rest of the disciples, whose major contribution to the story really consists of dozing off while Jesus needs them the most. And again, while they come off as buffoons, I don't think it's a huge stretch to see in their failure a reminder that all of us (OK, I'll just speak for myself) tend to fall asleep at the switch when God calls us to do something. For that matter, I can be much more literal and admit that bedtime prayer & reading time sometimes has about the same effect on me as diphenhydramine.

I've heard it said that one way to read Scripture is to put yourself in the story... and all I can say for myself in this case is that it doesn't take much imagination. I think I've probably mentioned this before (since I've written over 110 posts and I've only ever had about 17 ideas) but one of the fascinations of the Bible for me is that I can open it at random and find a story about someone I know. A lot of times it's me, in fact... and not usually wearing the white hat, either....

Spring Ahead, Fall On Your Face

Any parent with more than a few weeks' experience can tell you that medical crises don't occur at 1:00 on a Tuesday afternoon. No, in fact, even children too young to read a clock are inclined to wait till the household's abed. Bonus points are awarded if the episode coincides with the beginning of Daylight Savings Time.

So I was less than astonished Saturday night when my bedtime preparations (early to try to beat the time change) were interrupted by a fit of barking. In fact, it took mere seconds to recall that we don't even have a dog. Well, of course that's hyperbole: it sounded more like a seal, and I was instantly sure we didn't have one of those.

The daughter had progressed directly from a slight cold to full-on croup (again, not surprisingly, since I had just told my wife I'd looked in and she was sleeping peacefully). This could only mean that it was sauna time -- facilitated by the phone-booth dimensions of our shower. In fact, our entire bathroom could fit inside a lot of the showers you see on HGTV.

Needless to say, the early-to-bed -- which wasn't going to turn out all that early anyway -- was completely by the boards, but at least my pores got a good cleansing.

Our household's Crack Medical Staff determined that the best arrangement would be for the girl to sleep on the floor in our bathroom -- a warm, moist space close at hand -- and further that occasional scheduled check-ins would be necessary throughout the night. Scheduled, as in setting the alarm... and since I am both the keeper and the hearer of the alarm, I would also have scheduled wakeys.

It's not like I ever get much sleep on Time-Change Night anyway. For the "fall-back" event, I always seem to stay up way too late, figuring I'll get it back anyway, and more often than not end up in deficit.

And I've slept with one eye open on Spring-Forward night ever since the fateful events of 2000. I've alluded to this before, but I think I'm finally ready to talk about it. I am, as established, in charge of anything electronic in the house, particularly the items with digital display. However, in 2000 I was a bit preoccupied with my 4-month-old firstborn son, and I neglected to make the rounds of the clocks on that Saturday night... most importantly, of course, the alarm clock.

So it was that, Sunday morning at "7:55", I sat in the rocker feeding the boy as my wife began her leisurely preparation for the morning's first church service. That is, the 9 a.m. service. I happened to glance toward the TV....

Can I just say, while I'm not a huge fan of The Cable Company -- although I'm sure yours is very different, of course -- there is one thing they do that's an indisputable, maybe even indispensable, public service: they deliver the correct time to your home. And that was how I discovered that it was actually 8:55... I'm sure there was an audible clicking of mental levers and switches as my omission dawned on me.

Naturally the scene devolved into a Keystone Kops short from there, but we were able to phone ahead (to a neighbor, since the church itself had no phone!) and basically ask them to start the service and keep it going till she could get there.

So... perhaps you can understand why I get a little bit unsettled round about this time of year.

I did find a way, for once, to foil the Amazing Alarm-Clock Boy. I actually forgot to reset his clock before bed, and then I thought, "Let's see what happens!" Sure enough, he didn' t emerge to use the bathroom till "6:30", little knowing it was really 7:30. Think he'd notice if I set it back another hour?

I'll Take Geeks for $1000, Alex

It struck me today that I have something in common with the denizens of a certain fictional island. If you're a fan, you'll remember the hatch people, having to push the button every 108 minutes.... sometimes the timer would get down close to zero and the alarms would start howling -- someone would have to leap to the keyboard before the time ran out.

I've got that same little clock running in my head all the time when I haven't posted. Once I get past about a week (in recent months I've stretched it to 8 or 9 days), the alarm starts shrieking. I sometimes get tempted to knock out a couple paragraphs just to say I've posted -- I could probably tell a story about one of the kids every other day, but I've just decided I don't want to do the Funny Kid Story blog.

This is the same season I complain about every year because there's so much going on and fitting it all in is an issue. Somehow, though, I always find time to read. I just finished Brainiac, by Ken Jennings, the all-time biggest Jeopardy winner. I found the book utterly engaging, although that may have something to do with the fact that Jennings reveals himself as a family guy with a strong faith who works as a computer programmer and enjoys trivia. I can't say quite why that resonated with me so much.

Here's where it gets weird: another one of my favorite recent reads was Prisoner of Trebekistan, a memoir by ... another former Jeopardy champion. OK, it seems pretty logical -- when you have an interest in something, it can be fun to read about it. Except for one fact: I can't remember the last time I watched Jeopardy. I like the show well enough; I enjoy playing along at home; I've even entertained fantasies of being on the show -- but it's hardly a passion of mine.

In my defense, both books are great reads even for the non-fanatic. Both of them are wonderfully witty; Jennings in particular seems to have been blessed with the same sense of humor as me (I think you should read his book anyway). Brainiac also discusses the history of quiz shows and trivia itself -- I discovered that, like crossword puzzles, the modern enthusiasm for trivia dates to the 1920s. The other book, by Bob Harris, features some interesting ideas on improving memory.

Or maybe I'm just a geek.

I'm not sure I really need to convince anyone of that, but just in case you need further evidence, a story from my past (I was reminded of this recently during my time-travel experiments):

I was, it surely goes without saying, not the top-ranked physical specimen in my peer group growing up. So in my mid-teens, I decided it was time to make a change. I got a set of weights and set them up in the basement, and started a regular lifting program. I decided I'd probably do better with some music to pump me up -- so to speak. Every time I would use the same cassette to help get the pulse racing.

Something screaming, intense, high energy? Van Halen, maybe?

Nah -- This One's for You. Because as you know, nothing says macho like Barry Manilow.

Continuing Education

Lying in bed early yesterday in a semi-stupor -- suffering the after-effects of two nocturnal post-bad-dream visits with my daughter -- my senses were assaulted by the abrupt arrival of my son. It was, of course, 7 a.m.; as I have exhaustively (and exhaustedly) documented, he is nothing if not reliable. I suppose I keep mentioning it much the same as any other survivor of trauma is compelled to rehearse the details in order to come to terms with the shock to the psyche. Of course, he's 8 years old, and it shows no sign of abating: it's probably time to move on to the next stage of grief.

As he leaped into bed beside me and forcibly dragged my arm around him for a Squeezy Hug*, I was struck by a thought. As well as a kiss, as he flung himself back out of bed and launched himself into his day.

* Someone really ought to tell his old babysitter Tina that he still calls it a "squeezy hug", as she always did, even though he hasn't even seen her for five years.

The thought, as ill-prepared as I was to receive it, was: I wonder how my day would go if I attacked it with the same gusto he does? He almost literally hits the floor running every day... in contrast to certain of the rest of us. OK, all the rest of us -- who tend to welcome the morning much the same way as Custer welcomed the Indians (or maybe vice-versa).

Then, as if by nuclear fission (although regrettably without the concomitant surge of energy), one idea became two: What other lessons have we gleaned since then (i.e., is there a blog in this)? I greatly enjoyed writing the first edition... and frankly, I thought it was some of my better work... but I'm hoping that at least someone in the house has learned something new.

I could probably easily summon up a list of the lessons learned that we could do without, such as "the most important thing in the world is who gets to go first", or "sticks and stones may break my bones, but I don't have to go outside to find a name to call you," but allow me to take the high road instead and seek the life-affirming....

• It's good to create something and share it. Our daughter always has a craft project going: not something out of a box or something a parent or teacher shoves in front of her, but an idea springing full-fledged out of that extremely busy brain. This evening, she used construction paper, markers, toilet paper, glue, and tape to create... Well, I can't really do it justice. You tell me; as near as I can tell, it's supposed to be a kind of fringed apron you can put around your neck and it kind of waves in the breeze when you move. She made it, and will proudly give it to, her little friend Ethan. Seen in that light, one's quixotic quest to publish occasional blog articles seems almost rational.
• Each day should include fresh air and exercise if at all possible (sunshine optional; we live in the Northeast). When they get home, the first order of business is always the snack, but this is followed immediately by the exodus to the outdoors. Since it's winter, they're deprived of recourse to the plastic bowl and pile of dirt about which I rhapsodized in the earlier installment... but there's plenty of snow, and almost anything in the garage can be pressed into service in a pinch. Brooms have been popular lately, and yesterday I poked my head out to find a keyboard, mouse, and set of speakers perched on a snowbank.
• It's nice to look good, but it's more important to be comfortable (with apologies to Fernando). My wife waited for a long time for a little girl she could dress up, who would love girly things... and much of the time she's still waiting. It's true that our daughter can 'style' with the best of them, proudly, but at the same time if left to her own devices she'd opt for her beloved "sports pants" 5 days or more per week. She is an enormous fan of anything "silky", which mom leverages to get her into many lovely & feminine ensembles. But may the Lord have mercy on us all if there's anything scratchy in today's wardrobe. She's ultrasensitive to anything that doesn't hit just right, and the resulting fits when a garment falls short have all the dogs in the neighborhood barking.

I forgot another important point: "do your best to give dear old Dad something to write about"...

Office Space

I've heard it said that as time goes on, more and more of us will be working from home. Not sure how that'll work for people like elementary school teachers, or funeral directors (remember when they used to be called "undertakers"? That one may be gone, but at least "sanitary engineer" never really caught on). Maybe we're headed towards a time when the only ones not working at home are the members of the Service Economy... of course, we're told that before long that'll be just about everyone, anyway.

In case there are any among my faithful readers, assuming such there be, who find themselves moving inexorably in that direction, I thought I would share my wisdom; this is one of the few things with which I have more personal experience than almost anyone I know. So what follows comprises the absolute musts for the telecommuter, or if you prefer, the WAHer (or even W@H-er).

I'm not really talking about stuff like a screaming-fast computer or Internet connection... although life would certainly be much harder without them, at least for me. I was really musing about the less obvious building blocks of my average day -- as well as some things I really need, but probably won't get in my lifetime.

I think for me the most essential office supply is a comfortable pair of slippers. I am, after all, in the house, so it doesn't make much sense to wear actual shoes all day. However, since my office is carved out of the basement, features a carpet about the thickness of a grocery bag over the cement floor, and cannot truthfully be described as "heated", slippers are the only thing standing between me and that kind of numbness that starts at the feet and creeps all the way up to the brain they are paying me for.

By the same token, 1A would probably be the space heater, which I don't necessarily use daily (the basement has heat, there's just no duct in my office)... only when I find that my e-mails are all lower-case because I can't bend my fingers enough to hit the Shift key.

The next Must is definitely some bangin' tunes. I have a reputation, not really deserved even for all I do to maintain it, as a bit of a misanthrope -- you might have noted that one of the ways I put people off is by using words for which it's advisable for me to link to their definitions -- but even for me, a schedule of sitting in my office every day seeing & speaking to no one threatens to make me come over all Tom Hanks in Cast Away. Not that there's anything wrong with that (I wouldn't mind being the world's most popular movie star), but I don't even have a volleyball. Music, in addition to its ability to connect with me on a very elemental level, also makes me feel a little less deserted-island.

I guess if there's a "2A" for this one, the fact is that I really wouldn't survive either personally or professionally without access to instant messaging. This probably has something to do with the short attention span we've all developed communication-wise... but it's a life-saver to me to be able to ask (or answer) a question effortlessly, or just make a joke or talk about baseball. I may have more to say about IM World in a future post...

Third on the list is most assuredly "easy access to snacks". When I am working hard on something and not getting anywhere, I find that wandering up the stairs for a nibble helps me manage the frustration. When the space heater & slippers together are not sufficient to prevent icicles from forming, a cup of tea is a big help (I also find that drinking tea while I work makes me feel in some way more adult; I don't know why, there's just something inherently civilized to me about drinking tea. Too many British movies?). When I am working hard on something and finally break through, a bite to eat seems a fitting celebration.

Hmmm.... seems like England Dan & John Ford Coley were wrong after all... Snacks Are the Answer.

The addendum to this one is that I also need the intervening stairs, both as a buffer to keep me out of the snacks once in awhile, and for whatever exercise value they might provide. If my office & the kitchen were on the same level, I'd have trouble fitting through the door.

One item I definitely could not get along without is my phone headset. Since I am, again, completely isolated from all human contact -- see above -- I spend a significant part of my time on the phone. And since for many of my meetings, my primary participation is showing up, I spend a significant part of that time, ah, "multitasking". Meaning I need to talk hands-free; if I did the phone-in-crook-of-neck thing, I'd spend all my off-hours at the chiropractor. Come to think of it, I wouldn't be much better off holding the receiver in my hand for hours on end.

Believe it or not, I find a reasonably professional wardrobe to be important as well. In my early WAH days, I tried the sweatpants & jeans route; I found that the more informally I dressed, the dumber I got. I suppose I should take this theory to its logical conclusion and wear a tux every day. Hey, it works for those snooty maitre d's -- they get paid big bucks for the skill of saying "Follow me, please" over and over.

There are other things I'd like to have -- a completely soundproof office would be nice. That may seem contradictory, given that I've been complaining about isolation... but on a Snow Day such as today, a little enforced silence would really hit the spot. Alternatively, it could be the playroom that was soundproofed; that would get the job done just as well.

Taken all around, though, it's a pretty good gig. However, this summer it may get better... when my present desktop goes out of warranty, I should be able to get a laptop. Arithmetic quiz: laptop + wireless Internet + summer + table & chairs on the back deck (with umbrella!) = ??? Wonder if I can expense sunblock?

Tuning Up the WABAC Machine

I'm as prone as the next guy to get lost in reverie about The Past (which, to be honest, wasn't all that much fun when it was the present)... but recently I've been taking a series of intentional brief journeys to days gone by.

Remember how I was searching for a low-cost, low-effort way to digitize my LP collection? Well, not long ago some friends not only found the secret -- but also lent it to me.

It's called the Xitel inPort Deluxe, and it's so simple it even works with my thrift-store-level equipment. I heard about this thing, and it reminded me of some kind of Ronco gadget that promises to cut hair or julienne a squash or something, but can't really perform like the infomercial demo. But you know what -- it delivers the goods. I spent about 15 minutes installing the software on my aged PC; since then, all I do is plug one end of the device into the stereo's headphone jack, and the other end into the PC's USB port; one minute after that, I'm recording onto my hard drive. One program records, one takes out the clicks, the third splits the music into tracks... I can have an entire LP done, with great sound quality even, in an hour (of which maybe 45 minutes is just recording time when I don't even have to do anything).

See if you can guess from my first few rips what year I've been revisiting -- and/or what year I became a pop music fan:

• Billy Joel, Songs in the Attic
• Styx, The Grand Illusion
• Kansas, Point of Know Return
• Gerry Rafferty, City to City
• Steve Miller Band, Greatest Hits 1974-1978

I may have tipped my hand with the last one, but just in case, here are the release dates for those 5 albums (in the same order): 1981, 1977, 1977, 1978, 1978. In any case, I'm sure you can tell just about when I came out of my parent-abetted Easy-Listening Coma and was swept away by the tag-team of Top-40 Radio and the Columbia House Record Club. Remember 12 albums for a penny (then just buy 2 a year for the rest of your life)? I'm pretty sure that 4 of the above are from the original batch, although Billy Joel was represented by The Stranger.

Each of them also had one or more huge hits on the charts at that time -- although I can't link to the Billboard charts to prove my point without subscribing to their online archive :-(. I became an enormous Billy Joel fan -- still am -- but my favorite band was, almost instantaneously, Styx. And revisiting them led me to conclude the following:

(1) A Styx album contains more cheese than the entire state of Wisconsin

(2) They're still my favorite band.

I've made no secret that I knew from an early age that I wasn't cool, so it's not surprising that I went for a band... ah, not critically acclaimed. The irony is that at the time I was sure they were cool. I mean, c'mon, check out this picture:

The album, which is almost literally the first rock & roll album I ever listened to, is frankly a virtual catalog of all the rock album cliches:

Only 7 full-length songs? Check. Plus another song that's just a 6-line reprise? Check. A pretentious spoken-word monologue in the middle of a song? Check. Another song that refers to both angels and aliens? Check. Yet another song that refers to Greek mythology? Check. Funky, abstract cover art? Check.

As a band, they're equally good at covering all the bases, with the theater geek and the hard-rocker side-by-side.

Mozzarella, ricotta, muenster, Monterey Jack or cheddar ... cheese can be delicious as well as good for you! I think I'll go slice off another hunk of Styx.

Service Charge

I've had an idea for a blog entry ping-ponging around my head for several weeks, and I'm trying to figure out just why I haven't written it yet. It could be that it's a pretty complex subject and would take a lot of effort to tackle. Or maybe it's because I don't really have enough connected, coherent thoughts to form a fully-realized post.

I sorta suspect, however, that the reason I haven't written it yet is because it will end up saying things that I don't really want to say about myself. That's despite the fact that I've been willing since the start to be honest, I think (even when I don't come out the hero)... but then again, what are the odds that someone with a blog would be comfortable talking about himself?

Of course, I'm always a bit self-reflective. I am by nature, and the blog emphasizes it. So I have to admit that, depending on the day, recent events, how much sleep I've gotten, and the phase of the moon, I sometimes catch myself feeling a bit put-upon.

The nature of marriage requires a certain amount of self-sacrifice, obviously, and the way we've allotted our responsibilities probably puts a little more "domestic burden" on me than the average husband (although: beware of comparing yourself to those around you!). Some of that is built-in to being a pastor's spouse; I'll always have "extra" evening duties, and weekends are not as carefree as they might be in other households. Just recently I hit a stretch of Solo Bedtime Duties, and it seemed they all devolved into a whirlwind of tears, tantrums, hollering... and the kids didn't behave too well either.

You know I'm always going to make that joke. But the point I was making (before I spoiled it) was that even that one hour daily made me feel miserable & exhausted.

Plus there's the "public" or "church" part of the spouse gig. I like being part of the church, and doing my part, but I'm also a convenient target for tasks others don't want or last-minute stuff... if only because of my physical proximity. I'm always there anyway! And when I'm not, I'm just across the road!

If you're still reading after all that, the point of this is not to be Whiny McWhinerson. What I'm getting at is this:

For me, there's always this constant inner wrestling match over the Stuff I Do. Do I push back and say, "No, this is too much"? Do I push through and do everything... then indulge myself in grumbling and hey-look-at-me, why aren't you appreciating me more?

Or do I see it as an opportunity for servanthood?

And I'm not just setting up an easy target here. The self-aggrandizing conclusion is, "Of course, it's an honor & privilege to serve", blah blah blah -- but the truth is my answer changes day to day. In fact, there are lots of days I'm convinced the right (even Christian) thing to do is to say, "for everyone's sake, things should be different."

But seemingly as soon as I get comfy with that, I start being nagged by Philippians chapter 2:

Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: Who,
being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death— even death on a cross!

And you know, I probably shouldn't quote Scripture (especially the Apostle Paul) in a blog... unless I want to illustrate what it really means to get to the point in a hurry.

Keeping in Touch

I tend to write a lot of these entries when we're at camp. I think that's because camp always gives me the sensation of being off the grid. Granted, we're not pitching a tent by a campfire -- in fact, when my father-in-law saw the place, he was affronted. "That's not a camp, it's a house," he said. I think he thought we were putting on airs. Trust me, it's a comfortable place, but not exactly HGTV's Dream Home.

We've got electricity and heat and running water and beds.... we even have a TV, even though we only get about 1 1/2 channels. I suppose what makes it feel so isolated, even rustic, is the absence of the constantly-ringing phone.

We had no way to be contacted at all until we broke down and got a cell phone; however, that number is pretty closely guarded. If I had my way, I'd only give it out written on rice paper, so anyone who had to call us could immediately swallow the evidence.

I just realized that might not matter, since a caller using his own cell phone would have the number stored... but I like the image in the last paragraph, so I left it in.

All that made me think (once again) about the state of communications in the present age. I'm well aware that (a) I obsess about this a little, and (b) when I get going on this subject, I sound like a survivor of the Spanish-American War or something. I'm not that old; every house I've ever lived in has had indoor plumbing -- although that was by no means a foregone conclusion for a preacher's kid growing up in the '60s.

I am, however, old enough to remember the days when you called someone on the telephone (which was a black plastic instrument with a heavy metal dial you had to spin just right to dial the correct number), and if they weren't home, it rang and rang till you hung up and tried again later. As I recall, that was a bit frustrating, but somehow we coped.

The next step was the answering machine. Now you didn't have to remember to call back. When the other person arrived home (or remembered to check the machine, anyway), they'd get your message and call you back. Or not, of course.

Then came the pager, which at least allowed you to let someone know immediately that you wanted to speak to them. Some of the folks at my wife's first church occasionally got frustrated that she wasn't home when They Needed Her, so they suggested she get a pager. You will not be surprised to learn that the thought of 24x7x365 availability did not fill her with joy, and she gracefully declined.

Now of course it's the cell phone era, so much so that even I, not a huge booster, am astonished when someone doesn't have one. Or for that matter, access to e-mail. I try desperately not to be a snob, but encountering someone who's not online -- or, saints preserve us, doesn't even own a computer -- makes me feel almost sorry for them.

I have a sense that I'm one behind, and that the BlackBerry is taking this to yet another level... but as you may know, by the time this house joins that revolution, it'll be something else.

So I don't know if any of us is that important, but somehow it feels like we're forced to be so much more available these days. This might sound like a Jane Austen novel or something, but back when my wife and I were engaged, we were separated the whole summer before the wedding; we kept in touch by ... writing letters. On paper, with a pen, stick a stamp on an envelope (some of you remember). You take it to the mailbox, you start the clock. Let's see: 2 days to get there, another couple for her to write a reply, 2 days' return trip, add one more for glitches -- I should hear back in a week. From the woman I love and can't wait to marry!

Contrast that to an incident this fall. I had to get a message to a friend, so I called her home, but I must have had the number garbled because it said it was disconnected. So I called her cell & left voice mail; but then I started to think, what if she doesn't check her cell? So I sent her an e-mail, too. Punchline? She called back 3 hours later... apologetic for keeping me waiting.

If you have anything to add, feel free to send it to my work e-mail, or our home e-mail, or my Yahoo account; call us at home (leave a message at the tone & we'll get back to you as soon as we can), or on our cell; or post it to my blog.....

Learning to Lego

In the days B.C. (Before Children), I always hated buying gifts for kids of my acquaintance. If you’re not around them every day, it’s hard to conceptualize what kids of a certain age like, or are like, much less a specific individual child.

I had all manner of toys when I was a kid, but I really only played with three of them:

• My baseball glove & ball (best part of being a preacher’s kid – living next to the church whose immense brick wall provided the backstop for endless hours of throwing and fielding);
• My baseball cards;
• And my Matchbox/Hot Wheels cars and track.

So when in doubt for a gift, I always went with the cars.

I took that one step further with my own kids – not only did I give them cars to play with, I gave them my own cars… my entire childhood collection, in not mint but pretty good condition. And my track, into the bargain.

They have their “own” cars, which live at home, and they get to visit “my” cars, which live at camp. The pain I feel watching those cars smashed together (a new experience for them, since even as an 8-year-old I was a bit of a fussbudget), or lose little parts I’ve preserved for 30-plus years, is more or less balanced by the joy of sharing not only an interest but also literally a toy.
I also like to get them baseball cards, incidentally… which they enjoy in a fairly mindless, “Hey look, I can collect something with a picture on it” kind of way. And I have carefully preserved that childhood collection as well… but ain’t no way they’re ever getting their paws on those.

It’s funny, because I always thought they’d enjoy MegaBloks as well, even though my own record with building toys was, shall we say, spotty. I had TinkerToys – that was so long ago that they were carved out of whalebone, I believe – and Lincoln Logs, but I never really succeeded in building anything that looked like a structure. When you combine “not overly mechanically inclined” with “no imagination”, you get, “I’m sorry… what is that supposed to be?”

Nonetheless I brought forth the MegaBloks, and the Duplos, figuring that somehow despite the lack of role-modeling (and please don’t say, “Daddy, can you build something?” Because I can’t), Hours of Family Fun would ensue. Sad to say, aside from my son building the occasional tower (so he could smash it), not so much.

And then one day a well-meaning soul gave each of my kids a little Lego kit that could be assembled into a car. Our 5-year-old was fascinated; but as it turns out, this sort of activity has the same effect on an 8-year-old as crack does on a somewhat different slice of the populace. Then for his birthday, he got one of the giant Lego kits – featuring, and I can only wish I were making this up, not only Batman and several bad guys, but an ambulance and an honest-to-goodness insane asylum.

What’s worse, I am completely closed off from employing my trademark “exaggeration for comic effect” and writing that the set contains more than 800 pieces, many no larger than your fingernail… because that is, in fact, the case. As I understand it, adult Lego enthusiasts – there’s probably a cute made-up noun like Legoists to describe these, um, hobbyists – usually have elaborate filing systems to keep track of all the many different colors & shapes in use. I imagine they also have powerful lights and even magnifiers available; one of the curses of the later-in-life parent is the demands presented by tiny, intricate toys and other kid items (see my recent screed on hair accessories) at that point in life when age-related myopia has begun its grim, inexorable march.

And this is exacerbated by the fact that toy-assembly directions, like virtually all assembly directions of this millennium, are completely devoid of any verbiage. It’s all diagrams, which in the case of Lego schemata consist mostly of trying to figure out whether we need the dark gray piece with the 2 little knobby things (what are those called?) or the light gray, not-as-thick piece with the 2 little knobby things, and which row & column position of the previously-assembled layer it should be carefully affixed to – don’t press too hard or we’re back to a little pile of dark grays and light grays and….

But fear not, if we can find all the pieces called for (not under the bed or up the vacuum or… maybe left out of the box to begin with?); and if I can keep my dark gray 2s and my black 4s straight; and if I don’t poke an eye out trying to get the pieces close enough so I can see to assemble them; and if we can set aside an hour or so a day to work on this project; and if he doesn’t keep getting frustrated with the detailed & even tedious work and throwing them… my hope is that sometime before the school year is over we’ll have a fully-assembled Asylum! Won’t the grandparents be proud?

Already Used Up All My "Season" Puns

When I started this blog away back In (a previous) Bleak Midwinter, naturally one of the first posts I ever wrote was about Christmas: specifically, how I had “flunked” it. I felt like I captured it well enough that last year’s Christmas post essentially boiled down to “ibid.”

I don’t know that my Christmas was much more “successful” in the ways I described there… but I got to thinking about the elements of the season that I crave, a must-have list of broader scope than another of my early entries on Christmas music. This is quite aside from the spiritual aspects of Christmas – I feel like my appreciation and sense of wonder about all the miracles of the Nativity story probably grows yearly – but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with looking forward to and enjoying the more superficial aspects of the holiday, either. Such as:

• The music. I begin rotating through my collection as soon as Advent starts – but not before. I admit this may be due in part to the same personality quirk that has me turn down lunch at 11:58, but it just doesn’t feel right to hear the music of the season till the countdown begins in earnest (this is the same way I feel about Christmas shopping, in distinct opposition to, and much to the frustration of, the spouse. Her goal this year – only narrowly missed – was to have everything wrapped by Dec. 1). Between my collection and the local Christian radio station’s outstanding and eclectic playlist, I get a pleasing mix of secular and spiritual, traditional and reinterpreted and altogether new.
• A real tree. I wrote recently about my annual arboreal struggles, but even with all that, I’d no more give up and get an artificial tree than I’d swap our dinner for the plastic food from my daughter’s Little Tikes kitchen.
• The Christmas letter. I’ve been writing a yearly newsletter, in the tradition of my mom, for probably 15 years now. I’ve toned down a lot of my more ostentatious writing tricks, now that I have a weekly (or weakly) outlet for that, but I can’t seem to help writing basically the same letter every year: hey look it’s snowing/cold/music’s starting, must be time to write; here’s what we did as a family; here’s what each of us is doing these days; here’s what the season’s really about (often using and sometimes abusing some kind of metaphor); we’d love to hear from you. I’m very fortunate that I don’t have all of them side-by-side for comparison purposes.
• Snow. Even as a kid, I wasn’t big on playing in it; I was often playing solo, and I lacked the imagination to create my own wintry fun. I’ve spent some Christmases in the South… but they felt somehow like popcorn without butter or salt. Granted, I’d just as soon it fell on the 23rd and melted on the 26th, but I won’t ever be dreaming of a brown or even green Christmas.
• Clandestine gift operations. It’s harder to pull off now, with kids to plan shopping outings around, but my ideal season would keep her guessing up till Christmas morning: Did he buy anything? Is it wrapped? What could it possibly be? (This may reflect another of my issues – see the part about the fish sticks) The most humiliating Christmas of my life was when I came up empty a couple weeks before the day; I think it was when my son was an infant, so perhaps I can plead sleep-deprivation-related insanity. Basically I had to have her lead me around the mall pointing to stuff, then leave the stores so I could buy things and “surprise” her. Do you think it’s overcompensating that I don’t even ask her what she wants now?
• Surprises in return. Even as a kid I was never a peeker or a shaker. I crave being totally surprised on Christmas morning (shocked is even better). I’d almost rather get an unanticipated mediocre gift than a perfect gift I knew was coming. The surprise, for me, is part of the gift.
• Meticulous wrapping. This is also a significant part of the (outgoing) gift. I never have the store wrap for me, and I seek whenever possible to avoid gift bags. Gift bags to me can be shorthand for, “I got this at the last minute and I couldn’t be bothered to wrap it.” In fact, I’m also semi-legendary for wrapping “obvious” shapes in cleverly camouflaged ways (one of my most flamboyant creations: a record album and 2 pieces of sheet music; I built a cardboard pyramid with the sheet music and some cardboard, using the album as the base). My sister taught me to wrap when I was 9 or 10, and I take great pride in it. This can also be a source of conflict, as my wife would like it very much if I’d just Get On With It Already, but I consider myself the Charles Emerson Winchester of gift-wrapping (“I do one thing at a time, I do it very well, and then I move on.”).
• Careful Christmas-morning planning. I always predetermine the order in which I’ll present the gifts. The simple and less-impressive stuff goes first, the big important ones go last; I also try to intersperse the clothing and non-clothing items. The concept is to keep the momentum building, although not always in strictly linear fashion – if there are 10 gifts that can be “ranked” 1-10, the typical order might be 1-2-4-3-6-5-8-7-9-10.
• Tradition. I was trying to think of good examples for this, but I realized all the other entries really represent my traditions, the yearly building blocks of a season that’s merry and bright. Yes, I’d love to have a set of traditions that look more like Martha Stewart and less like Rain Man, but if there’s one thing we learn – or else – from middle age it’s that you’d better get used to being who you are. And this is who I are.

I hope that you had an enjoyable and blessed holiday season; that its meaning came to you in new and fresh ways; and that you’ve been quicker than I in learning to see the beauty of Christmas as it is in your household, instead of expecting an Andy Williams special.

Season's Bleatings

Since the major media outlets seem to have missed it, forgive me for pausing to wish myself a happy blogiversary... Tuesday marked 2 years of filling up this space every week or so. Unfortunately I was unable to celebrate in print, because I was busy living a blog.

Regardless of the obvious charms of this Most Wonderful Time of the Year (not limited to the Andy Williams rendition),there are aspects of this season that are somewhat less generously suffused with Joy to the World. For you this may include the weather, or the shopping, or the ubiquitous song about a grandparent in trouble that dare not speak its name (did you know that the "Elmo" of "Elmo & Patsy" is actually Dr. Elmo? Eleven months of the year, a mild-mannered dentist; the other, he's like Springsteen or something. Although a more apt comparison might be Rick Dees, or even moreso Bobby "Boris" Pickett).

For me, however, the bane of my seasonal existence -- in a close call over that song, and it's too late & it's already stuck in my head and oh, please, Lord, won't you put me out of my misery? -- is Tree Day.

Putting up the Christmas tree is one of those Currier & Ives / Norman Rockwell-type images, and I always thought of it as just one of those things a man's supposed to be able to do -- like changing a tire, fixing stuff around the house, or carving a turkey. Over the years, however, the tree and I have faced off in a series of epic battles.

Once it's found, bought & gotten home, the real fun begins. Now the Experts say you're supposed to cut a little off the bottom; this helps it "drink" better, stay fresher, and not drop all its needles in a big heap on your rug until next week. This frankly poses a dilemma for me. First, it's my wife that has the cool tools, and she leaves them at camp. I, on the other hand, have a saw with a plastic handle and interchangeable blades that my I think my dad bought for me at W.T Grant in about 1975. In a sense, it's the perfect implement for the occasion, since I shouldn't be allowed to have sharp objects when I'm in this kind of mood.

To be honest, better tools wouldn't clinch it for me. Let's just say that back in Junior High, I did better in Bachelor Living (managing to be both a euphemism for and a stereotype of Home Ec) than I did in Shop. Of course, I really had no chance going in -- a shop full of heavy/sharp objects, populated to a large degree with the ... less academically aggressive students ... is not a safe place for a skinny and unpopular "new kid" with glasses, suspected (with some justification) of being a geek.

I'm always wary of whether the tree will balance & stay vertical, so I also use the trunk-trim as a way to level out the bottom as well. This is more effective when I don't cut the wrong direction, as I did a couple years ago. I ended up basically wedging that cut back under the trunk like a doorstop.

That's also why I gave up on the old-fashioned metal tripod stand and got one of those enormous bucket-like plastic ones. The advantage to that is that if worse comes to worst, I can just throw away the tree and decorate the stand, since it's pretty tall all by itself. It's so deep that I had to put a wood block in the bottom to prop up the tree. It took me like a half-hour to scrape such a block out of a scrap 2x4 piece (beavers would've been quicker)... only to find at last that the "well" of the stand is wider at the top than at the bottom, so I had to hack off yet another piece.

Finally, I got the tree essentially upright (I told my wife the reason it looked like it was leaning was that "the trunk isn't straight") and brought it in the house. I was so enervated from the tussle that it's taken me the 2 days since to even get lights on it -- which also ranks well below my top-10 fave holiday chores.

For some reason, I've found myself listing at about 5 degrees from vertical since I started working on the tree. Finally I gave up and admitted to myself that the tree was somewhat less than vertical (Step One: We admitted that we were powerless over shrubbery). It was way too late to try to reset it in the stand, so I did the next best thing.

I took the piece I sliced off the end of my original block and stuck it under the edge of the stand, tipping the stand up & making the tree look reasonably plumb. If you come to visit us over the next few weeks, I hope you enjoy our festive decor -- but please close the front door very gently.

What's in a Name

One day, a little over 8 years ago, I found myself on an airplane, desperately trying to come up with a name. I don't mean "a name I couldn't remember", but a name that had never been named before. We were on a flight to Pennsylvania, rushing to try to get there before our son would be born... and rushing to come up with a name before he was born. I think a lot of first-time parents are unprepared, but at least most of them get more than the 3 weeks' notice or so that we got!

Names are tough; we wanted to find a name we liked, and one with some meaning, but one that was also impervious to stupid nicknames. Or too many nicknames -- consider the decision faced by a Robert, who might also be Bob or Robbie or Rob or Bobby (or Robert). Of course, it can be difficult to go to the other extreme... "Mark" is a tough one to come up with a nickname for.

I always impress on my kids the importance of names, especially calling someone by the name they prefer to use as a sign of respect and value. So of course, we have frequent scraps at our house because our daughter likes to shorten her brother's name; he likes to add something to the end of hers.

The Christmas season -- or more properly, the Advent season -- is also a season of names. One of the familiar Advent Scripture passages, one of the ones that's as much a part of the music of the season as "Joy to the World", is the one from Isaiah that prophesies the many names of the coming Messiah: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Prince of Peace.... This past Sunday, we sang, "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel".

There's something about that name for Jesus that really gets to me intensely. I have a great collection of Christmas music, and when I hear the "Immanuel" songs, it sometimes chokes me up a little (no tears, of course; I'm way too manly & cool for that). But the very concept that God was so invested in our lives that He came here to be with us... I just find that so profound and moving.

Maybe the best example of that is Our God Is With Us by Steven Curtis Chapman (or see the lyrics here). When he gets to the bridge, and breaks out with "Rejoice, rejoice"... well, I have to confess I'm running up against the limits of my writing skill. That song takes me way beyond myself to a place of worship, joy, and awe at the enormity of what God's done for us.

I should also add that if necessary, you should sell all of your other Christmas music and buy his The Music of Christmas. It's an astonishing meld of the traditional and the contemporary. One of the best things about Advent for me is that I give myself permission to start listening to Christmas music, and that album's always Number 1 (with a shining star) for me.

Throughout this season, keep your ears open for the different names used to identify and describe the Baby who's coming. Make it a goal to discover and meditate on the one that speaks to you the most deeply.

Hold the Boxes

One of the milestone events of my adolescence was the day cable TV came to the North Country. Suddenly a vast universe of TV viewing unfolded before me -- 11 channels, if I recall correctly. Chief among those was Channel 9 from New York (at the time known as WOR), the television home of my beloved New York Mets... the passport to many hours of watching the heroics of such stalwarts as Ron Hodges, Jerry Morales, Tom Hausman, and Mark Bomback.

Later in the evening after the game was over (and everyone else was in bed) Channel 9 presented the Benny Hill Show -- which at the time was considered pretty racy fare, but nowadays would be left in the dust by your average 8 pm sitcom. It was silly & fast-paced, plenty of sight gags, plenty of cute girls mostly standing around (or being chased by Benny), and the teenage me enjoyed it immensely... OK, I suspect the grown-up me would at least get a few chuckles.

I still remember one sketch where Benny played a TV director and the girl playing the actress in the scene -- they never had names -- read her line, as follows: "What's that in the road? A head?" Then Benny as director stepped in and said, "No, no! It's supposed to be, 'What's that in the road ahead?' "

The point, of course, is that inflection, phrasing, emphasis can make all the difference in the world. I found this out to my chagrin from my post of a couple weeks ago. I was attempting to make a point about how, since my wife is a minister, we always have the potential to be moving -- but I feel better-equipped to handle that, if and when it happens. Unfortunately, the way I phrased it made it sound like we were almost certainly moving (already packing boxes, even); I should've known something was up when two people commented on that single sentence!

So in the interests of clarity, I edited that post to make the sentence reflect reality a little better:

There's no way from here we can know when the actual emergency will be, not just a test; but we understand that’s part of the life we’ve chosen (or for which God has chosen us), and we are learning to trust that he’ll give us what we need to make it happen whenever the time comes.

I'm also posting this entry because it's rare enough for someone to read one of my entries once, much less re-reading to catch edits. And also to let you know that if you're saving up cardboard boxes for us, you can take them to your local recycling station.

The Road to 52nd Street

One of the side-effects of reaching my 100th post is that I spent some extra time reviewing all the old ones. I noticed that I've made a number of references to having a song in my head. I'd be interested to know whether this is typical -- although "typical" is not typically something I even shoot for -- because I can assure you that it happens to me way more than I write about it. I don't even want to talk about the 4 a.m. consequences of practicing the Christmas Cantata over and over and over again....

In that case, I knew why that particular song was my nocturnal plague, but sometimes the origin of such a thing is a bit more obscure. So when I found myself singing (yes, aloud -- don't worry, there was no one else within earshot so it doesn't count as hardcore-weird) on the way to the dumpster the other day, as I often do I stopped and thought, "Where did that come from?" And of course my next thought, because this is the way I've wired myself, was: "I wonder if there's a blog in that?" If anything's hardcore-weird, it might be that.

Since it was late in the afternoon, right after I finished working, I was (a) trying to knock out a couple simple chores like taking out the garbage; and (b) musing over what to have for dinner. Conventional wisdom would suggest -- and by "conventional wisdom" I mean the wisdom I'm married to; "suggest" is, of course, a euphemism -- that meals be preplanned on a weekly basis. I tend to be a bit more... improvisational. Not "disorganized", or "procrastinating"; just... "creative". As a result, I often end up applying that creativity in the late afternoon, with a matter of minutes to both plan & begin to execute.

In this case, the stakes were higher: since it was Thanksgiving week, there was a necessity both to clear out the fridge and to avoid putting more stuff in it. Unfortunately, although we had several lefotvers available, I wasn't sure whether it would add up to a meal. Perhaps if I could pad it out a bit...

... I mean, find a way to round out the nutritional and flavor profile, of course. I knew I had a loaf of Vienna bread in the cupboard; maybe in combination with miscellaneous leftovers, I could call it a meal (cautionary tale: I've been doing that a lot recently, due to various scheduling and, well, "creative" constraints -- until finally my son said, "Dad, can we have a real supper tonight?").

Whenever I see Vienna bread, it reminds me of the Billy Joel song, "Vienna", from The Stranger album -- one of the very first albums I ever bought for myself, courtesy of the ubiquitous Columbia House Record Club.

Ordinarily, free-associating over to a song name like that is all it takes to get me singing it, but in this case the beginning of the song didn't come immediately to mind. So casting about in the Billy Joel vault, I came up with the title cut of the next album -- 52nd Street. It's hardly a song at all... more like a coda to the album as a whole. Remember back when there were albums and they went together in some way? 52nd Street is kind of a jazz/blues-influenced album, and the title song is a short (9-line) piece with a bit of New Orleans flavor. If nothing else, I know I can sing 9 lines from memory; I think that's why it seems to surface so readily.

It's not his best song, or album for that matter; if you check the reviews at the Amazon link above, there's a lot of condescending 'nice try' evaluations. The singles from the album were My Life, Honesty, and Big Shot -- in my opinion, the three worst songs on the record. You can see all three videos at his YouTube page, if you miss the 70s or just wonder what the fuss was about (whatever you do, don't go to http://www.billyjoel.com/, which not only crashed my browser 3 times in a row, but also features a photo of him which reminds us all just how l.o.n.g ago 1978 actually was). You might better go get your hands on the album & listen to the cool cuts like Half a Mile Away, Rosalinda's Eyes, and Until the Night.

That's recommendation #1 -- #2 would be to listen to yourself a little in the coming days. When you get one of those "random" thoughts, or songs in your head, take a sec to try to trace it back to the source. It's terrific practice for parenting, since it helps develop your ability to understand what they're thinking & why... and it's the game the whole family can play. You don't even need a playing board or a deck of cards -- just bring your brain.

Metablog: With a Name Like Random Access...

In the mornings around here, the usual TV-viewing fare leans to the Smurfs and Lilo & Stitch, so it was out of the ordinary when I caught a bit of the Today Show not long ago. It only happened because I was on a business trip, itself a rare occurrence; I was having breakfast in the lobby restaurant with my colleagues, a meal distinguished for me by the complete absence of anyone fighting over which blanket they would sit on to eat cereal and watch cartoons.

There was a small flat-panel TV in the corner of the restaurant, and I confess that even though the table talk concerning the meetings ahead was fascinating and insightful, I found my attention straying to the screen every so often. I could scarcely believe my eyes when up popped Willard Scott. Although Willard was gracefully eased out of his regular weather gig lo these eons ago, he inexplicably surfaces every now & again to do his Geezer Bit. In fact, nowadays it even has its own sponsor, Smucker’s. Each oldster gets his or (mostly) her picture framed by a graphic reading, “With a name like…” as Willard, who’s gotta be fairly close to getting his own picture up there, reads off the particulars.

There’s no cyber-equivalent, unfortunately, but today I celebrate a milestone of my own: my 100th post. Back when I started, my stated intention was to post twice a week, so I’m just about exactly a year behind that pace… but it didn’t take me long to discover that one idea a week was a pretty brisk clip for me.

Still, I’m pretty happy with 100 posts in 100 1/2 weeks; I admit there have been occasions when I wrote something just to check off that week (wouldn’t want to disappoint both my regular readers!), but on balance I’ve written when I at least deluded myself that I had something to say.

On the occasion of my centennial (yeah, I know that means 100 years but it’s the best I’ve got), I wanted to give you an update on a few of my previous posts:

• Some time back I wrote a piece about the music on kids’ shows. Some time after that it occurred to me that I had completely forgotten to include the one piece of music that got me thinking about it to begin with:
  Actually there aren't too many finer musical experiences of any kind, if you ask me......
• I discovered the limits on my son’s powers as a human alarm clock: you can’t reset his time. On a previous business trip this summer, I needed to get up at 6 in order to drive to my meeting in time – so of course, the power went out and I awoke at 6:50 with the clock blinking 12:00. So I ended up 20 minutes late for my meeting, plus I woke him up for a change by jumping out of bed and hitting the floor at a dead run.
• In the spring of ’06, I wrote a piece which would’ve been one of my favorites strictly on the basis of how it was constructed… except the punch line was that I was apprehensive that we would be moving in the summer of ’07. We continued on pins & needles more or less throughout the interim, but in the end we were spared, able to remain in what we believe is at least for the time being the best place for us to be. There's no way from here we can know when the actual emergency will be, not just a test; but we understand that’s part of the life we’ve chosen (or for which God has chosen us), and we are learning to trust that he’ll give us what we need to make it happen whenever the time comes.
• At the very beginning of my blog experience, when I still fancied myself the next great internet sportswriter, I did a little piece featuring a bit of haphazard statistical analysis and wound up with a prediction for the Mets’ then-newest slugger, Carlos Delgado. I figured that if he followed the trend of previous Met acquisitions and his own career record, he’d end up batting .281 with 30 home runs & 106 RBIs, and an OPS (on-base percentage plus slugging percentage) of .906. The actual retail value of the 2006 season: .265-38-114 (with an OPS of ... .909). I didn’t hit it exactly, but it oughtta be close enough to get me into the Showcase Showdown, at least.
• In the summer of ’06, I wrote about my son’s fascination with Emeril, and my own envy of how easy America’s Favorite Chef has it (actually, I suppose America’s Favorite might be Paula Deen – or at least that’s how the American College of Cardiology just voted). Well, the big fella’s been dethroned from the 7:30 TV timeslot by Tom & Jerry… and as for me, one day in the grocery store I turned a corner to find a display of clean, white kitchen towels calling to me – enough in the package that the laundry schedule doesn’t pose a significant obstacle. I still don’t have a staff to do the prep or cleanup, or even to hand me the towel, but it’s a start.
• Just a few weeks ago, I shared that I was increasing my work hours now that both kids are in school full-time. I’d like to report that’s going great, with the exception of the fact that we get dressed out of the hamper now… oh, and dinner a couple times a week is crackers & cheese.

As I pass into three digits, I have to say it’s still fun most of the time, and there are still a few words of five or more syllables I haven’t managed to work in yet. A couple of people have said stuff like, “You ought to write a book,” which they & I both know is slightly less realistic than my running for president, but nonetheless kinda cool to dream about. I still put too much pressure on myself to publish so anyone looking for new material won’t give up on me (hint, if you haven’t already figured this out: if you come here more often than every 10 days or so, you’re just deluding yourself); I’m even more determined, however, as time goes on to publish not when it’s ”time”, but only when I have something to say.

So thanks to my family, and to America’s hotels, airlines, and theme parks, for providing me with such rich material. And thanks to anyone reading; if you’ve read even one of these posts, you’ve done me a great honor. I hope you’ll keep reading & I can repay you with a laugh or an insight; failing in that, please feel free to take advantage of my 100% Money-Back Guarantee.

The Sermon I Actually Did Give

I occasionally tend to pontificate in this space on matters of faith. It's pretty safe; I have close to a self-selected audience, and they (you) are not likely to call me out even if I say something stupid or obviously false. However, not long ago, I was asked to do it for real: stand up in front of my actual home congregation and deliver an actual sermon. What follows is substantially the message I gave, edited a bit for differences in audience and medium.

If you've read this space with any consistency, it won’t surprise you to know that music speaks to me as much as, or even more than, the spoken word. In fact, I’ve always had a secret dream to do an entire worship service with songs: songs for the prayers, the Scripture, the affirmation of faith, and the sermon itself. I thought that might come off just a tiny bit presumptuous and self-centered, so instead I based the service I did and the accompanying message around the Bible’s songbook – the Psalms. The "official" Scripture passage I used was Psalm 139:1-18.

Many of the Psalms are hymns of praise to God, so they’re a great inspiration for meditating on God’s greatness. I once learned a mnemonic device that helps me pray: ACTS, which stands for Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving and Supplication. And although it can be tempting to skip straight to Supplication and start asking God for stuff… and it’s relatively easy to thank Him for what He’s done… I don’t think it’s any accident that this form of prayer, like worship itself, starts with Adoration.

Adoration means praising God for who He is – for His nature and not specifically what He’s done. So this piece highlights just a few of the attributes I understand to be part of God’s nature. As always, you're encouraged to enjoy the home version of our game: come up with your own list.

Many years ago, J.B. Phillips – who may be better-known as the writer of the Phillips translation of Scripture – wrote a book called, “Your God Is Too Small”. His theory is that a lot of us get a picture of God in childhood and never really grow out of it. Do you know anyone who sees God as a smiling old white-haired man – content to let the kids go play but not really invested in their lives? How about the severe, irritable God who peers out the window of heaven waiting for someone to do something wrong so he can lower the boom? Or the gentle, mild-mannered God who really just loves everyone and can’t bear to hold them accountable for anything?

Phillips’ point is that it’s hard to be passionate about worshiping a God like that. For God to be relevant in our lives, He has to be big enough that we want to respect and honor Him. It always strikes me that that’s the original meaning of “awesome”: not just “really cool”, but “inspiring a sense of awe.” “Wonderful” means “full of wonders.” One of my favorite quotes comes from Voltaire: “If God created man in His own image, then man has more than returned the favor.” Life is hard, and death is hard, and God will be no help to us if we confine Him to the limits of our own imaginations.

In fact, when I’m afraid of the future, it comforts me to remember that God is entirely outside of time and space. Talk about beyond the limits of your imagination…but David understood this. He says in verse 8, “If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there,” and in verse 11, “darkness is as light to you.” I think that speaks to the way that God is unrestricted by time and space.

Think back to the story of Moses in front of Pharaoh. Moses is about to face the Pharaoh and tell him, “Let my people go!” So he says to God, “If I get up in front of him, he’s going to ask me who sent me – what do I say then?” Do you remember the answer? “Just tell him I Am sent you.” What does that mean? Some of what it means to me is that God is always present tense. As verse 5 says, “You hem me in, behind and before.” So I don’t have to worry about what lies ahead; not only will God be with me when I get there, but He’s already there. He already exists in that future time: it’s all present-tense to Him.

Now if you want the perfect example of good-news/bad-news, take a look at verse 1: “O Lord, you have searched me and you know me.” I can’t help but think sometimes that this would be a great place for a smaller God. A God who was too small to know me completely or to be with me always would certainly come in handy once in awhile. There are plenty of times I really wish God didn’t know what I was doing or what’s going on in my head, and I think that’s why some people have such a small God. He’s a lot less threatening.

Of course, what David is trying to convey is that God, as vast and awesome as He is, knows each of us personally, individually. Sports Illustrated has a feature every week called “Pop Culture Grid” where they ask professional athletes some semi-serious questions. We’re supposed to “play along at home” to see how well their answers match ours. One recent question was, “Who’s the most famous person in your cell?” A professional basketball player said, “Michael Jordan” – which surprised me, since he wasn’t very good; an NFL defensive back said, “My mama.” David’s really trying to tell us that we can be in regular touch with the most famous Person there ever was, and He wants to take all of our calls. Remember the Israelites were surrounded by other nations that worshiped remote gods, even inanimate objects – those people knew they had no shot of having a personal relationship with a chunk of stone or a block of wood. They spent their lives making sacrifices to try to avoid being struck down, so this was not just a theoretical concept for them.

Even a lot of people who believe God doesn’t really care about us can affirm Him as Creator – that would be kind of the Toymaker brand of small God. He builds us, he winds us up, he lets us go; after that, whatever happens, happens. But listen again: is that who this sounds like? "For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well."

That’s not an assembly-line God; that’s a God who has His hand in our lives from before we were born. I don’t think any of us would get up on a Sunday morning and go to church if we didn’t believe that, but what do His blueprints for us look like?

Genesis, of course, says that He created man in His own image – “male and female created He them,” as it says in the King James Version. You will note immediately that this means, among other things, that God is not “He” at all, since he created female in His own image. I have used “He” throughout this piece and much of my writing, and I hope that has not posed an obstacle to anyone. When the English language develops a pronoun that works in this situation, I’ll use it!

More importantly, although we’re obviously not identical to God, being created in His image means that we have some portion of His qualities wired into us: the ability to love; the potential for wisdom; the capacity to forgive. I can find myself excusing my faults by saying, “That’s just the way I am. I was born this way – do you expect me to change?” Well, I was born with all that image-of-God in me too… so I don’t have much excuse not to show it.

There’s been a lot of debate recently – I’ve been reading about it in Newsweek – about whether belief in God makes any sense. Bestselling books have been written about why believers are sinply deluded. Now scientists have discovered that there’s a part of the human brain that induces people to search for God, to seek something higher than themselves to worship. The conclusion they draw from this is that’s why people believe in God, because they’re biologically more or less forced to. I think a better conclusion might be that God made us that way – He designed us to want to seek Him.

I came to a realization about giving not long ago. It’s not obvious from observing a 5- and 8-year-old around the house, but God has wired us to be givers. When you get down to it, it doesn’t make much sense that giving money to the church should be satisfying, or that tithing should be more satisfying (try it and see!). But God has made us in such a way that when we give, we feel pleasure in our souls.

My son has a bedtime ritual with me in which he asks me questions. It’s always “Who made…?” It could be “Who made my curtains?” or “Who made roads?” or “Who made Legos?” Sometimes he asks, “Who made the moon and the stars?” And he knows the answer already, but then I have the holy privilege of telling him, “God made the moon & the stars, and the sun, and everything in our world. He made them beautiful, and you know why? Because He knew it would make us happy.” Because He built us so that it would make us happy.

When I think about the way God made us, though, I keep coming back to a C.S. Lewis quote:

A car is made to run on gasoline, and it would not run properly on anything
else. Now God designed the human machine to run on Himself. He Himself is the
fuel our spirits were designed to burn, or the food our spirits were designed to
feed on. There is no other.

A friend told me a story about getting stranded on the road. She was driving along and the car sputtered, and jerked, and then just died. She was mystified because she had just stopped at the gas station. In fact, she had the pump to herself, kind of off to the side; she’d had some trouble getting the nozzle into the tank but by golly she made it go….

As it turned out, the reason it was so hard to fit the nozzle – and the reason the car died – was that she had used the diesel pump. And a gasoline engine doesn’t run real well on diesel; in fact, it won’t run at all until you apply several hundred dollars to it.

Just like C.S. Lewis said, God made us to run on Himself. We can try to fill that God-shaped hole with a lot of things: sports, drugs, relationships, career, even church. But the engine will never run as smoothly and powerfully as it was designed to unless we give it the fuel it was created to be filled with.

I’ve said this before: we’re all theologians. After all, theology is the study of who God is. Everything we think and do and say every day bears witness to who we believe God to be and whether we feel He’s worthy to take a central role in our lives. My prayer is that each of us will be tuned in to God’s presence and work in our lives, and worship Him for who He is.

Rubik's Hair

I have noticed a resurgence lately, utterly inexplicable to me, of Rubik's cube. I was a teenager the first time around; I didn't get it then, and I don't get it now.

As I was considered a bright kid -- the best part of high school is probably the fact that your intelligence is judged almost solely by grades -- and had a certain affinity for games, it was probably inevitable that the cube and I would go a couple rounds. I can tell you for sure, though, that I never laid a glove on it.

I read an article not long ago about some of the top solvers. In fact, one of them was on Beauty and the Geek last year. And it was one of the beauties, as it happens... no, of course that's a lie. Rubik's cube has become one of the reliable geek-indicators, on par with the legendary pocket protector, a fondness for Dungeons and Dragons, and a record of regular attendance at Star Wars conventions.

This guy's claim to fame is that he can solve it in something like 10 seconds with his hands behind his back. My claim is that even if I'm looking directly at it, it takes me more than 10 seconds just to get the rows lined up enough so I can turn the thing... although for me, there's no hurry since I know it's not going to do any good anyway.

I actually picked one up just the other day, but I ended up setting it down and backing away slowly. I've got enough puzzles in my life as it is...

... for example: parenting itself is puzzling, and parenting a little girl is filled with mysteries. I may have mentioned this before, but once and for all: males and females may be equal, but there is no way they're identical.

As mysterious as her personality might be, perhaps the puzzle most terrifying to me is her hair. I've come to understand the way she thinks, but I don't think I'll ever get the hang of hairstyles. We have a couple of drawersful of various hair-holding devices... I was going to list them all for the proverbial comic effect, until I realized I don't really know what any of them are called or how they're used. I do know that even rubber bands are a challenge for me; even the tiniest ones have to be doubled over to hold a ponytail, but it's really hard to get that second loop around... And hairbands! You know, those plastic semicircles -- my wife says, "OK, just give her a hairband, then." I can't even get that on right; for some reason both the band & the loop stick up and she ends up looking like she's wearing one of those rabbit-ears antennas with the UHF loop in the middle.

It's really all I can do just to brush her hair, what with all the whining and crying... and she's not very happy about it either. She has long, fine hair that in the morning ends up looking like Charlie Brown's kite string. Apparently there's some kind of Secret Girl Trick in handling this stuff that I never mastered -- despite the fact that I've gone through periods (known as "high school" and "college") when my hair length was close to hers. What can I say, late 70s-early 80s, mirrors hadn't been invented yet.

Mornings around here can be fairly chaotic; we've even voluntarily increased the degree of difficulty by watching another 5-year-old before school 3 days a week. My plan goes like this:

Me:

• get up with the kids first
• make breakfasts (no easy task since my son decided he needed three each morning)
• make lunches (no easy task since my daughter is essentially a conscientious objector with regard to sandwiches)
• pack bookbags
• arbitrate disputes
• get teeth brushed
• oh yeah -- get my own shower & clothes & breakfast to get myself ready for work
• take them to the bus stop

Her:

• pick out clothes
• brush the girl's hair

Seems about even to me.

A Matter of Some Interest

My memory is far from foolproof -- it was, after all, so Very, Very Long Ago -- but as I recall it, when I went to elementary school they had pretty much all the supplies we needed. It's true that I would not have dreamed of showing up without a well-stocked pencil box, and I fondly remember the binders, notebooks, and TrapperKeepers I used (as a matter of fact, I still have a couple of my grade-school binders. But then, doesn't everyone?). However, when it came to general classroom supplies... as I remember it, they were generally supplied by the classroom.

So I was caught a bit off-guard, even taken aback, when I read my daughter's list of requested supplies for kindergarten. Absent were the pens, pencils, and crayons of days gone by -- in fact, we were specifically enjoined not to send any of these. No, the bulk of her list consisted of: four bottles of hand sanitizer, two boxes of Kleenex, and five packages of baby wipes.

It's not really surprising when Wal-Mart experiences empty shelves at the peak of the August School-Supply Shopping Season... but I really wasn't expecting it to be the shelf that (formerly) held the store-brand baby wipes.

Looking on the bright side, she has no excuse for not being cleaner than she generally is at home.

Of course, budgets are particularly tight for public institutions all over, and all the more so in a town where the original school budget was essentially voted down because the chair of the school board was annoying. We seem to find ourselves targets of "supplemental" fundraising on a regular basis (unfortunately, the "why are we paying taxes?" argument is closed off to me; since our home is owned by the church, we... um... don't actually pay school tax).

The first scam... er, project... of the school year was the well-known Magazine Subscription Sale. This would of course suggest that we send our 7- and 5-year-olds door-to-door through the neighborhood... although it could be problematic, especially considering most of those homes also have their own students selling magazine subscriptions.

Naturally, the sales drive kicks off with an assembly to hype the kids up about all the Fabulous Prizes they'll win, so it's incumbent upon us to at least make a good-faith effort to scare up some sales... and you know what they say, charity begins at home.

I'd really like it to begin somewhere else, but it may be be poor form for my wife to solicit among her parishioners (many of whom, again, already have kids or grandkids); and since I work remotely, I don't think passing the flyer around my office will do the trick.

Unfortunately, our own options are limited by the fact that we already receive at least one copy of every periodical printed in English (with the exception, of course, of the ones which were traditionally mailed in plain brown wrappers). Or so I thought.... Browsing through the list to find publications with which to stick our friends and family, my wife discovered one she thought I needed: Family Handyman.

I read something recently that said anyone using the phrase "wrong on so many levels" should be forced to list them, so allow me to elucidate:

• After all, she's the one with the ideas and the ambition, and the brand-new tools, so why is it I'm the designated fix-it guy anyway?
• Granted my maintenance skills are largely confined to changing batteries and driving picture hooks into the wall, but I'm not sure I'm comfortable with the idea of an entire subscription devoted to remedying (or remodeling) my shortcomings.
• In any case, I'm pretty satisfied with my skills, such as they are. I consider myself the Ty Pennington of assembly-required furniture. And always remember the Biblical admonition, "From him to whom much has been given, much will be expected."

When I expressed my... lack of enthusiasm... for the notion, she quickly shifted gears and informed me that it didn't have to be home maintenance -- what about something like American history? She really thought it would be beneficial for me to branch out, grow, develop more interests....

I had to really take a pause and a deep breath on that one, lest my voice rise like an American Idol contestant approaching the big finish. There are a lot of things I ought to develop: I should develop a richer spiritual life; it would be great to develop some physical fitness; I daresay there are even some photos around I need to develop. I really don't need any more interests -- to be more interesting, perhaps, but I have about 3 more interests than I can handle as it is:

• reading -- books, magazines, websites
• music -- playing, listening, singing in the choir
• sports -- watching, playing, reading about, fantasy baseball
• puzzles -- crossword or Sudoku
• church -- choir, PowerPoint production

and of course, computer-related pursuits, including a blog you may be familiar with.

In fact, what I'm really interest-ed in is a way to manage all this, plus a family and a... oh yeah, job -- in the allotted 168 per week....

Drive Time

Although we have long since been sucked into the vortex of Minivan Nation, it was not always thus. We were actually looking for a new car at the time we learned we'd be adopting our son; we ended up carrying through our original plan and buying a Corolla. It was a wonderfully dependable, durable, and economical car; but at that time, at least, the Corolla was approximately the size of a twin bed.

That was fairly adequate with one small child... but with 2 of them, less small every day, it felt like it was approaching "couch" size. Then add in a (generous) pinch of sibling conflict, and it becomes a rolling phone booth.

So time once again to do the car-searching thing -- keeping in mind that one of the reasons I like Toyotas is because I have to go car-shopping that much less often. Here's the thing I really don't understand: suppose I walk into the grocery store tomorrow and steak is $3.99 a pound. So I pick out a 2-pound steak... what do you think would happen if I took it to the checkout and said, "Tell you what, I'll give you $7 for it"? Suppose further that the store had paid $5 for the steak, so they were secretly willing to sell it for $6. So even if I save a buck, I'm really spending a dollar too much. Doesn't that kind of sum up the car-buying experience?

It didn't take us too long to narrow down our search to a few, and before long (at least for me; note that another key reason I don't like car-shopping is that at the end a decision is required, and a decision costing thousands of dollars at that) we had settled on... another Toyota. Surprise!

This time we opted for a Camry, "Motor Trend's (perennial) Car of the Year". It's dependable and smooth -- and it's also bigger than my first apartment. My goal was to get the kids far enough away that I couldn't quite hear them, or at least to get them far enough away from each other that they could inflict only superficial wounds.

Last week I got to take it on the first real Road Trip; you wouldn't want me to take the van to Boston, would you? It was a little like driving my living room down the Mass Pike (as opposed to the van, which is more like being a package in one of those US Mail semis).

I even got to do one thing I can never do in my own living room: listen to the radio broadcast of the Mets game. In my childhood, before there was such a thing as cable TV, the only way to keep up with the Mets on a daily basis was radio... even later, as I went out on my own, and the Mets emerged from the funk of the late 70s-early 80s, I spent many hours in the aforementioned tiny apartment pacing and listening to the ballgame.

Local (upstate) radio stations don't carry the Mets any more, but there's something about a car radio that allows you to bring in those faraway AM stations... so I got to enjoy the flashback of listening to the game.

Unfortunately, it seemed that would be the only enjoyable part. The Mets, already fully engaged in blowing their seemingly insurmountable division lead, were in the midst of receiving a thrashing from the more-or-less hapless Washington Nationals -- and neither for the first or last time, at that. As I approached Boston, the score was 10-3 Washington, heading to the bottom of the 9th.

Then a single, a strikeout, a walk... and like a bolt from the blue, a 3-run homer. Suddenly it's 10-6, and after another hit, a pitching change. Then another hit, and a walk, and a double, and guess what -- it's 10-9.

All this time, of course, I'm still heading west -- and after the Nats change pitchers yet again, and the winning run comes to the plate, I reach my exit. Now, the Copley Plaza exit is essentially a tunnel/underpass that extends for some distance, and maybe you remember what going into a tunnel does to AM reception!

I hustled through the tunnel with my heart in my throat, but by the time I was out the other side, the second out had already occurred. By the time I turned the wrong direction off the exit, the game was over. As it turned out, it was a microcosm of the rest of the week: in suspense till the very last second before ending in crushing disappointment.

On the other hand, the ride was very comfortable (OK, physically) and I did get great gas mileage.....