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?