THE IMPERFECT STORM
There's another woman in my life today...Claudette. She can't make up her mind.
Claudette is a tropical storm, apparently bent on becoming a minimal hurricane. This morning (at least what I call morning although sane people call it the middle of the night) Claudette was taking aim at Brownsville, in deep deep South Texas and appeared to be nothing more than a passing nuisance to my world. Now she's bearing down north of Corpus Christi which means I must alter my course too. I must fixate on planning as we try to out-guess the storm, get people in position, and information on the air.
As of right now, the plan is in place, I'm all set to go, but now I must wait for Claudette to ready herself.
There's a certain familiarity to all this...the women in my life have trained me well.
=====
Speaking of imperfect planning. Did you see this?
What if this is really a subtle terrorist plot?
Do you really trust your garden gnome?
Monday, July 14, 2003
Sunday, July 13, 2003
THE GREAT CONSUMER
My friend Kelley is watching her mother die. Her mom, Gail, has had repeated bouts with cancer and now there is nothing more that can be done. Doctors say she will die within the next two weeks.
Kelley has gone her entire life without losing someone truly close to her so this is the first time she's had to confront the end of life from the front row. It's hard. Very hard. For the past year, Kelley has dealt with little else and now she will spend these next two weeks at her mother's side, waiting for the inevitable and trying to find some way to deny it.
Amy and I spent last night with our friends John and Denise. They have had to face the realities of death too often and are also struggling. John and Denise have quickly tried to get on with their lives following the death of their son less than two months ago but they acknowledge their facade of strength has many cracks.
They need more time. More patience. More prayers.
The Psalmist talks about being "entangled in the cords of death." That's what is happening to these friends of mine. They are not dying, but their lives are snarled in death's shadow.
There are no words capable of easing their heaving heartbreak so we will borrow from death's own gameplan to try to provide comfort. Amy and I will wrap ourselves around these friends who have been consumed by the deaths of others. We will embrace and embrangle them in the grip of God's love and hopefully, in time, extricate them from some small part of their pain.
Psalm 119:50
My comfort in my suffering is this: Your promise preserves my life.
My friend Kelley is watching her mother die. Her mom, Gail, has had repeated bouts with cancer and now there is nothing more that can be done. Doctors say she will die within the next two weeks.
Kelley has gone her entire life without losing someone truly close to her so this is the first time she's had to confront the end of life from the front row. It's hard. Very hard. For the past year, Kelley has dealt with little else and now she will spend these next two weeks at her mother's side, waiting for the inevitable and trying to find some way to deny it.
Amy and I spent last night with our friends John and Denise. They have had to face the realities of death too often and are also struggling. John and Denise have quickly tried to get on with their lives following the death of their son less than two months ago but they acknowledge their facade of strength has many cracks.
They need more time. More patience. More prayers.
The Psalmist talks about being "entangled in the cords of death." That's what is happening to these friends of mine. They are not dying, but their lives are snarled in death's shadow.
There are no words capable of easing their heaving heartbreak so we will borrow from death's own gameplan to try to provide comfort. Amy and I will wrap ourselves around these friends who have been consumed by the deaths of others. We will embrace and embrangle them in the grip of God's love and hopefully, in time, extricate them from some small part of their pain.
Psalm 119:50
My comfort in my suffering is this: Your promise preserves my life.
Saturday, July 12, 2003
GET OUT
It's fly away day at our house, or close to it. Our second batch of swallow nestlings are crowding each other out and their parents are now making it pretty clear it's time for them to get gone.
Adult swallows are much less subtle than human parents. We tend to be more gentle in coaxing kids to spread their wings, maybe we're more fearful of our children learning to live. The swallows don't mess around. They dive bomb the babies in the nest to drive home their point. Today it's a constant swirl of squawking as the parents conduct "fly-by beratings" of their offspring.
The game plan apparently is to annoy the baby birds to the point where they become suicidal. Thinking they'll at least no longer have to listen to their parents harping, the birds leap from the nest assuming they're going to plunge to their deaths, only to be surprised when they catch flight.
The wonders of nature.
It's fly away day at our house, or close to it. Our second batch of swallow nestlings are crowding each other out and their parents are now making it pretty clear it's time for them to get gone.
Adult swallows are much less subtle than human parents. We tend to be more gentle in coaxing kids to spread their wings, maybe we're more fearful of our children learning to live. The swallows don't mess around. They dive bomb the babies in the nest to drive home their point. Today it's a constant swirl of squawking as the parents conduct "fly-by beratings" of their offspring.
The game plan apparently is to annoy the baby birds to the point where they become suicidal. Thinking they'll at least no longer have to listen to their parents harping, the birds leap from the nest assuming they're going to plunge to their deaths, only to be surprised when they catch flight.
The wonders of nature.
Friday, July 11, 2003
MIXED LOYALTIES
I know I need to write today, but I just scooped out some ice cream (it's low fat and sugar free, but actually not bad), and it's calling my name. It's "Moose Tracks", the hands down favorite among family members during our vacation trek. Amy found this variety in San Antonio so I assume it will be a staple in our house from now on. I hope so...it'll be nice to find a little taste of vacation stashed in the freezer on occasion.
=====
BLOWING SMOKE
Missed this event in San Antonio the other day. These shots were taken by different people of a phenomena that occurred during a pounding thunderstorm. Smoke rings in the sky.
I've always thought God was a Spurs fan...now I'm convinced. He was obviously enjoying His victory cigar.
====
I KIDD YOU NOT
No kidding! Jason Kidd has rejected the Spurs offer. Who could blame him..why would anyone want to leave New Jersey?
This free agency frenzy in the NBA is at least entertaining. The Lakers will have the "fab four": Kobe, Shaq, Karl Malone, and Gary Payton. I hear they're eliminating the overhead luggage compartments in the team jet to make room for all the egos.
====
THE ICE CREAM CALLETH
It's either continue to write and eat ice cream slurry, or sign off.
Brevity thy name is "Moose Tracks"
I know I need to write today, but I just scooped out some ice cream (it's low fat and sugar free, but actually not bad), and it's calling my name. It's "Moose Tracks", the hands down favorite among family members during our vacation trek. Amy found this variety in San Antonio so I assume it will be a staple in our house from now on. I hope so...it'll be nice to find a little taste of vacation stashed in the freezer on occasion.
=====
BLOWING SMOKE
Missed this event in San Antonio the other day. These shots were taken by different people of a phenomena that occurred during a pounding thunderstorm. Smoke rings in the sky.
I've always thought God was a Spurs fan...now I'm convinced. He was obviously enjoying His victory cigar.
====
I KIDD YOU NOT
No kidding! Jason Kidd has rejected the Spurs offer. Who could blame him..why would anyone want to leave New Jersey?
This free agency frenzy in the NBA is at least entertaining. The Lakers will have the "fab four": Kobe, Shaq, Karl Malone, and Gary Payton. I hear they're eliminating the overhead luggage compartments in the team jet to make room for all the egos.
====
THE ICE CREAM CALLETH
It's either continue to write and eat ice cream slurry, or sign off.
Brevity thy name is "Moose Tracks"
Thursday, July 10, 2003
BARS, BELLS AND THE BULLETIN MAN
I'm going to Graceland
Graceland
In Memphis Tennessee
I'm going to Graceland
For the past two years we've taken airplanes, but our family used to drive to Ohio each summer. On those trips it became tradition to crank up Paul Simon's "Graceland" on tape or Cd as we crossed over the yawning Mississippi river from Arkansas into Memphis, Tennessee. We never actually went to Graceland. In fact, on several occasions we bypassed the more traveled interstate and the bulk of Memphis entirely by heading straight for Kentucky via State Highway 7. Highway 7 initially takes you through West Memphis, the ugly side of town. There are unheeded housing projects along with the blight of neglected and neglectful people. The deprived and the depraved sandwiched amid tattered billboards, empty storefronts, and businesses brazenly hawking the escape of liquor and the dreams of lotto from behind garish burglar bars.
Poorboys and Pilgrims with families
And we are going to Graceland
Once you leave West Memphis the burglar bars disappear. The towns you'll come to are little more than sparse specks as Highway 7 becomes a haven for roadside antique stores (I really liked an old radio I saw in Troy once), run down gas stations, and churches. There are dozens upon dozens of churches pockmarking the roadside and an equal number of signs staked by congregations making claims to the future. I'm sure there are churches in the inner city of West Memphis too. I guess they don't stand out as much...or more likely I was too fixated on the burglar bars, which seem to advertise fear, to notice the sanctuaries serving up salvation.
I'm going to Graceland
For reasons I cannot explain
There's some part of me wants to see
Graceland
This is one of my favorite spots at our annual summer destination of Lakeside, Ohio. It's not easy to see from this photo, but behind the bell there is a bench where I enjoy sitting...and staring. The bench is a little off the main pathway, so not many people use it, and there's an unimpeded view of the Lake Erie expanse. It's the bench that attracts me, not the bell. I don't know the bell's history. Maybe it was used to ring in revivals in days gone by, or to greet passing boats. Maybe it's been damaged, or perhaps children wantonly rang it so often it became too annoying. In any case, now it sits, an idle curiosity, secured behind spiked ironed fencing and a locked gate. I've never heard it ring.
It reminds me how easily I put up barriers thinking they will protect me not realizing they silence my potential.
I'm going to Graceland
For reasons I cannot explain
There's some part of me wants to see
Graceland
The entire community of Lakeside is gated. Make no mistake, that's part of the attraction of the place. Your kids can't wander too far away and people can't simply stroll in without at least paying a gate fee. For many years, one person who came in and out of the gates with impunity was the Bulletin Man. He has a home right outside the gates and I always assumed he had special dispensation to come and go as he pleased.
The Bulletin Man suffered a head injury some 40 years ago. Depending on your perspective, he either hasn't been quite the same or he's never changed at all since that tragic event. He rides an ancient bicycle and has some grooming and fashion challenges, but he goes out of his way to be pleasant. He will engage you in conversation if at all possible and the dialogue will eventually reach its crux; he will ask if you happen to have brought along a "church bulletin." If you don't miraculously have one handy, he'll request you mail him one...every week...presumably forever.
Two summers ago, I ran into the Bulletin Man at the "little store with giant prices" immediately outside the gates of Lakeside where summer travelers make daily pilgrimages for must have items like ice and tomato paste. He told me he was no longer allowed on the grounds of Lakeside "unless he had a purpose." He showed me a letter from the Lakeside Association saying that some people had "complained" about him. They were "uncomfortable" when he approached them.
The normally welcoming gates of Lakeside, my vacation sanctuary, took on new meaning that day.
Last summer, I didn't see the Bulletin Man at all during our Lakeside hiatus. I feared he had been unable to cope with the disruption of his cherished routine. I had no idea where someone like that would go, or if he had anyone to counsel and comfort him.
Then last week, I was playing shuffleboard when Amy shouted from across the court and hurriedly pointed toward the street behind me. I turned just in time to see the Bulletin Man smiling broadly as he pedaled past aboard his rickety old Schwinn.
Maybe that day he was only given passage because he had a "purpose", but I hope not. I'd like to believe that the folks in charge of Lakeside changed their policy. I hope they realized the error of their ways.
They had barred the way.
There are no gates to grace.
Maybe I've a reason to believe
We all will be received
In Graceland
Graceland
In Memphis Tennessee
I'm going to Graceland
For the past two years we've taken airplanes, but our family used to drive to Ohio each summer. On those trips it became tradition to crank up Paul Simon's "Graceland" on tape or Cd as we crossed over the yawning Mississippi river from Arkansas into Memphis, Tennessee. We never actually went to Graceland. In fact, on several occasions we bypassed the more traveled interstate and the bulk of Memphis entirely by heading straight for Kentucky via State Highway 7. Highway 7 initially takes you through West Memphis, the ugly side of town. There are unheeded housing projects along with the blight of neglected and neglectful people. The deprived and the depraved sandwiched amid tattered billboards, empty storefronts, and businesses brazenly hawking the escape of liquor and the dreams of lotto from behind garish burglar bars.
Poorboys and Pilgrims with families
And we are going to Graceland
Once you leave West Memphis the burglar bars disappear. The towns you'll come to are little more than sparse specks as Highway 7 becomes a haven for roadside antique stores (I really liked an old radio I saw in Troy once), run down gas stations, and churches. There are dozens upon dozens of churches pockmarking the roadside and an equal number of signs staked by congregations making claims to the future. I'm sure there are churches in the inner city of West Memphis too. I guess they don't stand out as much...or more likely I was too fixated on the burglar bars, which seem to advertise fear, to notice the sanctuaries serving up salvation.
I'm going to Graceland
For reasons I cannot explain
There's some part of me wants to see
Graceland
This is one of my favorite spots at our annual summer destination of Lakeside, Ohio. It's not easy to see from this photo, but behind the bell there is a bench where I enjoy sitting...and staring. The bench is a little off the main pathway, so not many people use it, and there's an unimpeded view of the Lake Erie expanse. It's the bench that attracts me, not the bell. I don't know the bell's history. Maybe it was used to ring in revivals in days gone by, or to greet passing boats. Maybe it's been damaged, or perhaps children wantonly rang it so often it became too annoying. In any case, now it sits, an idle curiosity, secured behind spiked ironed fencing and a locked gate. I've never heard it ring.
It reminds me how easily I put up barriers thinking they will protect me not realizing they silence my potential.
I'm going to Graceland
For reasons I cannot explain
There's some part of me wants to see
Graceland
The entire community of Lakeside is gated. Make no mistake, that's part of the attraction of the place. Your kids can't wander too far away and people can't simply stroll in without at least paying a gate fee. For many years, one person who came in and out of the gates with impunity was the Bulletin Man. He has a home right outside the gates and I always assumed he had special dispensation to come and go as he pleased.
The Bulletin Man suffered a head injury some 40 years ago. Depending on your perspective, he either hasn't been quite the same or he's never changed at all since that tragic event. He rides an ancient bicycle and has some grooming and fashion challenges, but he goes out of his way to be pleasant. He will engage you in conversation if at all possible and the dialogue will eventually reach its crux; he will ask if you happen to have brought along a "church bulletin." If you don't miraculously have one handy, he'll request you mail him one...every week...presumably forever.
Two summers ago, I ran into the Bulletin Man at the "little store with giant prices" immediately outside the gates of Lakeside where summer travelers make daily pilgrimages for must have items like ice and tomato paste. He told me he was no longer allowed on the grounds of Lakeside "unless he had a purpose." He showed me a letter from the Lakeside Association saying that some people had "complained" about him. They were "uncomfortable" when he approached them.
The normally welcoming gates of Lakeside, my vacation sanctuary, took on new meaning that day.
Last summer, I didn't see the Bulletin Man at all during our Lakeside hiatus. I feared he had been unable to cope with the disruption of his cherished routine. I had no idea where someone like that would go, or if he had anyone to counsel and comfort him.
Then last week, I was playing shuffleboard when Amy shouted from across the court and hurriedly pointed toward the street behind me. I turned just in time to see the Bulletin Man smiling broadly as he pedaled past aboard his rickety old Schwinn.
Maybe that day he was only given passage because he had a "purpose", but I hope not. I'd like to believe that the folks in charge of Lakeside changed their policy. I hope they realized the error of their ways.
They had barred the way.
There are no gates to grace.
Maybe I've a reason to believe
We all will be received
In Graceland
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
HEAR HERE
We've returned home, poorer in the pocketbook, richer in our hearts.
It was a great vacation. The weather cooperated, the "little truck that might" got us to Lake Erie and back, there was no shortage of toilet paper, and the airline only treated me like a terrorist until I figured out if you remove your shoes while going through metal detectors you are not a threat to the nation.
My thoughts are calm today and for that I am thankful. That is not usually the case... my life is noisy. There is quite often a chaotic clamor of voices demanding or distracting my attention.
We returned late last night after spending nearly two weeks with our extended family. Oftentimes that too is noisy, but those voices speak to me in a different way...with a certain clarity. My mind is not muddled during this all too brief season of familial renewal. I hear God's voice more readily within this clatter.
I know this sense of tranquility won't last but I will cling to it with a jealous zeal. With God's help maybe I can stash some of its essence in my soul to filter out the tumult of tomorrow.
We've returned home, poorer in the pocketbook, richer in our hearts.
It was a great vacation. The weather cooperated, the "little truck that might" got us to Lake Erie and back, there was no shortage of toilet paper, and the airline only treated me like a terrorist until I figured out if you remove your shoes while going through metal detectors you are not a threat to the nation.
My thoughts are calm today and for that I am thankful. That is not usually the case... my life is noisy. There is quite often a chaotic clamor of voices demanding or distracting my attention.
We returned late last night after spending nearly two weeks with our extended family. Oftentimes that too is noisy, but those voices speak to me in a different way...with a certain clarity. My mind is not muddled during this all too brief season of familial renewal. I hear God's voice more readily within this clatter.
I know this sense of tranquility won't last but I will cling to it with a jealous zeal. With God's help maybe I can stash some of its essence in my soul to filter out the tumult of tomorrow.
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