Dwelling On Houses

I've been thinking about houses today.

We had Glenn Beck "in the house" at the radio station today. Glenn, although a widely syndicated talk show host, at one time was only on the air in Tampa, Florida and for five years - long before the story was national news - he called attention to the Terri Schiavo case, much to the chagrin of radio programmers nationwide who had no interest in the story.

He eventually became a friend of Terri Schiavo's parents and perhaps the harshest critic of her husband, judges, and all sorts of other folks who made decisions which contributed to her death today.

So Glenn will remember that when Terri Schiavo died he was "in the house" in San Antonio.

I'm not going to further mention the Schiavo case, I think everyone likely has made up their mind by now and I'm not in the business of changing people's minds anyway. I only wanted to talk about houses.

Specifically God's house, our house, and the Beer Can House.

Our church is cleaned by volunteers. Until recently we had two other churches using our facility and their members did some of the cleaning. One church disbanded and this morning Gordon called me and told me the second church was moving on as well. That prompted a brief "cleaning rotation" panic which ended in a very nice way. The couple who started that second church apparently left it a few weeks ago. However they called today saying they wanted to clean our church "one last time." Later they said they actually wanted to stay on our cleaning schedule for the remainder of the year.

That may sound odd...cleaning a church which you don't attend, but it made perfect sense to me. This couple is without a place of worship and they believe you can't worship God without performing acts of service.

I learned that lesson too.

This weekend volunteers from our church will be working to clean up some of the areas on our property. Mostly it's moving piles of debris from one place to another, relocating our storage shed and general landscaping stuff. I will gladly take part. I work on God's house before I work on our own home because I consider it a form of worship.

That also goes a long way toward explaining the state of disrepair of some portions of our house - most notably our back patio which needs a new roof and other carpentry work. The church gave Amy a cash gift a while back to thank her for her years of volunteer service leading music and we've set aside those funds for the patio repairs.

Amy thinks she could do the work herself, and in truth with some help - from someone other than me - and the proper tools she probably could, but I'd prefer to "hire" someone and get the job done without taxing Amy's strength. We'll see. We may end up with a compromise where we tear down the old stuff and we hire someone to make the repairs. Tearing down stuff I can do...admittedly it's not always intentional.

The other house I've been thinking about today is this one:


Click to enlarge.

That is the "Beer Can House" on Malone Street in Houston. I'm not certain if it's still the case, but well into the 1990's at least Houston was the largest city in the country with no zoning laws. That resulted in some eclectic neighborhoods to put it mildly. One such neighborhood was home to a beer lover named John Milkovisch. He died in 1988 at the age of 75. That same year I visited his home and met his widow.

That was back in the days of radio when I was allowed to travel Texas roadways once or twice a year to do stories on oddities, eccentrics and drunks...some of those categories overlapped...actually most of them did.

In any case I did a feature piece on the Beer Can House which I resurrected today. It's long, too long to run on commercial radio today...and muddy at spots. This was before digital technology and Mrs. Milkovisch was up in years and not strong of voice. However if you have a broadband connection and want to listen click here.

I don't know if Mrs. Milkovisch has joined her husband and Terri Schiavo by now - she'd be 90 years old next year - but I did read recently that the Beer Can House is still standing. In fact it has been targeted for major restoration by an Arts group which considers it "folk art."


Click to enlarge.

I've been thinking about houses today...houses of death...houses of life...houses of disrepair.

Houses of restoration too.

Though you have made me see troubles, many and bitter, you will restore my life again; from the depths of the earth you will again bring me up. - Psalm 71:20

Rock On - In Balance

Click to enlarge.


I'm killing time...about to take Amy to yet another doctor for yet another procedure I'm glad she's having and not me, which is all I'm going to say about it.

The above picture is from the website Rock-on-Rock-on.com. It's one of those sites I saw somewhere and sort of banked away in my brain to mention one day when I was short on time. It's fascinating. Those rocks are balanced...not stuck together. This is what this particular sculptor does, which would seem to indicate to me that he either doesn't sell a lot of his art work or most folks only get to enjoy the pieces they buy until they attempt to carry their purchase to their cars.

I really don't know...I didn't read very far into the site. I go there sometimes to look at the pictures and be reminded that we can often balance the seemingly impossible.

Clutter Happens

To put it mildly Amy and I are not neat freaks. We're not even close, and we're okay with that.

We can clean a room and in about 30 minutes it would be hard to convince anyone that it had been cleaned in the past month.

Clutter happens.

I was mentioning this to our friend Erin, whom we've got to come up with a moniker for beside "boarder" or "roommate" ...she's more like a surrogate daughter except she's quiet and neat. Erin "likes" to organize. I don't mean she likes to be organized...I mean she "enjoys" organizing.

It's a completely foreign concept to us, but a pleasant surprise when we open the fridge and realize everything in it you could eat without risking food poisoning. Or we open a cabinet and step back in our normal defensive posture ready to catch pots, pans , Tupperware or whatever that we've crammed in there, and realize everything is neatly put away and there's even room for other stuff.

Erin has struck again.

We're encouraging Erin to become a "Professional Organizer" and so far her forays along those lines have been profitable, although I'm not sure she's ever going to comprehend our mastery of clutter.

Some people are clutter people and some people are not. I notice on my daily walks that some people have garages you can actually walk into...heck even park a car in.

We have a pathway through our garage that if you twist sideways and are prepared to take a few giant steps and maybe one leap along the way you can reach a doorway or exit relatively unscathed.

Anyway the other day Erin and I were talking about her recent adventures in one of our usual two minute conversations before she headed out the door to one of her many jobs (this is another reason we can not be blood relatives, she works too much to be a member of our family). That's when she actually coined the phrase, "Clutter happens."

It's been on my mind ever since.
I suppose you could say my thoughts have been cluttered by that concept.

I'm not revealing any secrets here when I mention our friend Gordon will occasionally read Thoreau's Walden prompting a mad scurry among his family members to protect their belongings as he becomes infused with the desire to rid their lives of "clutter." Even if he is marginally successful, more clutter appears.

Clutter happens.

One of the radio stations I work for has undergone some changes recently requiring me to write very brief newscasts.
Writing a 60 second newscast is harder than writing a 5 minute newscast. I used to put out writing memos to our reporters advising them of such and then I noticed they simply piled up my wisdom on their desks.

Clutter happens.

Nonetheless the gist of some of my well thought out yet oft ignored advice was that knowing what to leave out of a story was the most difficult thing about broadcast writing. I suppose the same is true in blogging - I'm proving that point as I type.

Clutter happens.

The other day when I wrote about the family that came to our church on Good Friday seeking work, I received several emails from people all mentioning basically the same thing - interestingly no one left their thoughts in the comments area - I suppose out of a sense of gentleness, but that's another topic. All of the emails in one fashion or another warned me that there are people who "scam" churches with this exact type of scenario.

I was actually well aware of that...I've been scammed plenty. I didn't put my thoughts about that in that post because it was too long already and...I didn't want to clutter it up any more. However it's also been cluttering up my mind.

Our little church actually has a policy in dealing with people in need. In general terms all requests for aid must go through the Deacons. Our church budget is too tight for a benevolence fund these days, but in the past we've always been able to work something out when we felt called to do so. The policy says we try to help people in need in our congregation first, and that we don't normally give cash...we give food "gift" cards, or fill up someone's gas tank. Usually we make it clear to people who approach out of the blue that if we help them it will be a "one time" thing, simply because we're a small church and we don't have much money.

There's one other aspect of our policy which we don't mention at all...the policy is written on the wind.

I've violated those rules multiple times, knowing full well the people our church were helping were likely hitting up another church or three and might have even been making a career out of it.

I have no idea if that little family the other night was conning us - Amy is rather insistent they couldn't have been and Amy is a pretty good judge of character if you consider her association with me to be the exception to the rule. I do know that if a family is so desperate that they are using their children to "con" churches out of money...they qualify as "needy" in my book, that's why we had no reluctance to help them any way we could.

Too often I think our churches and spirituality get sidetracked by policies and committees...guidelines...rules...and even theologies. We complicate our religion by trying to make sure we're not being taken advantage of and in the process we literally bury our beliefs.

Clutter happens.

Easter Sunday we spent much of the day with some friends in their new home. At one point when most of the guests had left we had an impromptu prayer session. This is not something to which Amy and I are accustomed. The woman who suggested "we all pray right now" started asking each person individually of their needs...it was awkward for a few moments and Amy and I had some reservations about it but we went along willingly...goodness knows we've had enough practice at prayer. Some personal things came up for one or two folks, getting past grief, I mentioned a family friend who has been diagnosed with cancer...and then the woman who initiated the prayer session prayed for "three airline tickets to California."

Clutter happens.

Amy and I gave each other a look and later I noticed our host, who is a man of some monetary wealth, was writing that woman a check to pay for airline tickets. I felt a bit more uncomfortable and later in the evening after the others had left Amy and I tried to broach the subject gently but quickly backed away after we learned a bit more.

The folks who had prayed for airline tickets were friends of our hosts - they certainly knew them better than we did. They had also spent part of the afternoon talking with our host's twin 16 year old daughters, who I came to gather are not believers and with his son from his first marriage, who is my age and an avowed atheist. They were apparently rather extensive conversations...about God.

Our host considered the mere fact that those conversations took place to be miraculous...and I certainly wasn't about to argue the point. He was ecstatic that the "seeds" of Christianity had been planted with three of his children on Easter Sunday. In our circle of prayer he asked for only one thing...for those seeds to grow.

I suspect he would write a thousand checks if he thought that would actually help.

I mentioned he is a man of wealth, but let me clarify that...he has more than money....he understands what money is truly worth.

His deepest wealth is that of wisdom.

It's true...clutter happens.

But if we allow it....if we don't clutter it up...grace happens too.

Happy Easter

He is risen!

Happy Easter my friends!

The Way

I started writing something else last night but I became distracted along the way.

That's how people once referred to believers of Christ...before they were called Christians...they were known as followers of "The Way."




San Fernando Cathedral is the oldest continuously used cathedral in America. The first cornerstone for the church was put in place by 15 families in 1738 in what is now the heart of downtown San Antonio. It's a stone's throw from city hall - I'm not certain if that was deliberate, but it often seems appropriate for any number of reasons - it's also only a few foot steps from one of the area's original Spanish "missions" - San Antonio de Valero Mission which most folks now simply call the Alamo.

As you might imagine San Fernando has a deep rich history, not only among Catholics, but among Texans. There have been fires and floods. Ursula de Veramendi had her wedding there in 1831...to a man named James Bowie. Five years later a Mexican general used the cathedral as a lookout at he wrested control of the Alamo from men who vowed to defend it to their deaths. General Santa Anna ordered a red flag be flown from atop San Fernando as a signal to those Alamo defenders...a signal that they would be shown no mercy. He was true to his word. Ursula became a widow.

A year or two ago a crazed man who disagreed with aspects of the Catholic faith went on a rampage inside San Fernando (until then they never locked the doors) and destroyed some of the statuary. Some was repaired....some replaced. It was senseless as so many things are these days.

Long before Mel Gibson put the images to film or video or digital dabbles, the community at San Fernando was graphically performing "the passion play" along the dusty streets of downtown San Antonio on Good Friday for hundreds of years. The performance was halted for several decades in the mid 1900's, I'm not certain why, but it resumed 21 years ago. It has since become one of, if not the largest such reenactments in the country.

The "Passion Play" winds through San Antonio's downtown streets - Jesus, battered bleeding and abused, is cursed and mocked by both actors and onlookers alike as everyone gets into the "spirit" of the event. It ends at San Fernando as Jesus trudges down one of the primary east west roads of downtown - Dolorosa street. A thorn crowned Jesus staggers down Dolorosa to the church towing the heavy cross upon which he is then hoisted to die.

It is a horrible event...beautifully performed.

Photo by: Nicole Frugé

Our little church has stood for five years. I helped clear the land with members of a few other families using everything from cheap loppers to machetes. We have no cornerstone per se, there is no statuary and usually we remember to lock the doors.

But we too have a service on Good Friday. It is very simple...very solemn.

Last night I was preparing to leave for that service when Amy called, somewhat frantic. A family had shown up at the church as she was getting things ready - a husband and wife with their three young girls. They parked in the lot and then the woman came to the door and asked Amy for only one thing - prayer. Amy described them to me in a rapid fire wave of one sided emotion. They were dirty and hungry and the man was hoping to find some quick work to earn money for gasoline. He had a promise of a steady job in the valley if the little family and their beat up car could only make it there.

Amy was anxious - wound tight and scatter shooting offers of aid which I was trying to interpret as she repeated them to me over her mobile phone all the while rushing home to change clothes for the service. I prayed she wasn't driving as fast as she was talking.

Finally, I thought I understood enough. I told her that some things were unreasonable - we couldn't hire the man to fix our roof that night or dig our garden - but we could bring towels and soap to the church so they could shower in our education building. We could bring food. Gordon had already convinced them to let him fill their car with gas, and they accepted some money from him but the husband repeated he wanted work not charity. I knew we could provide the family with additional funds and if they insisted on working that night I could find something for the husband to do at the church while the girls and his wife showered and ate.

When we got to the church I learned Gordon had already told them no matter what they would have to wait until our small Good Friday service was over. Amy was under the impression they agreed, and I assured her we would take care of this family as best we could, while admitting that I wasn't certain what form that aid would take.

They weren't at the church when we got there, but Gordon said they had promised to return around 8 p.m. if they hadn't found work elsewhere. They had thanked Amy and Gordon for their prayers and support. Amy calmed herself and began to focus on the service, but I knew she was watching closely for that little family.

Our service went on. It was not an elaborate passion play. Four members of the congregation read an account of the trial and Crucifixion of Jesus. We stripped the church of its decorations. We extinguished candles and turned out the lights.

Amy stood under a cross and sang...a cross draped in black.


The song was in both English and Spanish and it was called "Via Dolorosa."

Our service ended with everyone leaving silently in the dark.

Amy and I, along with our youngest daughter Lisa, Gordon and his youngest daughter, Lillian, stayed behind. We waited to see if this needy family might return. By then Gordon and I had arranged to have cash and explanations at the ready. Amy had brought food and an assortment of shower accoutrements - towels, soap, robes.

We wanted to help alleviate some of this small family's pain.

We wanted to pray.

We needed to help.

We waited but the family never came back.

Eventually I turned out the lights of the church, much as we had done during our service and dimmed the lights to the parking lot as well.

The moon provided our only illumination.

The word "Dolorosa" means suffering. The street which borders San Fernando Cathedral is essentially named "The Way of Suffering" although I would doubt the thousands of people who traverse it every day ever give that much thought.

As we drove out of the emptied darkened church parking lot last night I was mindful of it though.

No matter how we try to avoid it... at some point... we all will confront suffering along "The Way."

Good Friday...Bad Idea

I am planning on writing more on Good Friday today...but that will have to come later.
I'm at work and came across this story from the Associated Press:

Forget the chocolate Easter bunny, you can now buy chocolate crosses. Russell Stover is offering something "new" this Easter season, six-inch crosses filled with caramel made of goat's milk.



I'm not even surprised...I'm a little sickened...but not surprised.

Actually I'm wondering what took them so long.

Maundy And The Misunderstood

This week has been sort of an experiment in writing for me. For the past few days I've written about whatever was on my mind when I woke up. Knowing I had very little time - I have given myself a 20 minute time limit - I simply went with it. Today was no exception.

I love writing in the mornings - by the way I consider 2 a.m. to be morning, I know some folks differ in their assessment of this hour and have referred to it in other ways.

In any case I had two things on my mind when I arose today...mountain laurel and Maundy.

This is Maundy Thursday, but I realized when I woke up that I had no idea what the word Maundy meant. Some places I looked said simply "Holy." That seemed appropriate but somewhat inadequate, so I went to my pocket dictionary which I keep on my desk...it didn't have the word at all.

Dictionary.com gave me this response:

1. The sacrament of the Lord's Supper. [Obs.]

2. The ceremony of washing the feet of the poor on Maundy Thursday.

3. The alms distributed in connection with this ceremony or on Maundy Thursday.

Note: In England, the foot washing is obsolete, but the ``royal Maundy'' is distributed annually on behalf of the sovereign. Since 1890 this distribution has been made from Westminster Abbey.

Source: Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary, © 1996, 1998 MICRA, Inc.

Maundy

n : a public ceremony on Maundy Thursday when the monarch distributes Maundy money [syn: Maundy]

Personally, I'm still at a loss as to what the word actually means. I know Maundy Thursday is the day before Good Friday but I still found the definition for Maundy lacking - admittedly I'm not spending a great deal of time searching this out since I don't have the time and I figure someone will likely give me a better definition, should one exist, if I merely post my curiosity.

Yes, I'm that lazy.

Also on my mind this morning were the mountain laurel trees on our church property. Last year at this time I wrote about how the number of mountain laurel blooms were amazing...no one could recall the trees ever blooming with such fanciful furor.


Click to enlarge.

This year there are blooms too, but not nearly as many.

They are the same trees though and they are still beautiful.

Tomorrow night we will gather at our church to remember the night when Jesus died. It will have great meaning to me. That has not always been the case - some years Good Friday passed without me even acknowledging its existence.

Every year is different. Each season brings its own surprises.

Recognizing that may the most important thing I don't understand all day.