School will be starting up soon and I'm excited. In fact, I will be teaching a group of students for a week before the official start. A sort of jump start, helping a score of kids make the transition from elementary to middle school.
I am interested in service learning. I have had several projects which encourage kids to see real world problems, discover real world solutions, and make connections to their community.
Service learning is distinguished from community service in that it is a teaching strategy, not just a student activity. We are making connections between curriculum and the community. Kids need to feel they are apart of their community as they learn how to read, write, understand maps and charts and math and all the other elements of their education.
My wife and I used to watch Little House on the Prairie regularly. Aside from stories about family, faith, and community, it showed kids being a part of their running their farm, connected to their neighbors and friends in tangible ways.
There was a time when kids had clear roles in their society. They did what work they could do, from collecting eggs to helping Pa with the plowing, they pulled their weight.
Today kids haven’t such clear roles. Many fall into believing that a childhood is what they are about. Oh, and school... that too.
Service learning is getting kids involved in filling community needs while they learn lessons of researching, writing, math, and science.
The idea of service has changed over time.
We demand service from merchants. We need this product, or assistance with that, or dang it, shorter lines at the check out counter. I notice the demanding attitude of my fellow shoppers. An arrogant demander of services is an embarrassing role for someone to take. Not when we are really eternal beings created by a humble king.
I often see parents who are demanding more for their children (which is sometimes the right thing to do, sometimes it isn’t). I once had a parent come in with a lawyer and tell me I planted evidence of her child littering to give the student a lunch detention, just to be mean. A lawyer!
The primary goal is for students to learn. The secondary goal is in creating the connection between students and their communities.
There are a lot of negative connotations about service. There’s community service, often court mandated, or just something to be plugged in a resume. Sub-servience roles are held as low status positions, butlers and maids and gardeners and handymen. Hierarchy of authority. Echoes of bondage and slavery.
Nothing wrong in serving.
God serves Man.
"He is before all things, and in him all things hold together." Colossians 1:17
He has arranged the universe so that prayer moves His hand.
"Is any one of you sick? He should call the elders of the church to pray over him and anoint him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise him up. If he has sinned, he will be forgiven. Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective." James 5:14-16
Jesus, my Lord, was the servant to those he met... kneeling in the dirt to help the fallen, washing feet, preparing meals... even to the point of offering...
"He was led like a sheep to the slaughter, and as a lamb before the shearer is silent, so he did not open his mouth." Acts 8:32
He is a being of service.
I see helping students to see themselves as part of a community, as citizens who offer service to those in need, as a way of promoting the underlying principles of my faith.
I have many projects in mind this year. Projects which will connect children to our community, and in learning to solve the problems, move the barriers, avoid the obstacles, they will learn about research and writing and math and geography and science. They will see that learning is not what happens in a classroom but is the natural path of mental growth for all people of any age.
There is another aspect of serving which is good for people, at least it has been good for me.
A few years ago my pastor spoke about service and I realized that if God Himself could serve us, could hold the universe together so we may have a place to make our own choices, even to reject Him, then who am I to see serving as beneath me?
When I am asked to do something I try to see if I can do it. Period. I quickly assess if it interferes with what is good for my family, my wife, my children, and if it doesn't, I do it without complaint.
So there you have it. That is the reason behind the second part of my online moniker. I am Curious Servant because that is what He made me to be. I want to be of service.
This blog has various purposes. It permits me to think through the struggles in my life, to explore the challenges I face.
But I like to think it is also about helping others. That includes you. Yes, you who are reading this post from perhaps a half a world away.
What is it you need? Do you need prayer? Do you need help in some way?
I belong to my Lord, but I am your servant as well.
God bless.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
California Trip Reordered
Not too long ago I wrote a series of posts about a trip I took. It started out as a chance to see my father one last time, and evolved into a road trip with my sons and a spiritual journey for me.
As is the nature of blogs, the posts are scattered in reverse order and spreading into archived sections of this little online journal.
So, to keep it in order for myself and others, I am placing this little post here for the purpose of having a handy location to find each relevant post. Here goes, the journey in order...
California Dreamin'
Perspectives
Update
Who's My Father?
Preparations
Dad -Part 1
Dad -Part 2
Deserting
Ghosts
Random Rewind
Random Rewind Redux
As is the nature of blogs, the posts are scattered in reverse order and spreading into archived sections of this little online journal.
So, to keep it in order for myself and others, I am placing this little post here for the purpose of having a handy location to find each relevant post. Here goes, the journey in order...
California Dreamin'
Perspectives
Update
Who's My Father?
Preparations
Dad -Part 1
Dad -Part 2
Deserting
Ghosts
Random Rewind
Random Rewind Redux
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Random Rewind Redux
Since two folks liked the pics in the last post enough to ask for more... here are a few more random shots from our 2,751 mile trek through California and child-parent relations.
Ready to roll!
A lot of mixed feelings going through my head as I help my dad suit up for his run.
Bike is ready
Yosemite Valley
Northern California
Definitely click on this one to look closer!
Bridal Veil Falls, Yosemite
And another pic of it.
Breath taking!
The boys loved playing pool at Dad's
Adult refreshments
I'd forgotten about this loader with sheep's foot I carved for Dad.
Jeremiah counting out money for an iPod
A dust devil on lake El Mirage
An oasis in the desert
Not the sort of sign one sees everyday
The desert seems a logical place for a solar energy plant
Dueling cameras with my sis.
She is thinking about buying one of these.
I think the Sony Cyber shot is an excellent inexpensive digital camera, sis!
Folks lining up to race their cars, motorcycles, and vehicles beyond description
What the lake bed looks like
Me, Dad, brother David
From the Dr. Seuss exhibit in Laguna Beach, a sketch and final image from "The Cat in the Hat"
Not the Dr. Seuss I knew!
My brother-in-law does a good job homeschooling
Political statement
Ready to roll!
A lot of mixed feelings going through my head as I help my dad suit up for his run.
Bike is ready
Yosemite Valley
Northern CaliforniaDefinitely click on this one to look closer!
Bridal Veil Falls, Yosemite
And another pic of it.
Breath taking!
The boys loved playing pool at Dad's
Adult refreshments
I'd forgotten about this loader with sheep's foot I carved for Dad.
Jeremiah counting out money for an iPod
A dust devil on lake El Mirage
An oasis in the desert
Not the sort of sign one sees everyday
The desert seems a logical place for a solar energy plant
Dueling cameras with my sis.
She is thinking about buying one of these.I think the Sony Cyber shot is an excellent inexpensive digital camera, sis!
Folks lining up to race their cars, motorcycles, and vehicles beyond description
What the lake bed looks like
Me, Dad, brother David
From the Dr. Seuss exhibit in Laguna Beach, a sketch and final image from "The Cat in the Hat"
Not the Dr. Seuss I knew!
My brother-in-law does a good job homeschooling
Political statementTuesday, July 24, 2007
Random Rewind
It is good to be home, catching up on chores and such.
It is good to get back in to church, worship with my church family.
And it is good to do all the sorts of little things that give rhythm and continuity to life.
But it seems too abrupt to move on past the adventure I have had this past couple of weeks, so before I drop in another post here, I thought I'd share just a few photos of various events on our trip.
California Border!
The Cafeteria where I swallowed that tooth in first grade.
The new building where I attended church and had several spiritual awakenings as a kindergartner. Same corner... no bell tower or stain glass window.
Breakfast stop. Great soup!
A disappearing dust devil
Do you see a face in this rock?
"Little Corona" -- Corona Del Mar, California
Tide Pool Critters
A Dr. Seuss Exhibit in a Gallery in Laguna Beach
Another
Dad and Isaac
Dad and Jeremiah
400 horsepower on two wheels
Moment of Truth
The Edge of Death Valley
Wildfire
Yosemite
I guess this guy's patriotic
This was a library where I discovered the love of reading at six years old.
Beautiful
A Dragon
Where I sat for 2,751.6 miles
Good to see
Back home... taking Rocky for a walk along the Willamette River.
(He'd sure like to catch one of those geese!)
It is good to get back in to church, worship with my church family.
And it is good to do all the sorts of little things that give rhythm and continuity to life.
But it seems too abrupt to move on past the adventure I have had this past couple of weeks, so before I drop in another post here, I thought I'd share just a few photos of various events on our trip.
California Border!
The Cafeteria where I swallowed that tooth in first grade.
The new building where I attended church and had several spiritual awakenings as a kindergartner. Same corner... no bell tower or stain glass window.
Breakfast stop. Great soup!
A disappearing dust devil
Do you see a face in this rock?"Little Corona" -- Corona Del Mar, California
Tide Pool Critters
A Dr. Seuss Exhibit in a Gallery in Laguna Beach
Another
Dad and Isaac
Dad and Jeremiah
400 horsepower on two wheels
Moment of Truth
The Edge of Death Valley
Wildfire
Yosemite
I guess this guy's patriotic
This was a library where I discovered the love of reading at six years old.
Beautiful
A Dragon
Where I sat for 2,751.6 miles
Good to see
Back home... taking Rocky for a walk along the Willamette River.(He'd sure like to catch one of those geese!)
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Ghosts
What a trip it was. It was exhausting, and it was exhilarating. It was thrilling, it was boring. I was anxious and I had a peace which surpasses understanding.
I traveled 2,600 miles with my sons, a rolling expedition over highways and byways, through the largest sink valley in the world, and through several deserts. That ol’ van climbed over the Sierra Nevada's and parked along the Pacific Ocean. We negotiated packed angry L.A. freeways and wide open spaces without another vehicle in sight.
All that terrain was a challenge to the vehicle (and driver), but the terrain of the heart and soul was more challenging. There were ghosts.
Sometimes we lend our fears more power than they deserve. We become anxious about things that will be all right. We worry over events past and events future which rob us of enjoying of the present. We whisper our fears in the secet places of our hearts, unconscious incantations creating amorphous monsters within.
I paused on the way south in the town of my childhood... and found myself disillusioned by a house, a street, a community that is smaller than I remember.
The ghosts of those memories loomed large.
It was in that 2nd floor room overlooking Plumas street that I learned to fear ghosts... some from the house across the street, from within the walls of the room I shared with my brothers. I once set a trap for the Boogie Man in front of the bedroom door... of wire clothes hangers and kite string. All I caught was my father. He wasn’t amused.
Looking at that house this week I saw other ghosts. Missing trees, a house diminished in stature when seen by a soul having traveled an additional 45 years. On the corner was the ghost of the church which housed spiritual epiphanies for a five year old.
A disappointing bout of nostalgia... not that great a tussle with ghosts of the past.
I was more concerned about the ghost of my father.
In my heart he is still a giant who terrifies with speed and strength and anger.
The point of the whole journey was to meet up with my father, see him off on a dangerous stunt he yearned to complete, and to wrestle with the ghosts of my own fears... and faith.
I felt a pressure to “witness” to him, an attempt meet the command of “the great commission” in my own family, and to let him know that people of faith, well this person of faith anyway, can love without strings attached.
I discovered that he was no longer a giant, in fact he has lost a little height, is shorter than he was a few years ago, shorter than me.
Father & Son
It turned out that suspending judgment was easier than I thought it would be. I smiled and nodded encouragement when he told stories of his life in Thailand. I set aside my distaste over prostitution and the inequities between wealth and poverty, third and first world cultures, and I discovered that there was a gentleness behind my father’s stories.
I saw the genuine affection he has for friends and neighbors, for children and monks and girl friends and prostitutes. I saw how the Buddhist attitude he has picked up from that culture has helped him see each person as having value, having a soul that is eternal, that is beyond the actions within life itself.
I felt a genuine affection for him as I listened to the stories that were tinged with sadness or bravado or pride and even an occasional hint of humility.
I felt my heart warm toward him with a love for him, my own reaction to his soul, though not tinged with the Buddhist view of eternity.
Suddenly I saw that simply loving my father was all that was required of me.
That is it. Nothing more.
I needn’t tell him about the steps to salvation, or make the case for church attendance, or even for prayer.
All I need tell him, all I need show him, was that I loved him.
And I do. I love him.
And I watched a ghost fade away.
As I type this the hairs are standing up on my arms. It is that powerful. A ghost has been exercised. In loving my father I am freed. In giving him respect and acknowledge that he is a soul created in the image of the creator of the universe I find that the man who terrified me, who nearly killed my brother and I, the one who shouted and controlled and was a thundering titan to a small child, is a soul I love and forgive, and am willing to sacrifice for.
I think that this is a lesson my Lord has given me. That in the end, love is all that matters. I think I understand a little how He loved others so well, even those who would betray Him.
“Love God with all your heart, and mind and soul, and love others as you love yourself.”
Love.
I suspect that the feeling of superiority I sometimes feel when I deem others as non-christian is truly a sin. In evaluating the faith of others, in evaluating the lives of others, I cease to love, cease to obey Jesus.
There were other ghosts on this trip as well.
There was the echoes of relationships, ways of behaving, with my sister, with my mom.
My sister, a strong Christian, has offended my father with her judgmental comments, her passive-aggressive words always implying deeper meanings.
I found that in simply loving her, in not replying to challenging statements, just loving, the ghosts of past arguments failed to materialize.
On the journey home there were massive thunderheads. It was difficult to appreciate their true size. They were so large, that they could be seen from over a hundred miles away, their tiny companions grew huge as the miles rolled beneath the van, and still the giants beyond them loomed over the mountains.
Thunderhead
The clouds were beautiful, their amorphous nature suggesting shapes to our minds as we climbed toward the Siskiyous. And they dropped heavy rain and released bolts of lightning as we climbed toward the Oregon border.
Note: that teeny dark cloud,
the one in front of the dark grey thunderhead,
just above the horizon is actually very large
Clouds are nature’s ghosts. They are born in invisible vapors over the ocean, drift across uninhabited seas, and materialize as they are squeezed as they climb mountains.
Likewise, my own ghosts rise out of small thoughts, small fears, and materialize only when squeezed by the mountains of experiences in my own life.
Like the clouds which washed the dust of deserts off our van, my ghosts have dropped their loads and I see them as simple metaphors of living and loving and forgiving.
My father plans on making another attempt at that record in November, a time that is supposed to be particularly difficult with high winds.
I feel no desire to go.
Not that I haven’t concerns for his safety.
But the desire to see him one last time, or to tell him about my faith, or to simply tell him that I love him, has evaporated.
Another wonderful part of this trip was the time I spent with my sons. I was able to talk to them for hours and hours and answer all sorts of questions and simply let them know over and over and over how much I love them.
First stop in Yosemite, the waterfall is probably 40 feet high
On the way home they told me many times how much they love me... sweet words.
"You know, what, Dad?," Isaac said. "There isn't anyone else in the whole world I would rather have be my dad."
I spent some time in prayer in one of the most beautiful places on Earth.
In the valley
We traveled through Yosemite, pausing to appreciate granda vistas, listen to brooks and streams, watch wildlife feeding in meadows, listen to the roar of waterfalls.
Momma deer & 2 fawns
El Capitan
Elk
A place to pray
I still have other fears in my life. Things I need to work through, to understand, relationships to repair.
But this journey of thousands of miles was a greater journey of the heart.
I think many of us have ghosts. Fears and anxieties over things we know will really be allright.
My blessing this past week was the exorcism of some of those ghosts.
It was a good trip.
I traveled 2,600 miles with my sons, a rolling expedition over highways and byways, through the largest sink valley in the world, and through several deserts. That ol’ van climbed over the Sierra Nevada's and parked along the Pacific Ocean. We negotiated packed angry L.A. freeways and wide open spaces without another vehicle in sight.
All that terrain was a challenge to the vehicle (and driver), but the terrain of the heart and soul was more challenging. There were ghosts.
Sometimes we lend our fears more power than they deserve. We become anxious about things that will be all right. We worry over events past and events future which rob us of enjoying of the present. We whisper our fears in the secet places of our hearts, unconscious incantations creating amorphous monsters within.
I paused on the way south in the town of my childhood... and found myself disillusioned by a house, a street, a community that is smaller than I remember.
The ghosts of those memories loomed large.
It was in that 2nd floor room overlooking Plumas street that I learned to fear ghosts... some from the house across the street, from within the walls of the room I shared with my brothers. I once set a trap for the Boogie Man in front of the bedroom door... of wire clothes hangers and kite string. All I caught was my father. He wasn’t amused.
Looking at that house this week I saw other ghosts. Missing trees, a house diminished in stature when seen by a soul having traveled an additional 45 years. On the corner was the ghost of the church which housed spiritual epiphanies for a five year old.
A disappointing bout of nostalgia... not that great a tussle with ghosts of the past.
I was more concerned about the ghost of my father.
In my heart he is still a giant who terrifies with speed and strength and anger.
The point of the whole journey was to meet up with my father, see him off on a dangerous stunt he yearned to complete, and to wrestle with the ghosts of my own fears... and faith.
I felt a pressure to “witness” to him, an attempt meet the command of “the great commission” in my own family, and to let him know that people of faith, well this person of faith anyway, can love without strings attached.
I discovered that he was no longer a giant, in fact he has lost a little height, is shorter than he was a few years ago, shorter than me.
Father & SonI saw the genuine affection he has for friends and neighbors, for children and monks and girl friends and prostitutes. I saw how the Buddhist attitude he has picked up from that culture has helped him see each person as having value, having a soul that is eternal, that is beyond the actions within life itself.
I felt a genuine affection for him as I listened to the stories that were tinged with sadness or bravado or pride and even an occasional hint of humility.
I felt my heart warm toward him with a love for him, my own reaction to his soul, though not tinged with the Buddhist view of eternity.
Suddenly I saw that simply loving my father was all that was required of me.
That is it. Nothing more.
I needn’t tell him about the steps to salvation, or make the case for church attendance, or even for prayer.
All I need tell him, all I need show him, was that I loved him.
And I do. I love him.
And I watched a ghost fade away.
As I type this the hairs are standing up on my arms. It is that powerful. A ghost has been exercised. In loving my father I am freed. In giving him respect and acknowledge that he is a soul created in the image of the creator of the universe I find that the man who terrified me, who nearly killed my brother and I, the one who shouted and controlled and was a thundering titan to a small child, is a soul I love and forgive, and am willing to sacrifice for.
I think that this is a lesson my Lord has given me. That in the end, love is all that matters. I think I understand a little how He loved others so well, even those who would betray Him.
“Love God with all your heart, and mind and soul, and love others as you love yourself.”
Love.
I suspect that the feeling of superiority I sometimes feel when I deem others as non-christian is truly a sin. In evaluating the faith of others, in evaluating the lives of others, I cease to love, cease to obey Jesus.
There were other ghosts on this trip as well.
There was the echoes of relationships, ways of behaving, with my sister, with my mom.
My sister, a strong Christian, has offended my father with her judgmental comments, her passive-aggressive words always implying deeper meanings.
I found that in simply loving her, in not replying to challenging statements, just loving, the ghosts of past arguments failed to materialize.
On the journey home there were massive thunderheads. It was difficult to appreciate their true size. They were so large, that they could be seen from over a hundred miles away, their tiny companions grew huge as the miles rolled beneath the van, and still the giants beyond them loomed over the mountains.
Thunderhead
Note: that teeny dark cloud,the one in front of the dark grey thunderhead,
just above the horizon is actually very large
Likewise, my own ghosts rise out of small thoughts, small fears, and materialize only when squeezed by the mountains of experiences in my own life.
Like the clouds which washed the dust of deserts off our van, my ghosts have dropped their loads and I see them as simple metaphors of living and loving and forgiving.
My father plans on making another attempt at that record in November, a time that is supposed to be particularly difficult with high winds.
I feel no desire to go.
Not that I haven’t concerns for his safety.
But the desire to see him one last time, or to tell him about my faith, or to simply tell him that I love him, has evaporated.
Another wonderful part of this trip was the time I spent with my sons. I was able to talk to them for hours and hours and answer all sorts of questions and simply let them know over and over and over how much I love them.
First stop in Yosemite, the waterfall is probably 40 feet high"You know, what, Dad?," Isaac said. "There isn't anyone else in the whole world I would rather have be my dad."
I spent some time in prayer in one of the most beautiful places on Earth.
In the valley
Momma deer & 2 fawns
El Capitan
Elk
A place to prayBut this journey of thousands of miles was a greater journey of the heart.
I think many of us have ghosts. Fears and anxieties over things we know will really be allright.
My blessing this past week was the exorcism of some of those ghosts.
It was a good trip.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Deserting
Thanks for all the great comments on the last post!
I spent the last day and a half with my sister's family, which includes my mom.
We played a lot of Scrabble, and it was good catching up.
Today was a traveling day. We rolled back through the Mojave Desert, skirted along the edge of Death Valley, and ended up in Lee Vining, the backdoor to Yosemite. That brings the total miles so far 1,854.
Tomorrow we are going through Yosemite and I have told the boys that I'm taking an hour off to go pray in the woods. I really need a little solitude and quality time with my boss.
I could show you a lot of pictures that Isaac took of the deserts, but as thrilling as that sounds, I think I will just leave all of you in frustrated anticipation.
How about if I make it up to you with some pictures from Yosemite (they will be greener!).
But I will close with a pic of the one thing I think is memorable about Lee Vining, California:
I spent the last day and a half with my sister's family, which includes my mom.
We played a lot of Scrabble, and it was good catching up.
Today was a traveling day. We rolled back through the Mojave Desert, skirted along the edge of Death Valley, and ended up in Lee Vining, the backdoor to Yosemite. That brings the total miles so far 1,854.
Tomorrow we are going through Yosemite and I have told the boys that I'm taking an hour off to go pray in the woods. I really need a little solitude and quality time with my boss.
I could show you a lot of pictures that Isaac took of the deserts, but as thrilling as that sounds, I think I will just leave all of you in frustrated anticipation.
How about if I make it up to you with some pictures from Yosemite (they will be greener!).
But I will close with a pic of the one thing I think is memorable about Lee Vining, California:
Monday, July 16, 2007
Dad -Part 2
I’m joking with my brother David as we are rolling along the freeway, headed to the Mojave Desert.
David’s a boisterous, laughing sort of guy who loves people, has lots of opinions (don’t we all?) and shares a new joke every day.
We talk about past adventures and a little bit about Dad.
He is planning a run at beating a world speed record today.
I haven’t been very clear on exactly what is involved with beating this record.
The criteria/category for the record is:
100 cubic inch engine
Open faring
Nitro fuel
The current record: 176 miles per hour. Dad considers it a "soft record" not a difficult one to break. He hopes he to bury it with a speed of over 200 mph. If everything goes right, he thinks he could hit 220.
The Southern California Timing Assoc. times the runs at El Mirage by providing 1.3 miles for racers to get up to speed. Then there is 132 feet between two sets of lasers that calculates the speed.
This is different from the Bonneville races in Utah. The Utah Salt Flats Racing Association allows the racers four miles to get up to speed. Then they are timed for one mile. If it is a record, then the racer turns around and races back. The two speeds are then averaged.
El Mirage isn’t long enough to permit this.
The trick in beating this record is the open faring. Aerodynamics are critical at such speeds, and a motorcycle which isn’t using aerodynamics is plowing roughly through hot desert air.
Running on dirt is tricky. There is very little traction for such powerful engines. The danger is in the back end trying to swing around toward the front.
The motorcycle is not built for slowing down. It remains under pretty good control only when it is accelerating. Decelerating is different. It does not handle well with the weight on the front tire. Also, it doesn’t turn well. The rider must manage to coax it back down to less than 120 mph and then lean it ever so slightly so it makes a great curving arc before coming to the end of the lake.
The fuel is 85 percent nitro and 15 percent methane. Under compression such fuel is explosive. It is very easy to have it tear an engine apart. In fact, the mixture is designed to just approach the edge of engineering failure in the distance the bike will travel.
And it costs about 10 times the price of regular fuel.
(Click any picture to enlarge)
Dad shared that no one has ever set a world record at age 70. Another reason for this run at glory.
David and I followed the white pickup all the way out to the desert. We stopped for breakfast about 15 miles from the lake. I had biscuits and gravy (I know, I know, it isn’t good for me) and sent my daily postcard home.
Throughout the drive, throughout the chatter with my brother and the surprises that California highways seem to spring on laid back Oregon drivers, the conversation I had with my father the night before echoed in my head, more importantly, in my heart.
I had come to a small realization, a tiny epiphany of the heart that my sense of right and wrong can diminish my love for others.
I needn’t judge, I needn’t evaluate, I needn’t stand large over my father’s sins and place myself over him.
I think I grew up a little last night.
This was the day my dad had dreamt of. It was the day he would face the challenge of engineering and skill and see if he could tune a machine and himself to finesse enough speed out of that 400 horsepower machine to set a world record.
I was a little concerned that at the end of the day I would see him loaded into an ambulance or a helicopter.
But it didn’t matter.
Well it did matter. It mattered enough that I paused every so often to whisper to my King...
“Thy will be done...”
I stayed out of the way of the inspectors and mechanics and employees of my father’s business...
I stayed near enough to ask pertinent questions about the challenge of this event, the details of the engineering, to learn which sort of things were of concern and which were not.
I kept soaking my hat with water and dropping it on my head...
The sun bounced from the white hard pan and made my eyes ache...
The sweat washed the sun block from my forehead and stung my eyes...
And I helped my dad in any little way I could.
They tested the engine. The sound was like a repeated crack of thunder rolling into the rumble of a volcano. The smell startled me. The acrid methane/nitro mixture burned the eyes, assaulted the nose like horseradish. The roar evened out, half of those standing nearby had their fingers in their ears.
It was ready.
He was number 179 in line and about 10:30 we heard the call for our group of racers and we pushed the motorcycle and the chase vehicle into line.
I helped the engine builder free the bike from its stand every ten minutes or so and we shoved the bike another 40 feet along the dusty desert.
The tingle along the collar of my tee shirt told me that the sun block was a little thin there.
As we got closer to the front my dad headed off to use the outhouse.
“Final preparations,” I thought with a small sardonic smile.
He came back and one of his employees and I helped him into his leathers.
His pants came off, the leather ones went on. Then his leather riding boots...
I zipped his coat to his pants... shoved his elbow and pulled on the gloves...
He sat down on the bike, no racer between him and the shimmering mirage over the desert.
I shook his hand, impulsively pulled his head over and kissed his cheek.
The guy has been a jerk.
He has done many things wrong.
He has been arrogant and self-centered and has dominated my life in ways that only a father can do...
And I love him terribly.
With that peck on his cheek a wordless prayer leapt from my heart...
He shoved the helmet over his head, clipped the leather jacket to it...
The official gave him a thumbs up as I snapped a couple of pictures, trying to stay out of the way of the camera crew.
J.D. and Bill attached the external starter, hit the switch and the engine shouted its titan’s voice across the desert.
We stood back... He eased out the clutch.
I wondered if he was going to die within the next minute or so.
He sought to keep the power just right, just on the edge of not losing too much traction. Four hundred horses can turn a wheel pretty hard.
Within seconds he was disappearing ahead of the rooster tail of dust climbing slowly into the still, thin desert air.
The chase vehicle took off... the large duelly pickup would tow the bike back
Isaac came up to me... wanting me to look at the video he had taken... oblivious to the sound of my father still shifting gears on the powerful motorcycle. I shook my head and concentrated on the still loud growl of that engine as it went through its gears.
Third gear...
Fourth gear...
Fifth gear...
That was its top... but the engine never howled the way it should when it is running with peak efficiency...
Then it began to let off...
I strained for any sudden stopping of that engine. If he tumbled the lanyard attached to him would yank the switch... shutting off fuel, shutting of the electronics.
Instead it slowly faded off... stopped.
And I exhaled.
I couldn’t see through the distant dust, but I knew my father was all right.
The announcer’s voice blared from the speakers...
“Final speed for number 659: 126 miles per hour.”
No record.
We went back to the engine builder’s trailer and waited. The tension of the day ending with an anticlimatic stroll to the cooler for cold beer.
Dad came back... oil staining his right leg where it had blown out of the front cylinder. The spark plugs looked like they had never gotten hot enough. The down side to such large meets. All that time spent in preparing and only one chance to get it right. The fuel had probably been a little too rich.
I smiled at my dad... slapped him on the back, told him I loved him. Made a show of getting the road maps out, having my sons give grampa a hug.
He reminded me that he’ll fly me to Thailand anytime I want. I thanked him.
We got in the van.
I rolled across the desert in that family van, thinking about my sons and what kind of grampa I will be.
David’s a boisterous, laughing sort of guy who loves people, has lots of opinions (don’t we all?) and shares a new joke every day.
We talk about past adventures and a little bit about Dad.
He is planning a run at beating a world speed record today.
I haven’t been very clear on exactly what is involved with beating this record.
The criteria/category for the record is:
100 cubic inch engine
Open faring
Nitro fuel
The current record: 176 miles per hour. Dad considers it a "soft record" not a difficult one to break. He hopes he to bury it with a speed of over 200 mph. If everything goes right, he thinks he could hit 220.
The Southern California Timing Assoc. times the runs at El Mirage by providing 1.3 miles for racers to get up to speed. Then there is 132 feet between two sets of lasers that calculates the speed.
This is different from the Bonneville races in Utah. The Utah Salt Flats Racing Association allows the racers four miles to get up to speed. Then they are timed for one mile. If it is a record, then the racer turns around and races back. The two speeds are then averaged.
El Mirage isn’t long enough to permit this.
The trick in beating this record is the open faring. Aerodynamics are critical at such speeds, and a motorcycle which isn’t using aerodynamics is plowing roughly through hot desert air.
Running on dirt is tricky. There is very little traction for such powerful engines. The danger is in the back end trying to swing around toward the front.
The motorcycle is not built for slowing down. It remains under pretty good control only when it is accelerating. Decelerating is different. It does not handle well with the weight on the front tire. Also, it doesn’t turn well. The rider must manage to coax it back down to less than 120 mph and then lean it ever so slightly so it makes a great curving arc before coming to the end of the lake.
The fuel is 85 percent nitro and 15 percent methane. Under compression such fuel is explosive. It is very easy to have it tear an engine apart. In fact, the mixture is designed to just approach the edge of engineering failure in the distance the bike will travel.
And it costs about 10 times the price of regular fuel.
(Click any picture to enlarge)David and I followed the white pickup all the way out to the desert. We stopped for breakfast about 15 miles from the lake. I had biscuits and gravy (I know, I know, it isn’t good for me) and sent my daily postcard home.
Throughout the drive, throughout the chatter with my brother and the surprises that California highways seem to spring on laid back Oregon drivers, the conversation I had with my father the night before echoed in my head, more importantly, in my heart.
I had come to a small realization, a tiny epiphany of the heart that my sense of right and wrong can diminish my love for others.
I needn’t judge, I needn’t evaluate, I needn’t stand large over my father’s sins and place myself over him.
I think I grew up a little last night.
This was the day my dad had dreamt of. It was the day he would face the challenge of engineering and skill and see if he could tune a machine and himself to finesse enough speed out of that 400 horsepower machine to set a world record.
I was a little concerned that at the end of the day I would see him loaded into an ambulance or a helicopter.
But it didn’t matter.
Well it did matter. It mattered enough that I paused every so often to whisper to my King...
“Thy will be done...”
I stayed out of the way of the inspectors and mechanics and employees of my father’s business...
I stayed near enough to ask pertinent questions about the challenge of this event, the details of the engineering, to learn which sort of things were of concern and which were not.
I kept soaking my hat with water and dropping it on my head...
The sun bounced from the white hard pan and made my eyes ache...
The sweat washed the sun block from my forehead and stung my eyes...
And I helped my dad in any little way I could.
They tested the engine. The sound was like a repeated crack of thunder rolling into the rumble of a volcano. The smell startled me. The acrid methane/nitro mixture burned the eyes, assaulted the nose like horseradish. The roar evened out, half of those standing nearby had their fingers in their ears.
It was ready.
He was number 179 in line and about 10:30 we heard the call for our group of racers and we pushed the motorcycle and the chase vehicle into line.
I helped the engine builder free the bike from its stand every ten minutes or so and we shoved the bike another 40 feet along the dusty desert.
The tingle along the collar of my tee shirt told me that the sun block was a little thin there.
As we got closer to the front my dad headed off to use the outhouse.
“Final preparations,” I thought with a small sardonic smile.
He came back and one of his employees and I helped him into his leathers.
His pants came off, the leather ones went on. Then his leather riding boots...
I zipped his coat to his pants... shoved his elbow and pulled on the gloves...
He sat down on the bike, no racer between him and the shimmering mirage over the desert.
I shook his hand, impulsively pulled his head over and kissed his cheek.
The guy has been a jerk.
He has done many things wrong.
He has been arrogant and self-centered and has dominated my life in ways that only a father can do...
And I love him terribly.
With that peck on his cheek a wordless prayer leapt from my heart...
He shoved the helmet over his head, clipped the leather jacket to it...
The official gave him a thumbs up as I snapped a couple of pictures, trying to stay out of the way of the camera crew.
J.D. and Bill attached the external starter, hit the switch and the engine shouted its titan’s voice across the desert.
We stood back... He eased out the clutch.
I wondered if he was going to die within the next minute or so.
He sought to keep the power just right, just on the edge of not losing too much traction. Four hundred horses can turn a wheel pretty hard.
Within seconds he was disappearing ahead of the rooster tail of dust climbing slowly into the still, thin desert air.
The chase vehicle took off... the large duelly pickup would tow the bike back
Isaac came up to me... wanting me to look at the video he had taken... oblivious to the sound of my father still shifting gears on the powerful motorcycle. I shook my head and concentrated on the still loud growl of that engine as it went through its gears.
Third gear...
Fourth gear...
Fifth gear...
That was its top... but the engine never howled the way it should when it is running with peak efficiency...
Then it began to let off...
I strained for any sudden stopping of that engine. If he tumbled the lanyard attached to him would yank the switch... shutting off fuel, shutting of the electronics.
Instead it slowly faded off... stopped.
And I exhaled.
I couldn’t see through the distant dust, but I knew my father was all right.
The announcer’s voice blared from the speakers...
“Final speed for number 659: 126 miles per hour.”
No record.
We went back to the engine builder’s trailer and waited. The tension of the day ending with an anticlimatic stroll to the cooler for cold beer.
Dad came back... oil staining his right leg where it had blown out of the front cylinder. The spark plugs looked like they had never gotten hot enough. The down side to such large meets. All that time spent in preparing and only one chance to get it right. The fuel had probably been a little too rich.
I smiled at my dad... slapped him on the back, told him I loved him. Made a show of getting the road maps out, having my sons give grampa a hug.
He reminded me that he’ll fly me to Thailand anytime I want. I thanked him.
We got in the van.
I rolled across the desert in that family van, thinking about my sons and what kind of grampa I will be.
Dad -Part 1
It has been so good being with my boys. We have spent a lot of time together, covered a lot of miles. 1400 so far.
Every once in a while one of the boys will say:
“I’m having a lot of fun!”
That surprises me. Most of the time they seem pretty bored, barely noticing the passing scenery as we roll through so much country.
I think that what they are enjoying about this trip is me. They are asking questions. nothing of great import really, just spending a lot of time being together.
Isaac asked about electricity and soon I had gotten him to some kind of understanding the relationship between ions, electron shells, Ionic bonds, and light.
Nothing of great import really.
What was important was that we were three guys, a father and two sons, learning to love each other. Learning who we are together.
I’m in my sister’s kitchen in Fallbrook this morning. Yesterday we were at El Mirage dry lake bed in the Mojave Desert. The day before we were in Orange County, the boys playing pool or video games; I lent a hand in getting the place ready for dad and getting a haircut. I had the stylist run her shears over my beard as well.
In the afternoon we went to the airport, John Wayne International.
Wende went to park the car while I walked luggage carousels as John Wayne strode across a larger than life Orange County.
Dad seemed old.
We hugged, drove back to Huntington Beach. He went to Wende’s to parcel out gifts from Southeast Asia. I put his luggage in his room next door.
My sons and I got silk pajamas.
Wende got a brass bell.
We sat in the yard drinking beers and he told stories of Thailand.
I watched the face, so similar to my own (well, a couple of decades older), and wondered who he is.
It really wasn’t complicated.
He is still the guy I’ve always known... and he’s someone I don’t really know at all.
He seems gentler. More relaxed.
He wears a beaded necklace, he burns incense on a little altar in his bedroom, and he is freer with hugs, even an occasional kiss.
Within my head, within my heart, I whispered quiet prayers set aside my prejudices.
I suspended judgment about prostitution, and hedonism, and wasted resources. I simply enjoyed him as he was, listened to what he thought was important to talk about.
He spoke a lot about his girlfriend, Puy. She sounds sweet... a widow who makes terrible coffee and ruins the food by dropping a raw egg on it just before it is served (he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings by being critical).
He talked about the house he shares with her in Chaiya Phum on the mainland, and the bungalow he has on Ko Samui, and island in the south.
He spoke of how his previous girlfriend, Apple, is elbowing him out of control of the bar he bought (it’s in her name, farangs, non-Thais, aren’t permitted to own property or businesses).
He talked about the twenty or so girls who work in the bar.
“When a man comes into the bar, it doesn’t matter if he’s 18 or 80, if he’s good looking or has acne, it don’t matter if he has one arm or anything, every girl there treats them all the same. They’re Buddhists and all they see is another soul.”
Something about the way he said that told me he was deeply moved by their lack of judging.
He talked quite a bit about a funeral on Ko Sumai last week, a Buddhist ritual of cremation and all day chanting. He talked about helping the villagers keep the fired stoked all day, of the music and drums and prayers.
He spoke a lot about prostitution. The differences between Singapore girls and how things work in Bangkok, and Japan, and Thailand. He said that in his bar if a man likes a girl, he pays the bar 100 baht (about $5) and she will go with him for as long as he likes. He can then pay her (or not) whatever he wishes.
Part of me pulled away from this talk.
Another part of me gentled toward him.
I suspended my judgment, and simply listened.
I found that I really love him.
I didn’t need to share my faith with him. He understands all of that. He is fully aware of the tenets of my faith.
He resents the proselytizing others have inflicted on him. He resents the judging Christians inflict on him, on those he knows, on other cultures.
He talked about his travels in asia and about his run for a record the next day.
I didn’t say much.
I didn’t tell him about my views on politics or life or faith. I didn’t really tell him much of anything. I just listened.
I didn’t need to say much to him. He knows I go to church every sunday, and therefore my faith is important to me. He knows I care about others, by the actions of my life, in adopting these boys, in lending a hand when needed.
I didn’t need to say much.
I just listened.
And I found something wonderful.
I found I love my dad.
His life, his sins, his triumphs and successes and failures are his own.
He is a soul made in the image of the Lord I love, and I find I love him deeply.
It isn’t for me to convince him of the errors of his ways or to educate him in my faith or shoe horn him into a paradigm that is closer to my own.
I saw how he felt humbled by the sincerity of those in Thailand, those with simple lives, simple needs. I saw how he sees himself, self important, and with no importance at all.
I saw him as a fellow traveler in this world who doesn’t need anything from me, but softens when I give him a hug, kiss his cheek.
He says he would love to fly me to Thailand and show me around. He said he knows I wouldn’t be interested in a lot of the things he is interested in, but I would love a lot of other things there. I know he meant that I wouldn’t be interested in the bar or the prostitutes, but that I would love the culture, the beaches and jungles, the food and people.
And in saying that I knew he understood who I am, what I believe in, and that he accepted me for who I am.
I was noncommittal about a trip to Asia, but I let him know I was very grateful for the offer...
“Maybe next year, Dad.”
My dad loves to cuss, and sleep around, and have manly adventures... but he is a soul which has its own kindness, its own approach...
I felt I understood how Jesus approached people who sinned a lot, were shunned by society... He simply loved them.
It feels good to do that.
(next post, a trip to the desert...)
Every once in a while one of the boys will say:
“I’m having a lot of fun!”
That surprises me. Most of the time they seem pretty bored, barely noticing the passing scenery as we roll through so much country.
I think that what they are enjoying about this trip is me. They are asking questions. nothing of great import really, just spending a lot of time being together.
Isaac asked about electricity and soon I had gotten him to some kind of understanding the relationship between ions, electron shells, Ionic bonds, and light.
Nothing of great import really.
What was important was that we were three guys, a father and two sons, learning to love each other. Learning who we are together.
I’m in my sister’s kitchen in Fallbrook this morning. Yesterday we were at El Mirage dry lake bed in the Mojave Desert. The day before we were in Orange County, the boys playing pool or video games; I lent a hand in getting the place ready for dad and getting a haircut. I had the stylist run her shears over my beard as well.
In the afternoon we went to the airport, John Wayne International.
Wende went to park the car while I walked luggage carousels as John Wayne strode across a larger than life Orange County.
Dad seemed old.
We hugged, drove back to Huntington Beach. He went to Wende’s to parcel out gifts from Southeast Asia. I put his luggage in his room next door.
My sons and I got silk pajamas.
Wende got a brass bell.
We sat in the yard drinking beers and he told stories of Thailand.
I watched the face, so similar to my own (well, a couple of decades older), and wondered who he is.
It really wasn’t complicated.
He is still the guy I’ve always known... and he’s someone I don’t really know at all.
He seems gentler. More relaxed.
He wears a beaded necklace, he burns incense on a little altar in his bedroom, and he is freer with hugs, even an occasional kiss.
Within my head, within my heart, I whispered quiet prayers set aside my prejudices.
I suspended judgment about prostitution, and hedonism, and wasted resources. I simply enjoyed him as he was, listened to what he thought was important to talk about.
He spoke a lot about his girlfriend, Puy. She sounds sweet... a widow who makes terrible coffee and ruins the food by dropping a raw egg on it just before it is served (he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings by being critical).
He talked about the house he shares with her in Chaiya Phum on the mainland, and the bungalow he has on Ko Samui, and island in the south.
He spoke of how his previous girlfriend, Apple, is elbowing him out of control of the bar he bought (it’s in her name, farangs, non-Thais, aren’t permitted to own property or businesses).
He talked about the twenty or so girls who work in the bar.
“When a man comes into the bar, it doesn’t matter if he’s 18 or 80, if he’s good looking or has acne, it don’t matter if he has one arm or anything, every girl there treats them all the same. They’re Buddhists and all they see is another soul.”
Something about the way he said that told me he was deeply moved by their lack of judging.
He talked quite a bit about a funeral on Ko Sumai last week, a Buddhist ritual of cremation and all day chanting. He talked about helping the villagers keep the fired stoked all day, of the music and drums and prayers.
He spoke a lot about prostitution. The differences between Singapore girls and how things work in Bangkok, and Japan, and Thailand. He said that in his bar if a man likes a girl, he pays the bar 100 baht (about $5) and she will go with him for as long as he likes. He can then pay her (or not) whatever he wishes.
Part of me pulled away from this talk.
Another part of me gentled toward him.
I suspended my judgment, and simply listened.
I found that I really love him.
I didn’t need to share my faith with him. He understands all of that. He is fully aware of the tenets of my faith.
He resents the proselytizing others have inflicted on him. He resents the judging Christians inflict on him, on those he knows, on other cultures.
He talked about his travels in asia and about his run for a record the next day.
I didn’t say much.
I didn’t tell him about my views on politics or life or faith. I didn’t really tell him much of anything. I just listened.
I didn’t need to say much to him. He knows I go to church every sunday, and therefore my faith is important to me. He knows I care about others, by the actions of my life, in adopting these boys, in lending a hand when needed.
I didn’t need to say much.
I just listened.
And I found something wonderful.
I found I love my dad.
His life, his sins, his triumphs and successes and failures are his own.
He is a soul made in the image of the Lord I love, and I find I love him deeply.
It isn’t for me to convince him of the errors of his ways or to educate him in my faith or shoe horn him into a paradigm that is closer to my own.
I saw how he felt humbled by the sincerity of those in Thailand, those with simple lives, simple needs. I saw how he sees himself, self important, and with no importance at all.
I saw him as a fellow traveler in this world who doesn’t need anything from me, but softens when I give him a hug, kiss his cheek.
He says he would love to fly me to Thailand and show me around. He said he knows I wouldn’t be interested in a lot of the things he is interested in, but I would love a lot of other things there. I know he meant that I wouldn’t be interested in the bar or the prostitutes, but that I would love the culture, the beaches and jungles, the food and people.
And in saying that I knew he understood who I am, what I believe in, and that he accepted me for who I am.
I was noncommittal about a trip to Asia, but I let him know I was very grateful for the offer...
“Maybe next year, Dad.”
My dad loves to cuss, and sleep around, and have manly adventures... but he is a soul which has its own kindness, its own approach...
I felt I understood how Jesus approached people who sinned a lot, were shunned by society... He simply loved them.
It feels good to do that.
(next post, a trip to the desert...)
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Preparations
Dad arrives from Thailand in a few hours and folks are getting ready.
There are two maids cleaning his house...
...and Jesse (a laborer for the company who lives in Wende’s house) has been hosing down the drives, washing vehicles, and scooping up dog poop (they have six dogs and three cats).
There is another employee from the company who is loading up coolers and such for the trip to the desert for Dad’s attempt at some world record.
Wende has been running animals to and from groomers and such so they are all well-trimmed and clean.
There was a crew here yesterday to trim up trees (they removed one entirely, even grinding out the stump and placing fresh sod in its place).
(The Large tree by the house was removed)
She asked me to make a grocery run to restock my dad’s cupboards, and refrigerator. He now has his bananas, lunch meats, and other essentials. I insisted she take her change (it was almost $150).
My nephew spent the night here last night. He slept on the couch to be near Gramma Wende, though he has a bedroom next door.
I figured he would be spoiled from all the attention and goodies he has, but he seems to be a serious, polite, grounded and goodhearted 6th grader.
(Lord, help me to not be a judge of others, to simply love and encourage.)
All these preparations makes me uneasy somehow.
I’m anxious to get past all of this.
You know, I was born in this county. When I was a kid, it was a rural place of orange groves and bean fields and country roads. I'd ride my bike up to ten miles away. Now it is a place where cities are divided by major streets which are filled with well-kept vehicles filled with urbanites with well-kept appearances.
I can’t seem to get away from the judging thing, can I? Even in attempting to chronicle this road trip my word choice betrays my bias.
My brother David says he is thinking about moving to Oregon. He could see something in my attitude toward this place that made him admit that it has become a place of superficiality. He said something about what it was like here when we were kids and wondered why he was still here.
“Frog in a pot,” was all I said.
He winced and grinned.
The guy is here to reinstall the rugs that were removed and steamed yesterday, and power wash the drives.
All this bustle.
I have found over the past few years it is hard to get close to my dad to simply talk. He seems to suspect ulterior motives for people’s affections. But I hope to have a chance to get to know him a bit.
I wish I was going to church tomorrow.
It would be good to shut my eyes, lift my hands, and breathe in deeply the words of worship songs and let my own heart add to the praise of my church family.
Isaac just sat down and asked what I’m writing about.
“I’m just writing about what is going on here and that I wish I could be in church tomorrow.”
“So do I!” He gave me a hug and went off to play with the Sony PSP Doug helped him buy yesterday.
The boys had so much fun yesterday.
(on the mall's connecting bridge, it's seen in the next pic beneath the "G" marker)
They were amazed at the huge mall, South Coast Plaza.
(from the freeway north to the top of the pick)
Jeremiah was so thrilled to make such a large purchase on his own.
Can you handle 8 gigs of music?!!
Back to my post:
For me church is important business.
For me it is a time and place for my heart to settle, to feel good things, things I know come from my Lord, to work a little bit more at exercising my soul a little so I may more easily keep up with the pace my shepherd sets for me.
I would do well to exercise my physical body more. I should lose at least 15% of my weight.
Brenda tells me her exercising makes her feel good, it keeps her in shape and brings her enjoyment.
I suppose my worship at church does something similar. It builds up my spiritual muscles, makes me feel good.
I suppose it is a preparation for my eternal life... or, seen another way... preparation for my Lord’s return.
I wonder if my dad has been making such preparations?
Here are all these people bustling about, making preparations for my father’s return... do they make any preparations for my Father’s return?
There are two maids cleaning his house...
...and Jesse (a laborer for the company who lives in Wende’s house) has been hosing down the drives, washing vehicles, and scooping up dog poop (they have six dogs and three cats).
There is another employee from the company who is loading up coolers and such for the trip to the desert for Dad’s attempt at some world record.
Wende has been running animals to and from groomers and such so they are all well-trimmed and clean.
There was a crew here yesterday to trim up trees (they removed one entirely, even grinding out the stump and placing fresh sod in its place).
(The Large tree by the house was removed)My nephew spent the night here last night. He slept on the couch to be near Gramma Wende, though he has a bedroom next door.
I figured he would be spoiled from all the attention and goodies he has, but he seems to be a serious, polite, grounded and goodhearted 6th grader.
(Lord, help me to not be a judge of others, to simply love and encourage.)
All these preparations makes me uneasy somehow.
I’m anxious to get past all of this.
You know, I was born in this county. When I was a kid, it was a rural place of orange groves and bean fields and country roads. I'd ride my bike up to ten miles away. Now it is a place where cities are divided by major streets which are filled with well-kept vehicles filled with urbanites with well-kept appearances.
I can’t seem to get away from the judging thing, can I? Even in attempting to chronicle this road trip my word choice betrays my bias.
My brother David says he is thinking about moving to Oregon. He could see something in my attitude toward this place that made him admit that it has become a place of superficiality. He said something about what it was like here when we were kids and wondered why he was still here.
“Frog in a pot,” was all I said.
He winced and grinned.
The guy is here to reinstall the rugs that were removed and steamed yesterday, and power wash the drives.
All this bustle.
I have found over the past few years it is hard to get close to my dad to simply talk. He seems to suspect ulterior motives for people’s affections. But I hope to have a chance to get to know him a bit.
I wish I was going to church tomorrow.
It would be good to shut my eyes, lift my hands, and breathe in deeply the words of worship songs and let my own heart add to the praise of my church family.
Isaac just sat down and asked what I’m writing about.
“I’m just writing about what is going on here and that I wish I could be in church tomorrow.”
“So do I!” He gave me a hug and went off to play with the Sony PSP Doug helped him buy yesterday.
The boys had so much fun yesterday.
(on the mall's connecting bridge, it's seen in the next pic beneath the "G" marker)They were amazed at the huge mall, South Coast Plaza.
(from the freeway north to the top of the pick)Jeremiah was so thrilled to make such a large purchase on his own.
Can you handle 8 gigs of music?!!Back to my post:
For me church is important business.
For me it is a time and place for my heart to settle, to feel good things, things I know come from my Lord, to work a little bit more at exercising my soul a little so I may more easily keep up with the pace my shepherd sets for me.
I would do well to exercise my physical body more. I should lose at least 15% of my weight.
Brenda tells me her exercising makes her feel good, it keeps her in shape and brings her enjoyment.
I suppose my worship at church does something similar. It builds up my spiritual muscles, makes me feel good.
I suppose it is a preparation for my eternal life... or, seen another way... preparation for my Lord’s return.
I wonder if my dad has been making such preparations?
Here are all these people bustling about, making preparations for my father’s return... do they make any preparations for my Father’s return?
Friday, July 13, 2007
Who's My Father?
My relationship with my father is simple and complex.
It's simple because I really don't know him very well and so we tend to run our interactions along lines we are used to... not a lot of depth.
It's complex because we are both people with strong views, active minds, complex perspectives.
It's Friday morning, Jeremiah and I have showered, Isaac is doing so, and I will then do the laundry. We are spending the day with a long time friend of mine who has done very well in welding supplies. He set a $1000 aside to show us a good time. I thought the boys would want to do Disneyland or Universal Studios or some such, but they want to go to the mall and then watch TV on Doug's 40" LCD with the theater surround sound and massage chairs.
So, in this moment of waiting for the dirty clothes to be gathered I am thinking about my dad, and pecking at this keyboard, transfering these thoughts onto this online journal.
He is flying in tomorrow afternoon from Thailand. Early the following morning, during a time I usually spend with my church family, we will be setting up to watch him attempt a world record on a "motorcycle." I don't know the details of the motorcycle, except that it is nitro-fueled, has approximately 400 horsepower, is very low to the ground, and is very expensive.
Whatever.
I'm more interested in my dad. Where is he spiritually?
This house we have been staying in, the one dad stays in (while he is briefly inn the U.S.) because it is more convenient than living with his wife, the one that used to be my sister's, doesn't feeling like a home. It is simply a house.
There are clues here to what my father thinks is important. Everywhere I look I see pictures of my sister, some walls have seven or eight pictures of her. There are also a lot of pictures of my dad, sitting on motorcycles in the desert, posing with groups of strangers in different parts of the world, holding trophies.
When I remember him from my childhood I feel anxious, a little fearful. He was a frightening figure, dominating. Looking around this house I see hints that he has other sides to him.
The little figurine on his night stand hints at the tender side he might have toward children...
That is nice to see.
Jeremiah just came in to take a picture of me. I paused, let him take several until he got it right... Here is the one that finally came out...
There are other indicators of where my dad is at lately...
In his bedroom I see...
Objects on the dressers...
Someone told me that he claims to be a Buddhist... The little bowl of offered rice in front of the picture of my sister, the incense and candles... I suppose he might be.
I have mixed feelings about that.
But I am glad to see that he may be thinking about things beyond the world he has built for himself.
I know that when I was a kid he did go to that church on the corner with us, that he seemed to have a faith in a risen Christ.
Perhaps... Maybe... I don't know.
There is a little figurine of a man kneeling before a cross on his dresser...
I've never been able to tell my dad much. And the things I would have to say about faith which might lead him to a closer relationship with my Lord are things he already knows (he once told me about a trucker friend of his who was always trying to get him to go to a biker's church).
I may not be able to tell him much, but perhaps I can show him a little.
I can show him how I feel about him. I can show him my relationship with my boys. I can show him my relationship with God...
And in the few hours between his arrival from Thailand, and his departure at the lasered starting line in the Mojave Desert, I can show him the primary commands of my Lord: love God, love others.
So... the boys have finished their showers, they are sitting beside me starting their breakfast of cold cereal (typical guy approach to feeding ourselves, right?), and I need to get the laundry started.
We are off to some huge mall and then to do the couch potato thing at my friend's.
I am looking forward to getting away from the crowds and pavement... from the aggressive drivers, and the freeways which turn into glaciers of metal and plastic at 4:00 each afternoon, ribbons of hate coursing through the city.
I am looking forward to open spaces and natural beauty and solitude. I think that once we get clear of Southern California I will find a place where I can spend an hour or so with God.
And in that place on the far side of my dad's strange journey to find fame in the desert, I can draw a little nearer to the father who offers me a relationship that is simple... a relationship that has only the complications in it that I bring.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Update
It’s Wednesday night and I’m watching TV in my dad’s room.
Wende, dad’s fifth wife, took us out to dinner, along with two employees of the company. Her boyfriend, Jesse, stayed at home, he wasn’t feeling real well.
Nice guy. He helped me wash and wax my van after the 1,000 mile drive from Oregon. Apparently his job is to putter around the two houses, doing yard work, washing cars, and doing fill in labor on job sites.
Dad's Place
Wende's
I saw one of my brothers. In fact, he was the one who provided the easy application wax we used on my van. He seems happy to be working for my dad’s business manager. I still can’t over his loss of hair (whew! I guess I dodged that genetic bullet!).
David
Dad comes from Thailand on Saturday afternoon. I’ll go with with Wende to the airport to pick him up. He is still planning on that motorcycle run on Sunday.
Dad’s business manager is out of town, in Hawaii, so I probably won’t see him.
I’m unsure of the interpersonal dynamics around here, but I’ll figure it out. From what I understand, this house that once was my sister’s (she hung herself four years ago) is empty most of the time. Dad spends almost all of his time in Thailand. He has a bar and a bungalow there.
On our way out to dinner we spent at least fifteen minutes trying to round up one of the dogs (they have six). This one, ‘Quila, was my dad’s girlfriend’s dog. When he and she broke up he kept the dog and now it is Wende’s. It’s ornery, likes to play keep away and avoid getting locked in the fenced yards.
'Quila in the Wall
Everyone is real glad to see me and my boys.
Everyone is real happy to laugh and talk about good times.
And everyone is living a life that confuses me no end.
They have begun apologizing for their frequent swearing, but I tell them it isn’t a big deal, though they see how uncomfortable in makes Jeremiah and Isaac.
There is a lot of nice stuff here. Dad’s main house (or is it Wende’s?) has six our so bedrooms and the office. This house, next door, has four bedrooms, and the only primary residents here are the six dogs who have a door through the adjoining property line wall, and an orange and white cat who keeps nibbling at my toes as I type.
Tomorrow morning, Thursday, I’m taking the boys to Corona Del Mar for a swim in the ocean. They are suspicious as it isn’t the sort of thing one does in Oregon, but I tell them that the water here is warm enough that it will be a lot of fun.
So... how will I tie this in to some personal epiphany? Some theology insight or ccomment on human nature?
I can’t.
I love my family. I don’t undestand the situation here very well (and there are hints of things that I am waiting to learn more about before I go into more detail), but that is OK.
Right now, loving my family is enough.
It’s late, I’m tired, and this lonely cat is attacking my foot.
I’m going to bed.
Thursday Morn...
Just got back from taking the boyus to Corona Del Mar. We looked at tide pools...
...but the boys seemed more fascinated by the emergency people who rescued someone from the surf and rocks.
There was a steady stream of joggers, runners and dog walkers along the bluffs over looking the ocean and the air was sweet and fresh coming in over the Pacific.
We went to Laguna Beach, I sent Brenda a post card and the boys bought mood rings.
It is so busy here. The drivers are very aggressive, and having nice cars seems to be the norm. At least along the coast.
The hills along the stretch between Corona Del Mar and Laguna beach are mostly covered with track homes now, with large wide streets coursing through areas I remember as only scrub brush.
I’ve only been here less than a day and I am already longing to get on out to see some country.
I’m meeting up with a jr. high school friend this afternoon and tomorrow he is treating the boys and I to whatever we wish to do.
I’m glad I don’t live here any more.
Wende, dad’s fifth wife, took us out to dinner, along with two employees of the company. Her boyfriend, Jesse, stayed at home, he wasn’t feeling real well.
Nice guy. He helped me wash and wax my van after the 1,000 mile drive from Oregon. Apparently his job is to putter around the two houses, doing yard work, washing cars, and doing fill in labor on job sites.
Dad's Place
Wende's
DavidDad’s business manager is out of town, in Hawaii, so I probably won’t see him.
I’m unsure of the interpersonal dynamics around here, but I’ll figure it out. From what I understand, this house that once was my sister’s (she hung herself four years ago) is empty most of the time. Dad spends almost all of his time in Thailand. He has a bar and a bungalow there.
On our way out to dinner we spent at least fifteen minutes trying to round up one of the dogs (they have six). This one, ‘Quila, was my dad’s girlfriend’s dog. When he and she broke up he kept the dog and now it is Wende’s. It’s ornery, likes to play keep away and avoid getting locked in the fenced yards.
'Quila in the WallEveryone is real happy to laugh and talk about good times.
And everyone is living a life that confuses me no end.
They have begun apologizing for their frequent swearing, but I tell them it isn’t a big deal, though they see how uncomfortable in makes Jeremiah and Isaac.
There is a lot of nice stuff here. Dad’s main house (or is it Wende’s?) has six our so bedrooms and the office. This house, next door, has four bedrooms, and the only primary residents here are the six dogs who have a door through the adjoining property line wall, and an orange and white cat who keeps nibbling at my toes as I type.
Tomorrow morning, Thursday, I’m taking the boys to Corona Del Mar for a swim in the ocean. They are suspicious as it isn’t the sort of thing one does in Oregon, but I tell them that the water here is warm enough that it will be a lot of fun.
So... how will I tie this in to some personal epiphany? Some theology insight or ccomment on human nature?
I can’t.
I love my family. I don’t undestand the situation here very well (and there are hints of things that I am waiting to learn more about before I go into more detail), but that is OK.
Right now, loving my family is enough.
It’s late, I’m tired, and this lonely cat is attacking my foot.
I’m going to bed.
Thursday Morn...
Just got back from taking the boyus to Corona Del Mar. We looked at tide pools...
...but the boys seemed more fascinated by the emergency people who rescued someone from the surf and rocks.
There was a steady stream of joggers, runners and dog walkers along the bluffs over looking the ocean and the air was sweet and fresh coming in over the Pacific.
We went to Laguna Beach, I sent Brenda a post card and the boys bought mood rings.
It is so busy here. The drivers are very aggressive, and having nice cars seems to be the norm. At least along the coast.
The hills along the stretch between Corona Del Mar and Laguna beach are mostly covered with track homes now, with large wide streets coursing through areas I remember as only scrub brush.
I’ve only been here less than a day and I am already longing to get on out to see some country.
I’m meeting up with a jr. high school friend this afternoon and tomorrow he is treating the boys and I to whatever we wish to do.
I’m glad I don’t live here any more.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Perspectives
We are roaming.
I don’t mean that my cell phone is out of its normal area and we are getting roaming charges. Actually, the cell phone we bought for this trip stopped working just three hours from home.
No, we are really roaming. My sons and I are on a road trip. The little woman (and I mean little, she has been running and she is getting skinny!) is staying behind.
Rocky wanted to come, but we left him behind also. Which is making this trip a lot more pleasant. He is pretty demanding of attention and things are a lot more relaxed.
I stopped in a little town in northern California, a place where I have a lot of memories.
I was in kindergarten when we moved to 137 Plumas St., Willows, California. The kindergarten is gone and a public pool is in its place.
But the house is still there, looking as if it hasn’t been painted in the intervening 45 years.
I’m not sure why my dad moved there. It was 500 miles from where he had lived most of his life. It may say something about being young and wanting freedom, after all, I doubled that distance when I moved to Oregon.
I know he drove truck for Baker Trucking. I remember going with him to the grain silos and the smell of rice and wheat and grease and sweat.
At any rate... I stopped in Willows, yesterday.
I checked out Murdock Elementary School, which turns out to be only a mile from where I lived (in my memory it seemed to have been at least two miles that I walked to my first grade class room where I learned the mysteries of such things as the word “orange” is much harder to spell than the word “red”, and that the letters “i” and “j” may look alike, but have very different symbolic lives).
I got a bicycle when I was in first grade. A shiny red one. I pointed out to Isaac where the bike rack was, and there is still one there, with another red bike parked there as well.
I told Isaac how a police car followed me from school one day. He finally stopped me, and explained I was riding home on a bike that wasn’t mine. It looked just like mine, but it belonged to another boy. He put the bike in his trunk and we went to the police station. He said I had been taking the wrong bike all week and they had waited for me that day to correct the situation. My bike was in the station.
I told Isaac how I had swallowed a tooth while eating a peanut butter sandwich there. How my mom told me I could leave a note for the tooth fairy and how I got a reply. The reply included the answer to my question about what the tooth fairy did with the teeth (she turns them into billard balls).
The house I had lived in is smaller than I remember. The juniper trees have been cut down, as well as the oak tree in the back yard. The lawn hasn’t been watered in a very long time, and the walnut tree with the swing in the backyard is gone.
The house across the street that I thought was haunted had been replaced with apartments, and the church where I say jesus smile at me through a stain glass window has been replaced with a new church building. I had hoped the steeple with the bell was still there, but it isn’t.
Strange that I am so drawn to this place. I suppose it was the most stable years of my childhood, that house where my parents’ marriage fell apart.
I had forgotten the intriguing craftsmanship evidenced in the banisters and entries inside.
Looking up at the high roof I can see why my dad gave us such a licking for climbing up there to throw balsa gliders.
The old garage is there and so is the apricot tree we climbed so we could dare each other to touch the power line for a hugely exciting shock.
It was at this house that my faith took root. I was only five years old when I had a series of experiences which formed my character.
I had closed my eyes and tried to walk through the fence at the kindergarten, and come to the conclusion that I hadn’t enough faith.
I had rung that bell in that steeple on the corner to create a ringing voice to call people from across our town to services.
It was there that I knew the meaning of the communion I was not allowed to share, knowing for the first time that my mother did not know all that I thought she must know. That there were truths inside of me that others didn’t know.
It was there that I had my own scientific epiphanies. It was on a walk to Murdock Elementary that I realized that the shifting perspectives of a picket fence and the house behind it were the same thing as the trees flying past a distant moon as my father drove a country road. I realized at that moment the approximate distance of the moon, one that years later I found was not very far off.
I thought I’d feel warm and tied back to the memories of a very good time in my life (aside from the vivid memories of paternal punishments).
But I didn't.
After walking around that house with the “sale pending” sign in the yard I felt melancholy.
Just as the building itself is smaller in the reality of my perceptions today, the experiences seem to have shrunk as well. I see the places where I had raced around the neighborhood on that red bike and the magic of it is all dusty and nearly forgotten.
Perhaps the magic that was there was simply the magic that can be found in the heart of a six year old who believes in God and that the world is good, even though his father is cheating on his mother and the branches of the persimmon tree were used for spankings for childhood infractions.
The melancholy I feel is about the change of perspective. Just as the pickets of the fence changed their relative position in front of the house, and the trees moved across the yellow light of the moon, the paths of a six year old look very different from the distance of 45 years.
How will all this life appear from the perspective of eternity? Will I look at the worries of raising my children with nostalgia when I see them from the distance of immortality?
Side note: I will continue posting as I have opportunities on this trip. It isn’t often I have such free time to reflect on things. So, leave a note you were here... it’s reassuring to have the voices of my blogging friends while I am so far from home. God bless!
I don’t mean that my cell phone is out of its normal area and we are getting roaming charges. Actually, the cell phone we bought for this trip stopped working just three hours from home.
No, we are really roaming. My sons and I are on a road trip. The little woman (and I mean little, she has been running and she is getting skinny!) is staying behind.
Rocky wanted to come, but we left him behind also. Which is making this trip a lot more pleasant. He is pretty demanding of attention and things are a lot more relaxed.
I stopped in a little town in northern California, a place where I have a lot of memories.
I was in kindergarten when we moved to 137 Plumas St., Willows, California. The kindergarten is gone and a public pool is in its place.
But the house is still there, looking as if it hasn’t been painted in the intervening 45 years.
I’m not sure why my dad moved there. It was 500 miles from where he had lived most of his life. It may say something about being young and wanting freedom, after all, I doubled that distance when I moved to Oregon.
I know he drove truck for Baker Trucking. I remember going with him to the grain silos and the smell of rice and wheat and grease and sweat.
At any rate... I stopped in Willows, yesterday.
I checked out Murdock Elementary School, which turns out to be only a mile from where I lived (in my memory it seemed to have been at least two miles that I walked to my first grade class room where I learned the mysteries of such things as the word “orange” is much harder to spell than the word “red”, and that the letters “i” and “j” may look alike, but have very different symbolic lives).
I got a bicycle when I was in first grade. A shiny red one. I pointed out to Isaac where the bike rack was, and there is still one there, with another red bike parked there as well.
I told Isaac how a police car followed me from school one day. He finally stopped me, and explained I was riding home on a bike that wasn’t mine. It looked just like mine, but it belonged to another boy. He put the bike in his trunk and we went to the police station. He said I had been taking the wrong bike all week and they had waited for me that day to correct the situation. My bike was in the station.
I told Isaac how I had swallowed a tooth while eating a peanut butter sandwich there. How my mom told me I could leave a note for the tooth fairy and how I got a reply. The reply included the answer to my question about what the tooth fairy did with the teeth (she turns them into billard balls).
The house I had lived in is smaller than I remember. The juniper trees have been cut down, as well as the oak tree in the back yard. The lawn hasn’t been watered in a very long time, and the walnut tree with the swing in the backyard is gone.
The house across the street that I thought was haunted had been replaced with apartments, and the church where I say jesus smile at me through a stain glass window has been replaced with a new church building. I had hoped the steeple with the bell was still there, but it isn’t.
Strange that I am so drawn to this place. I suppose it was the most stable years of my childhood, that house where my parents’ marriage fell apart.
I had forgotten the intriguing craftsmanship evidenced in the banisters and entries inside.
Looking up at the high roof I can see why my dad gave us such a licking for climbing up there to throw balsa gliders.
The old garage is there and so is the apricot tree we climbed so we could dare each other to touch the power line for a hugely exciting shock.
It was at this house that my faith took root. I was only five years old when I had a series of experiences which formed my character.
I had closed my eyes and tried to walk through the fence at the kindergarten, and come to the conclusion that I hadn’t enough faith.
I had rung that bell in that steeple on the corner to create a ringing voice to call people from across our town to services.
It was there that I knew the meaning of the communion I was not allowed to share, knowing for the first time that my mother did not know all that I thought she must know. That there were truths inside of me that others didn’t know.
It was there that I had my own scientific epiphanies. It was on a walk to Murdock Elementary that I realized that the shifting perspectives of a picket fence and the house behind it were the same thing as the trees flying past a distant moon as my father drove a country road. I realized at that moment the approximate distance of the moon, one that years later I found was not very far off.
I thought I’d feel warm and tied back to the memories of a very good time in my life (aside from the vivid memories of paternal punishments).
But I didn't.
After walking around that house with the “sale pending” sign in the yard I felt melancholy.
Just as the building itself is smaller in the reality of my perceptions today, the experiences seem to have shrunk as well. I see the places where I had raced around the neighborhood on that red bike and the magic of it is all dusty and nearly forgotten.
Perhaps the magic that was there was simply the magic that can be found in the heart of a six year old who believes in God and that the world is good, even though his father is cheating on his mother and the branches of the persimmon tree were used for spankings for childhood infractions.
The melancholy I feel is about the change of perspective. Just as the pickets of the fence changed their relative position in front of the house, and the trees moved across the yellow light of the moon, the paths of a six year old look very different from the distance of 45 years.
How will all this life appear from the perspective of eternity? Will I look at the worries of raising my children with nostalgia when I see them from the distance of immortality?
-----------------
Side note: I will continue posting as I have opportunities on this trip. It isn’t often I have such free time to reflect on things. So, leave a note you were here... it’s reassuring to have the voices of my blogging friends while I am so far from home. God bless!
Saturday, July 07, 2007
California Dreamin'
Some time between Henry Ford's Model A and the construction of the Lincoln Highway the American Road Trip was born.
This is the third year in a row we have hit the road.
Last year it was Yellowstone and Montana.
The year before it was along the Oregon coast to the giant redwoods in California, and over to Crater Lake before heading home.
This year we are headed to Southern California.
The trip is a little different this year. Brenda isn't going, so it will be a guys' trip.
Isaac has been on a Christian youth retreat for the past week in Florida, so it will be good timing for he and I to talk about our faith.
The initial reason for the trip was a desire on my part to see my dad before he attempts a world speed record on a motorcycle. he has had a custom bike bult that burns nitro fuel, generating 400 horsepower. We will watch him streak across the Mojave Desert, and hoping he survives.
I plan on also seeing my mom near San Diego.
Other than that our plans are pretty fluid. We might head straight home if we get homesick, or we might swing through Yosemite. Who knows? Perhaps we'll even swing as far east as the Grand Canyon, though that would lead us on through Utak and Idaho, adding about a thousand miles to the trip.
I spent my childhood in California. It was rural then. Bean fields, orange groves, the countryside filled with scrub oaks and mesquite.
Now it is all city, and I don't find it that pleasant a place.
Everything is packed and ready to go. I've had the van checked over and it seems to be in pretty good shape.
Isaac arives at Portland International Airport at 9:30 tonight. We'll tuck him into bed, and I'll move he and Jeremiah to the van about 5:00 in the morn, and off we go.
What I really look forward to is a chance to spend a lot of time, up to two weeks, with my sons, and a lot of time pulling off the road to enjoy beautiful sights, a little solitude for prayer.
I've got several posts drafted so the fonts and such are the way I like and it will make posting easier if I choose to do so.
I plan on taking a lot of pictures.
Road trips have changed over the years, and this one will be unique, I'm sure.
Talk to all of you soon!
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Community
The thrum of a powerful engine drew my attention from the man in the 1940 coupe I was talking with. Another muscle car had pulled up for the classic car show.
It’s our annual General Canby Day, a highlight of the year.
I helped guide scores of classic cars find a parking place on 5th Street or Grant Avenue. This part of our Independence Day celebration was started by my friend Bob Cryder and still takes place in the street in front of where he once lived.
His widow was there. She is one of those large, mothering types who endlessly deals out hugs and smiles. She looked wistfully at the house that wasn’t hers, and never was.
Shortly after Bob died she sold the house. During the refurbishing an overheated sander and its sack of sawdust caught fire during the evening and burned it all to the ground. They rebuilt the house exactly like the craftsman style house that had been there, but something about it said “I’m young, I’m not the house you knew.”
It was a lot of fun. I stood in front of William Knight Elementary and watched folks go in for some pancakes while I joked with car buffs about their fine rides.
After several hours working the car show, I cast my vote for the judge’s choice award (a really sweet 1961 Volkswagen van that simply made me feel good).
I visited the booths and met with friends, neighbors, students. It is one of the joys of teaching within the town I reside. I’m a minor celebrity to kids and their parents who seem a little surprised that I have a life outside the classroom.
I love this town. It has grown to 10 or 14 thousand (depending how much of the surrounding rural area one calls our community.
I love running into people I know. Folks from church. Folks from businesses where I shop. Former students and their parents. The kids always seem shocked to see me outside of the classroom.
I wandered around the booths.
Enjoyed a little blue grass.
Watched Jeremiah toss dimes into glass containers and win a silly little prize.
It is a good feeling to know people, have them know you.
It is a good feeling to be good to people... to compliment near strangers... pick up a stray piece of trash because one feels the town is yours.
I caught up with my lovely wife and her mother, and I went and fetched Jeremiah. We picked out a spot to watch the parade.
I love being a part of a community. That is a large part of why I love my church. There are a lot of better reasons for going to church... a place to center oneself spiritually, a place to go to pray, a place to be held accountable, a place to learn, partake in communion, worship... But the sense of belonging is important to me.
I’m not wise enough to know who is saved and who isn’t. I have been giving this a lot of thought lately as I am about to go down to meet my dad before he does a life-threatening stunt that could put him in the record books (I leave next Tuesday, early).
I think a part of being a citizen of heaven will be a little like being a citizen of Canby. I think part of the joy of eternal life will be belonging. I think the internal smile that lifts my heart when I greet the firemen and police officers I know, or getting the knowing smile and nod from the veterans from the local American Legion as they lead the parade,
or chat with a parent who tells me how a former student is doing in college is... that internal smile seems to be one of those good things that seem to be a gift from Him, from God.
I suspect that those clean emotions we have, the feelings which seem so very right, are echoes of the divine. And as such, I think, perhaps, it is the sort of thing we will feel in Heaven.
So, those people who don’t seem to be able to connect to people. Those who are completely self-absorbed, self-centered, are they capable of giving enough of themselves, of even of seeking help, partaking in the eternal communion?
Everything about my faith... everything about the theology of Christianity is about love.
Love God, love others.
It was a great Fourth of July... a great General Canby Day.
It was a day of community, of helping others, loving and being loved.
I love this town.
It’s our annual General Canby Day, a highlight of the year.I helped guide scores of classic cars find a parking place on 5th Street or Grant Avenue. This part of our Independence Day celebration was started by my friend Bob Cryder and still takes place in the street in front of where he once lived.
His widow was there. She is one of those large, mothering types who endlessly deals out hugs and smiles. She looked wistfully at the house that wasn’t hers, and never was.Shortly after Bob died she sold the house. During the refurbishing an overheated sander and its sack of sawdust caught fire during the evening and burned it all to the ground. They rebuilt the house exactly like the craftsman style house that had been there, but something about it said “I’m young, I’m not the house you knew.”
It was a lot of fun. I stood in front of William Knight Elementary and watched folks go in for some pancakes while I joked with car buffs about their fine rides.
After several hours working the car show, I cast my vote for the judge’s choice award (a really sweet 1961 Volkswagen van that simply made me feel good).
I visited the booths and met with friends, neighbors, students. It is one of the joys of teaching within the town I reside. I’m a minor celebrity to kids and their parents who seem a little surprised that I have a life outside the classroom.
I love this town. It has grown to 10 or 14 thousand (depending how much of the surrounding rural area one calls our community.
I love running into people I know. Folks from church. Folks from businesses where I shop. Former students and their parents. The kids always seem shocked to see me outside of the classroom.
I wandered around the booths.
Enjoyed a little blue grass.
Watched Jeremiah toss dimes into glass containers and win a silly little prize.
It is a good feeling to know people, have them know you.It is a good feeling to be good to people... to compliment near strangers... pick up a stray piece of trash because one feels the town is yours.
I caught up with my lovely wife and her mother, and I went and fetched Jeremiah. We picked out a spot to watch the parade.
I love being a part of a community. That is a large part of why I love my church. There are a lot of better reasons for going to church... a place to center oneself spiritually, a place to go to pray, a place to be held accountable, a place to learn, partake in communion, worship... But the sense of belonging is important to me.I’m not wise enough to know who is saved and who isn’t. I have been giving this a lot of thought lately as I am about to go down to meet my dad before he does a life-threatening stunt that could put him in the record books (I leave next Tuesday, early).
I think a part of being a citizen of heaven will be a little like being a citizen of Canby. I think part of the joy of eternal life will be belonging. I think the internal smile that lifts my heart when I greet the firemen and police officers I know, or getting the knowing smile and nod from the veterans from the local American Legion as they lead the parade,
or chat with a parent who tells me how a former student is doing in college is... that internal smile seems to be one of those good things that seem to be a gift from Him, from God.I suspect that those clean emotions we have, the feelings which seem so very right, are echoes of the divine. And as such, I think, perhaps, it is the sort of thing we will feel in Heaven.
So, those people who don’t seem to be able to connect to people. Those who are completely self-absorbed, self-centered, are they capable of giving enough of themselves, of even of seeking help, partaking in the eternal communion?
Everything about my faith... everything about the theology of Christianity is about love.
Love God, love others.
It was a great Fourth of July... a great General Canby Day.
It was a day of community, of helping others, loving and being loved.
I love this town.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Confusers
Since I teach technology, and I blog, I'm at my confuser, I mean my computer, frequently.
It's a pretty handy tool, toy, and time waster.
"Well, Curious Servant, what do you do with your computer?"
I suppose the first thing I do is check, read, and send email. My dad is in Thailand and this is certainly the cheapest way to communicate with him. It's also a quick way to send little notes.
By the way... I believe in a certain etiquette in sending emails, so I follows these rules:
1. Short! Keep it short. People want to skim emails... leave the clever analogies, metaphors, illustrations, and anecdotes to blogging.
2. Keep it to one topic. If I need to cover several items, I make it a list or send multiple emails. Do not write paragraphs which move from topic to topic. This will help folks who like to sort email by topics and keep my message focussed for future reference.
3. No chain emails. Some folks like to do this sort of thing. I don't. This is my thing, so I don't tell others who send me such stuff that I delete it without reading them. That's what I do with spam, and I don't want to hurt their feelings. I'm just not into lucky emails, chances to win, or a believer in electronic petitions.
What else do I do with my technological window? I suppose after email is the news. Sure, I still read newspapers and magazines, but for brief tid bits about what is going on, it is the internet. There are several news sources for me.
1. Fox News. I find their writing terrible, their bias shows frequently, and they have rather superficial coverage, but it is quick, and pretty responsive to new developments.
2. CNN. Another quick source, but without the glitzy pics and other features.
3. The Source. Often I follow up a story by doing a little investigating myself. I will Google businesses, cities, all sorts of background info to find out more about a story than what I read. Once I found what I knew would have been a great investment... so much so that even borrowing the money would have been a smart move. My wife talked me out of it. Ah well... I'm really not the investing type.
4. Opposing views. I will often read what the other side has to say about something in order to get a clearer idea about a topic. Especially over heated topics. sometimes when reading about events in the Middle East I read Al Jazeera. They certainly have a clear bias, but they do report on topics western media does not, and frankly, they have some pretty good coverage.
Astronomical Picture of the Day
APOD is simply cool.
Here are some of my favorites over the past year:
A Blue Crescent Moon from Space
Mysterious Spokes in Saturn's Rings
A Mysterious Hexagonal Cloud System on Saturn (This one has me puzzled)
A Visit from Atlantis
Looking Back at an Eclipsed Earth
Shuttle Plume Shadow Points to Moon
Dust Sculptures in the Rosette Nebula (I've collected hundreds of nebula pics)
Sombrero Galaxy Across the Spectrum
Analemmas: Ukraine - Temple of Zeus - Of The Moon - The Tholos - Ancient Nemea - Mars
And today's: At the Edge of Victoria Crater (Go for it, you cute little robot!)
Bible Gateway
What a great reference tool! It is much faster than using one of my concordances, and give me the tools needed to reference scripture for blog posts.
Aside from the internet, I use computers quite a bit to create videos, music, and odd pictures.
I had an internet account in 1992 at Portland State University. I told a friend:
"The internet will never amount to anything."
I admit, I was wrong. At the time it was clumsy (the only browser I had available were Gophers, and the Mosaic came along and it got easier), and I believer there were only 350 or so sites available (mostly university catalogues, bulletin boards, and government sites).
I use computers a great deal for work... organizing my lessons, saving documents, writing proposals, keeping track of events and kids, and grades and all sorts of things.
But what I like to do the most is think with it. I use it to think out loud... to talk to myself and let folks like you listen in on my odd little ramblings.
I use it to pray "out loud" for myself, my family, and my friends. I use it to connect odd ideas together and to hone my writing skills.
And sometimes I just let myself ramble, like I am doing right now. It's a powerful tool, one that opens the world to new ideas, fresh information. It may well be the most democratizing force in the world today.
But, it also takes up a lot of my time... which reminds me... I've got to go check on Jeremiah now. Isaac is on his way to a Christian Youth convention in Florida right now, Life, and Mom's at work.
So enough of staring at this glowing screen for now... I've got to get back to being a dad.
It's a pretty handy tool, toy, and time waster.
"Well, Curious Servant, what do you do with your computer?"
I suppose the first thing I do is check, read, and send email. My dad is in Thailand and this is certainly the cheapest way to communicate with him. It's also a quick way to send little notes.
By the way... I believe in a certain etiquette in sending emails, so I follows these rules:
1. Short! Keep it short. People want to skim emails... leave the clever analogies, metaphors, illustrations, and anecdotes to blogging.
2. Keep it to one topic. If I need to cover several items, I make it a list or send multiple emails. Do not write paragraphs which move from topic to topic. This will help folks who like to sort email by topics and keep my message focussed for future reference.
3. No chain emails. Some folks like to do this sort of thing. I don't. This is my thing, so I don't tell others who send me such stuff that I delete it without reading them. That's what I do with spam, and I don't want to hurt their feelings. I'm just not into lucky emails, chances to win, or a believer in electronic petitions.
What else do I do with my technological window? I suppose after email is the news. Sure, I still read newspapers and magazines, but for brief tid bits about what is going on, it is the internet. There are several news sources for me.
1. Fox News. I find their writing terrible, their bias shows frequently, and they have rather superficial coverage, but it is quick, and pretty responsive to new developments.
2. CNN. Another quick source, but without the glitzy pics and other features.
3. The Source. Often I follow up a story by doing a little investigating myself. I will Google businesses, cities, all sorts of background info to find out more about a story than what I read. Once I found what I knew would have been a great investment... so much so that even borrowing the money would have been a smart move. My wife talked me out of it. Ah well... I'm really not the investing type.
4. Opposing views. I will often read what the other side has to say about something in order to get a clearer idea about a topic. Especially over heated topics. sometimes when reading about events in the Middle East I read Al Jazeera. They certainly have a clear bias, but they do report on topics western media does not, and frankly, they have some pretty good coverage.
Astronomical Picture of the Day
APOD is simply cool.
Here are some of my favorites over the past year:
A Blue Crescent Moon from Space
Mysterious Spokes in Saturn's Rings
A Mysterious Hexagonal Cloud System on Saturn (This one has me puzzled)
A Visit from Atlantis
Looking Back at an Eclipsed Earth
Shuttle Plume Shadow Points to Moon
Dust Sculptures in the Rosette Nebula (I've collected hundreds of nebula pics)
Sombrero Galaxy Across the Spectrum
Analemmas: Ukraine - Temple of Zeus - Of The Moon - The Tholos - Ancient Nemea - Mars
And today's: At the Edge of Victoria Crater (Go for it, you cute little robot!)
Bible Gateway
What a great reference tool! It is much faster than using one of my concordances, and give me the tools needed to reference scripture for blog posts.
Aside from the internet, I use computers quite a bit to create videos, music, and odd pictures.
I had an internet account in 1992 at Portland State University. I told a friend:"The internet will never amount to anything."
I admit, I was wrong. At the time it was clumsy (the only browser I had available were Gophers, and the Mosaic came along and it got easier), and I believer there were only 350 or so sites available (mostly university catalogues, bulletin boards, and government sites).
I use computers a great deal for work... organizing my lessons, saving documents, writing proposals, keeping track of events and kids, and grades and all sorts of things.
But what I like to do the most is think with it. I use it to think out loud... to talk to myself and let folks like you listen in on my odd little ramblings.
I use it to pray "out loud" for myself, my family, and my friends. I use it to connect odd ideas together and to hone my writing skills.
And sometimes I just let myself ramble, like I am doing right now. It's a powerful tool, one that opens the world to new ideas, fresh information. It may well be the most democratizing force in the world today.
But, it also takes up a lot of my time... which reminds me... I've got to go check on Jeremiah now. Isaac is on his way to a Christian Youth convention in Florida right now, Life, and Mom's at work.
So enough of staring at this glowing screen for now... I've got to get back to being a dad.
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