Missed connection in India

I had to call India today and I dreaded it.

Actually, I had to call Dell Computers because I need a new CD-ROM drive, but, like many (most?) technology-based companies, Dell has moved its customer service offices to India. Whenever I talk to someone there, it’s a struggle for a variety of reasons. The progressive, inclusive part of my brain wants to be open to discussing my computer issues with them. S/he obviously needs the work, one hopes s/he’s getting paid well (I don’t have time today to go into the fact that jobs are being lost in the U.S. because of this exportation of labor), and every customer service rep is very sincere as s/he tries to help me. But it’s all very forced. They’ve probably been coached on how to respond to customers, been given some instruction on how to make small talk, and attempts are made at humor or empathy, but it’s kind of a hollow conversation and I hang up feeling frustrated.

I suppose I feel that way whenever I don’t make a connection with someone in a conversation, especially if he or she is a person of faith. We both call ourselves “Christian,” strive to follow Jesus in our daily walk and claim him as Lord, but our vocabulary and our viewpoints are a little (sometimes a lot) different. That can be frustrating, too, because we’re both probably thinking, why can’t that person just believe the same things I do? Does s/he know s/he’s wrong? The woman from India probably thought the same thing about me today as she heard my sighs of frustration and less-than-friendly tone over the phone. Building relationships, even superficial ones, can be hard.

There Goes the Neighborhood

Throughout my life, there has always been a house in whatever neighborhood I was living in that drew scorn from the neighbors. It might have been because the owners or tenants didn't keep their house very clean or because they were poor and "not like us." Whatever the reason, it was a good lesson for me on what exactly Jesus might have meant when he told us to actually love our neighbor, even those neighbors who don't cut their grass or have old appliances in their yard.

Our current home had the same issue, though not any more. There was a house in the neighborhood in desperate need of an extreme makeover: the yard was out of countrol, they had Christmas ornaments up year-round, and they had at least a dozen cats running around, too. Living on the North Shore as we do, this house stuck out even more. I kind of liked it, though, (well, except for the cats) because it passed for some diversity in the neighborhood. A few weeks ago, however, the family moved out and it was only a matter of time before the house was torn down and a behemoth of a house took its place, especially since it was on a corner lot. Sure enough, yesterday the destruction started. There's a "sold" sign in front with a rendering of what the new house will look like. I heard it went for around $1.5 million, which isn't outrageous in this area since new houses usually start at $750K-$1 million. It's big and perfect with a putting-green lawn. I'm sure the new family will be pleasant enough. They'll have no cats. They'll probably have a lawn service. All of these things mean property values go up and that is how it should be, isn't it?

I guess I'm not in that camp. I'll miss the house, eyesore that it was. It's hard enough living in this area and being out of touch with a significant segment of society that doesn't have what we have. In a few weeks, a new house will make it even harder.

Thanksgiving pies

I have no way of knowing how my wife feels today. I know people mean well (I confess to doing this, too) whenever they say, "I know how you feel," even when it seems like they're going through a similar situation, but nobody can ever really, really know how another person feels. Those unique pains and joys, though, are gifts.

It's been a little more than two months since Anne's mom died and Thanksgiving is tomorrow and her mom should be baking pies right about now. That was her task and it was her gift. Pies for Thanksgiving. Pies that she would take down to Ft. Wayne, Indiana, where her children and her children's families would spend time with her sister and her sister's children and their families. Over 48 hours, they would spend time out at the bonfire and talk and drink wine and listen to a ghost story and laugh and eat pies. But Anne is making pies this year, along with her sister. She's following her mother's recipe, which I saw on our counter over lunchtime. Her mom sent it to Anne and Anne's siblings a couple years ago via e-mail and there were the specific instructions from what kind of apples to choose (Jonathans) to how long to let it cool. Her sign-off was, "I love you all."

Anne has been peeling green apples all day to get ready. Green apples, the tart kind, the bittersweet kind. You see where I'm going with this. Tomorrow may be more bitter than sweet as her mother's memory will be everywhere. There will be laughter I'm sure and sniffly noses, too, as we share stories and compare notes on memorable thanksgiving with mom/Aunt Gail. The meal may taste different without her there. Tears and turkey probably make an odd mix. But there will be pie.

Generous with change

I like to think I'm a generous person. I/we tithe to the church. I/we support other non-profits like our alma maters, NPR, various cancer organizations, Bread for the World, among others. But when it comes to the small stuff, I'm sometimes a little cheap. I probably too often ignore tip jars and consider it a hassle to tip some in the service industry (like the person who carries my suitcase 5 feet or the person who retrieves my umbrella in the coat check room). That may make me a cheapskate or, worse, insensitive, but maybe after today I will change.

Today was a kind of unofficial kick-off to the whole holiday season for me. The last three years or so, I've participated in the Potbelly's food drive, which means if a person brings in three non-perishable food items for Second Harvest, you get a free sandwich (I'm partial to the "Wreck"). I was buying three cans of soup (the good stuff) to take in and a wave of generosity came over me and I decided to buy a box of mac and cheese, as well. My "generosity" was rewarded. Not only did I get my sandwich, but the guy gave me a free drink, too, because I brought in four things, not just three.

I can't always expect to be rewarded like that for any small altruism I may exhibit, but, for some reason, it convicted me a bit to be a little more giving in my daily life. Not just with change for the coffee shop server, but in other ways, too. Maybe a smile for the Walgreen's cashier who doesn't get to have a tip jar or a "good morning" to people I come across while running (most people have heads down with earphones on). All of these things won't do anything about making sure Congress doesn't cut programs to those in need or housing earthquake victims in Pakistan. Those take a different kind of courage and effort. But while hopefully doing those things, I can't ignore that grace can be amazing in simple ways.

Blowin' in the wind

Each season has its own sounds and the crunch of leaves is perhaps the pinnacle sound of fall. It's getting hard to hear the crunch these days, however, over the sound of the loud hum of leaf blowers.

I can be anti-technology when it's convenient for me and leaf blowers seemed to be taking away a nice tradition of leaf raking. However, I came home on Saturday and Anne eagerly asked me to look out in the backyard. It looked like someone had been doing some raking and that's when she told me that our neighbor had loaned us his leaf blower--Anne appeared to be a quick convert (It's a lot of fun!). I was leery, but agreed to try it on Monday. My reaction was mixed. I will confess that the blower makes gutter cleaning much, much easier. I don't have much of a soft spot for cleaning the cold black muck out of my gutters and the blower got rid of that in no time.

I wasn't overly impressed, though, with the blower on the actual lawn. When I tried blowing the leaves out from behind bushes, it just seemed to blow them to a different spot behind the bushes and I would have to do it again. Blowing the leaves in the open lawn saved a little time, I guess, but it lacks the satisfaction of a rake. With a rake, you feel like you're accomplishing something. With a blower, you're really just making noise, blowing the leaves into the street, maybe blowing them into another neighbor's lawn so he or she has to deal with it. Your neighbor, in turn, gets his/her blower out and blows the leaves right back. Really, then, a blower comes close to breaking the love thy neighbor commandment because how neighborly is it to blow leaves in his or her yard? Consider me, then, a blower agnostic. I'm not sure if I really believe in it or not.

Of course, as much as I wax on about the joy of raking, perhaps my favorite verse in relation to this activity is tied to the parable that Jesus tells about an "enemy" who comes and plants weeds in a field in the middle of the night. The slaves of this household want to pull the weeds. But the owner of the field essentially says, "Let them be." You can argue, of course, that this parable is about the kingdom of heaven. I say it's also about letting leaves stay on the ground.

Learning from our Jewish friends

We had a unique and Spirit-filled worship last Sunday (one hopes, of course, that our service is always Spirit-filled) as we welcomed 60 or so people from Lakeside Congregation, a local Reform synagogue, to our service. Their rabbi, Isaac Serotta, gave the message. Ike and I have established a neat relationship over the last couple of years and this exchange is a fruit of that relationship. I (and others from my church) will be going to Lakeside on Jan. 20 to for the second part of this exchange.

We had a typical service, at Ike's encouragement, including communion which we hope was a way to give our Jewish neighbors some idea of what we do on Sunday. The people from Lakeside seemed to be appreciative of our hospitality. As people were going through the "sermon line" (when people made their way by Ike and me, shaking hands, giving nice comments about the service, etc.), one older gentleman stopped and thanked me for the service. I gave him my token, "It was our pleasure, we're so glad you could come" response, but he held onto my hand, and was silent as if he tried to muster up words and just couldn't. In that brief exchange, I sensed a real appreciation of what we tried to do, but also at least a few untold pains and prejudices that he may have experienced in his long life.

As a white, married, Protestant male with children, I am pretty much always in the majority and, in a sense, always in a position of power. I have little idea of what prejudice is. I can read about it, watch movies, listen to stories and all of that is necessary and helpful. But I'll never know it at its core unless I experience it myself. The important thing is what I will do with my standing in this society. The exchanges like the one we had on Sunday are great, but it's only a beginning. I pray for the courage to do more and stand up to others who have power when prejudice and injustice is evident. Even these words that I type will be hollow if I simply live a life of nice intentions. Intentions must transform into expectations.

Catching leaves, dude

I was pushing my son in the stroller yesterday and we made our way through a large park near our house. As I looked ahead, I saw two teen-age boys running around, diving on the ground, laughing up a storm. Both had longish hair and seemed to be acting pretty juvenile (which, of course, makes sense since that's what they are). My first reaction when I saw them, though, was, "Hmmph, slackers." But then I got closer and when I did, I felt pretty stupid because they were engaging in an activity that has got to be centuries old. They were chasing leaves. They were looking up at leaves that were falling off trees and running around trying to catch them before they fell to the ground. True statement heard: "Got one, dude!"

They paid little attention to me as I walked by, as it should be. I don't know why, but this scene gave me a little hope for the future (I suppose it's every generation's responsibility to cast aspersions on younger generations and wonder about the future of our country/world/society). I figured these guys would be spending their time transfixed by video games and maybe later on that afternoon, they did. But on this particular day, at that moment, they were doing something so simple and so silly and they were having a ball doing it.

Why, oh why, do I make assumptions? Why do I label people upon a first impression? To make it easier on myself? You would think having spent some time in the Bible that I'd learn my lesson. God almost always chooses the least likely people to get his point across. But that fact is as difficult to grasp as chasing a leaf, falling from a tree, blown by the wind.

Mourning my mother-in-law (archives)

From the archives, Sept. 21, 2005

I’ve felt a little off since last Tuesday, Sept. 13. My mother-in-law died on that day, sooner than anyone anticipated. She battled cancer for a few years and the doctors told her in July that she had months to live, but we assumed it would be several months rather than less than two.
It still seems a little surreal that she’s gone and if I ponder it too much, the emotional weight is too much to bear. This is my first real experience of grief in losing a loved one. In my almost-eight years of ministry, I’ve never had a parishioner die a real tragic death. In my personal life, I’ve never had a close friend or family member die prematurely. Three of my grandparents are still alive, in fact, which, I guess, is the advantage of having young parents.
One thing that strikes me is the number of people who ask what they can do. That’s a natural reaction. It’s something that I say when I express my condolences and offer comfort. We want so much to help ease pain and if there’s something we can actually do, so much the better. But there really isn’t. Prayers are obviously welcome and needed. But what I usually tell people when I have my pastor hat on is to call the one who mourns a month or two later and invite them to lunch or a movie or whatever. Ask them then, after the deluge of sympathy has subsided, how they are doing. If they say, fine, ask them again. They may very well be fine, but they may also need some prodding. And then the only thing you can do, but it is such a profound thing, is just to sit with them and be. Listen to them. Try to stay away from pithy Hallmark quotations. Avoid talking about yourself for a time. Just listen, offer them a tissue, and tell them you will be there for them. That is how God’s comfort comes through in the world. Not necessarily in inspired words, but in the intimacy of human contact.

Fri., Oct. 28, 2005--Being a good fathusbander

Our daughter woke up around 10 p.m. last night complaining of a stinging pain in her private parts (yes, yes, I know, I could say "vagina," but she may read this one day and be unbelievably embarrassed). We tried various things to ease the pain, but what finally helped an hour later was Caroline taking a baking soda bath with Anne. When Anne came to bed, I told her she did some good mothering and she reciprocated by saying I did some good fathering, but any impartial observer would note that I had very little direct contact with Caroline.

It wasn't that I didn't want to. I offered to hold her, to scratch her back, to get her dolls, to get her some crackers, but Caroline's answer to pretty much everything I offered was a shake of the head, a tear-soaked voice that cried "Mommy," and a look that pretty much told me to not come near her. It doesn't take long for a father to get used to that so I'm way beyond feeling slighted. What I did do at 10:30 was remember a 24-hour "NurseLine" that we have access to through our health insurance. Anne called, talked to the nurse for a few minutes, and got, among other ideas, the baking-soda bath idea. So, when Anne complimented by fathering skills, I quickly realized that part (much?) of good fathering is good husbanding. So far in our parenting, Anne is the driver much of the time and I'm the pit crew. Instead of changing tires and fixing an engine, I offer diapers, phone numbers, and neck rubs. I'll climb into the parenting car for a spin from time to time, but Anne is the preferred driver, no question about it. I will have more time behind the wheel (almost done with the race-car metaphor) in the future I'm sure, but for now, it's kind of neat to learn from her.

Thurs., Oct. 27, 2005--Baseball for girls

As I was listening to all of the responses to the White Sox victory last night, I was struck by the number of broadcasters who kept saying that this is something that grandfathers, fathers, and sons will always remember and share together. A couple of things ran through my head.

First, if what these broadcasters say is true (and I don't doubt that it is), what is it about baseball that creates this bond? Men tease women about weepy "chick flicks," but there are more than a few men who get choked up by the final scene in "Field of Dreams" when Roy's dead father comes out of the cornfield for one last game of catch. Maybe other sports create these memories (football games in the backyard, shooting baskets at the hoop on the garage), but baseball is the model. I think about games of catch with my dad as I'm sure he does with his dad and so on. When you play catch, it's usually warm, it's an activity that doesn't take a huge amount of skill, and you have to face each other. Ah, I think that might be it. There aren't many activities when a father and a son stand in front of one another and actually have to look at each other as they throw and catch, throw and catch. The father may notice his son growing up, the son wonders if he'll be like his father. They may talk, but usually the only sound is the pop of mitt, which is usually the only sound that's needed.

Second, should this be an exclusively male thing? I'll always have wonderful memories of taking my daughter to her first baseball game, which was, as a matter of fact, at U.S. Cellular Field, where the White Sox play. The White Sox, however, weren't the ones playing. This was last year when the Florida Marlins were forced to find other places to play their home games because of a hurricane. Because of some scheduling quirk, they played two games against the Montreal Expos in Chicago. It was great because tickets were cheap, you could sit wherever you wanted (meaning Caroline, who was 3 at the time, could get up and move if she wanted to), and the baseball was still major-league quality. So, yes, fathers and sons will enjoy this memory. But don't forget the mothers and daughters, too.

Wed., Oct. 26, 2005--Prayer in school

I was talking about prayer with the children during the children's sermon last Sunday and was trying to emphasize to them that one can pray to God any way, any time, and anywhere. I started by describing a litany of postures and places where they could pray (of course, one boy had to verify that one could pray in the bathroom which set off a chain reaction of giggles). I asked them if one could pray in different places and and occasions and they would all answer, "Yes!" and then I asked if they could pray in school and there wasn't even a hesitation: "No!" The whole congregation erupted in laughter, knowing that the issue of prayer in school is a loaded one.

I was really taken aback by the unanimity of the children that school isn't a place for prayer. Now, I'm usually on the more progressive side when it comes to church-state issues, but I must say that I was saddened that children might pick up on a message that states that there must be no prayer in school whatsoever. I'm not calling for teachers to start leading an "Our Father," but do children believe that God is only limited to certain places (like church and home) and does not belong in others (like school or, say, the mall)? Is it a matter of their inability to grasp the wide varieties of prayer and how one can indeed pray in school (one can pray constantly, for that matter) or is it when they think of prayer, they think only of guided, spoken prayer? I didn't have time to pursue this with them, but I tried to let them know that one can pray 24/7 no matter where they are and no matter who tells them they can't.

Tues., Oct. 25, 2005

From the archives (Sept. 22, 2005)

It figures that as I write yesterday about the need to simply be with someone rather than worrying about doing something, I get a call yesterday to be somewhere and I end up actually *doing* something that helped immensely. I went to visit an older couple from our church who recently moved from their home of 40 years into an apartment. He has Alzheimer’s which, as anyone who has cared for someone with this disease knows, can be stressful at times. I don’t have a ton of experience in dealing with folks with dementia or Alzheimer’s, but I know enough to be patient, listen to stories told repeatedly, and encourage them to talk about things they do remember. I did that with him yesterday, but it wasn’t until his wife mentioned that he loves his records that I discovered my purpose that day. She was unable to hook her stereo up, which consisted simply of a receiver and a turntable. We went into the room where the stereo was located, I was able to connect her speakers and the turntable to the receiver, she went to get some albums, and a few minutes later, a sound I hadn’t heard in a while came through the speakers. I didn’t buy my first compact disc until I was in college so I’m more than familiar with records, both 45s and 33s. It had been close to 20 years, however, since I heard that familiar pop of the turntable arm and the soft hisses and scratches of a needle on vinyl. Soon Benny Goodman came through the speakers and the man I was visiting with was transformed. He was listening so intently to the clarinet, horns, and piano of this jazz combo. He’d wince slightly when the record when scratch, but I could tell he was in a place that brought back wonderful memories. As I stood there listening with the both of them, I realized that moment would be a wonderful memory for me, too.
I’m sure my being a “pastor” and listening and comforting was helpful, but it was my modest skills as a stereo technician that really helped. I was able to do and be at the same time.

Fri., Oct. 21, 2005--Idealism from 10-year-olds

Idealism can be a great thing because it can push us to do or experience things we might not consider. The downside of idealism, however, is that the actual experience might not match our expectation and we can walk away frustrated, which may squash our idealism a little bit. Our church has started a new venture of tutoring children at a local elementary school, mostly working with children of Mexican immigrants. I first went a couple weeks ago and I was afraid I had set my expectations too high. Privileged people (like myself) tend to do that when working with people coming from a different socio-economic background. We have these visions of pulling people up and being their saviors. That’s a pretty poor attitude, but sometimes we can’t stop ourselves. My first experience a in the classroom wasn’t great (see blog on Oct. 7), mainly because there was a substitute teacher the day I went and she wasn’t too sure what to do with me. So, I sat. I went back yesterday. Score a point for idealism. I worked with two 10-year-old girls who speak little English. I worked with them on the English words for clothing plus a little conversational English, too (“My name is…, My address is…). It was a wonderful 45 minutes. They were delightful, eager to learn, and also patient with me as I tried my high-school Spanish on them. I certainly hope I don’t look consider myself a person who can “save” them. If, eventually, I can be a kind of friend, a friend who tried to explain the difference between pants and jeans, I will be grateful.

Thurs., Oct. 20, 2005--Lamentation

Many churches with contemporary worship begin with a few (or more than a few) praise songs. These songs are upbeat, cheery, and start the worship with a little kick. I always wonder, though, about those folks who walk into church and really don't feel much like praising at that moment. Giving praise to God is something we should do, obviously, but, if we're honest with ourselves, we're not always in that frame of mind and guitars and drums and the group of Seven Smiling Singers might not change that.

I've heard of a few churches that are brave enough to start with a lament. Now, that brings its own problems. Someone walking in ready to be energetic and praise God probably won't be too thrilled with singing a dirge-like song. At least it's honest, though, because it recognizes our range of emotions.

There's nothing like a good lament, but we're usually a little too proper with our emotions to let our anguished feelings out. As much as it pains me to admit this, we could probably take a few lessons from my 4-year-old daughter. Lately she's been giving some top-notch 10-minute lamentations a couple times a day. She repeatedly expresses the reason for her grief, she has a strong desire to be held, and tears usually accompany this display. Granted, it gets tiring for my wife and I (especially my wife since my daughter usually wants to be with her), but Caroline is an excellent lamenter.

That may be the problem with us middle-class folks. We don't know how to lament when the mood strikes, when we're overwhelmed with what goes on in the world, when our loved one has cancer, when we have little reason to exude joy. It would do us some good, I think, to be able to express our grief, be held by a loved one, and shed a few tears. Maybe I'll make that a New Year's Resolution or save it for Lent next year. I've got to work on my laments.

Tues., Oct. 16, 2005

Mary Jo, our church's family ministries coordinator, voiced today what may be the case for a growing number of Chicagoans: She's sick of the Sox. It's everywhere in the Chicago area. Yesterday as I was driving on the freeways, the big electronic board telling drivers how long their commute is going to be also congratulated the White Sox for making it to the World Series. All of this discussion brings up an important point about bandwagons. Many Chicago baseball fans insist that you have to choose. You're either a Cub fan or a Sox fan. You can't be both. Since I'm not a native, I'm able to cheer for both (as long as the Reds aren't still in it) so I'll be watching the World Series with my White Sox cap and encouraging my daughter to wear her White Sox pajamas.

Some Christians also believe in the bandwagon concept, meaning you need to be a Christian for the long haul. It irritates more than a few that Jesus has given a loophole that gives people a chance to come on board at the last minute no matter what. The eminent philosopher Bart Simpson once had this exchange with a traveling preacher named Brother Faith:

Bart: Excuse me, Brother Faith? I've gotta know -- how did you *really* get the bucket off my Dad's head?
Brother Faith: Well, I didn't, son. You did. God gave you the power.
Bart: Really? Huh. I would think that He would want to limit my power.
Faith: [laughs] Oh, yes, Lord. When I was your age, I was a hellraiser, too. [holds up Bart's slingshot] My slingshot was my cross. But I saw the light, and changed my wicked ways.
Bart: I think I'll go for the life of sin, followed by a presto-change-o deathbed repentance.
Faith: Wow, that's a good angle. [contemplates for a second] But that's not God's angle. Why not spend your life helping people instead. Then you're also covered in case of sudden death.
Bart: Full coverage? Hmmm.

God wants us to have full coverage, of course. But grace is a bandwagon, meaning there's room for everyone at all times. Even Cubs fans. Even Sox fans.

Wed., Oct. 12, 2005

Whenever we go to some sort of gathering where I meet new people, I always find it amusing/interesting to gauge people's response to my vocation. Sometimes people will joke about having to watch their language (ha, ha) and occasionally I can see the person's brain going crazy trying to figure out a way to get away from me, but more often than not, people are fascinated, kind of like how one would be treated if they were from another country. If I were to say I'm from New Zealand, I can imagine the questioner saying, "Really?!?" I get the same response when I say I'm a pastor. For one thing, younger folks (can I consider myself--at 37--as young?) are not real common in the clergy. I think people expect gray hair. For another thing, the whole topic of religion and spirituality is something that people are eager to talk about whether they go to church regularly or not. I was reminded of that these last few days. Our church is putting together, for lack of a better phrase, a marketing plan and one of the things we wanted to do was ask a variety of folks simple questions like, How would you describe your faith? and What do you like about your church/What would you want from a church? I took the lazy/efficient way out and e-mailed a bunch of acquaintances these questions and I've been surprised by the e-mails I've received. I was concerned that I wouldn't get much response, but it's been a good return plus I'm getting responses from people I wouldn't have expected, especially from people I don't know real well. I can sense a real struggle in answering some of the questions that seem simple. When you think about it, though, being asked to describe your faith is not so simple.

I think part of my calling (in my own self-depracating way) is to attract certain people who have been put off by the church for one reason or another. If that is the case, I couldn't be more pleased.

Friday, Oct. 7, 2005

I was a fifth-grader yesterday for the first time in 27 years or so. I've decided to volunteer as a tutor at a local elementary school for an hour a week as another way of getting out and about in the community. There are quite a few folks from my church who are also doing this and we'll mainly be working with students from immigrant families, most of whom are from Mexico.
I showed up for class yesterday and it was memorable for so many reasons, but I probably shouldn't get into all the details here. But it was surreal to be transported back to that age. Fifth grade was actually a pretty great year for me in the little town of Eldora, Iowa. I had some great friends, had my first real "girlfriend," and just enjoyed the heck out of life. I'm veering into "things-were-better-in-my-day" territory, but things are defintely different. Instead of rows, students sit in clusters of 4 desks that face each other, which seems to me to be like guiding Cookie Monster into an Oreo factory. Also, everybody has a water bottle and it's a little more relaxed as far as students getting up and walking around (there was also a substitute there, which may have had something to do with it. Subs are in a no-win situation).
I also attracted some attention because I was new and different and 10- and 11-year-olds like new and different. When the students first walked in, it was like I was a display model at a department store. The students would come up, look at me in interesting ways, ask me questions (who are you? obviously the most often asked), and I think at least one touched my arm to verify that I was real. It's going to be an interesting experience, I think, but one thing was pretty clear when I left. I'm not cut out to be a teacher at that level and I am so thankful that there are those who have those gifts.

Tuesday, Oct. 4, 2005

I went apple picking last Saturday with my family at Apple Holler, which is just over the Illinois-Wisconsin border. It's tailor-made for Chicago-area families who want to have that outdoorsy experience while still having access to a few amenities for the kids. It was also a very warm day, as well. The apples taste great, but, all in all, it wasn't my favorite fall memory.
You have to make your way through what's essentially a farmer's market carnival (pony rides, food stands, etc.) to get to the orchards and it was a pretty crowded day. I think the thing that bothered me, though, wasn't anything that the Apple Holler people did (all of whom, I should say, were very nice), but I have this thing about the weather. I like it to be normal. There's a small part of my brain that is a little concerned about global warming and the mild winters we've had the last few years make me nervous. I'm sure there are countless meterologists who would say that global warming has nothing to do with it, but it's my fear, nonetheless. So, when I go apple picking on Oct. 1, I want there to be a little bite in the air. Give me 65 degrees or so. Not 85. Not shorts and t-shirts. Oh, dear. I've become an autumnal Scrooge.

Friday, Sept. 30, 2005

I've joked to my parishioners that I'm in my "zone" between 9 a.m. and 10 a.m. each morning. That's when I do my sermon crafting. "Crafting," of course, being a fancy word for reading, writing, and agonizing. I don't know what happens to me during that hour. I suppose I try to be focused on the task at hand, but it also makes me a little irritable if someone crashes my zone. Our family ministries coordinator did that yesterday. She knocked on my closed door, apologized profusely for interrupting, and asked if I could help her unload some computers from her car. I've been thinking about compassion a lot lately so you would think that I would use this opportunity to jump up and immediately help. You would think. But I think I put on my best put-out look and asked, "Now?" as if to say, "You realize I'm in the zone and am not to be interrupted!" Yes, now, she needed my help. As I unloaded the computers, I reflected on my childishness. I'm preaching this week on how putting Christ at the center of our lives affects the choices we make, both big and small. I was given a test case in the midst of that preparation and failed miserably. I suppose I need to, pardon the cliche, literally practice what I preach.