ALL FOR ONE! (and It’s All About Me)

Disclaimer:

I’m not a Democrat.

I’m not a Republican, either.

In college frat terms I’m a GDI – (PG version:  Gosh Darn Independent)

Another Disclaimer:

I believe people have the right to bear arms.

I also believe some people shouldn’t be allowed to bear arms.

I believe all have the right to happiness perhaps through childbearing.

I also believe that some people shouldn’t bear children.  Honey Boo Boo?  *eye roll*

For the last 15 days I’ve had to reconcile the best laid plans and Murphy’s Law about those same plans.  And, admittedly, it sucks.  I read an article the other day about a woman who thought having kids was the worst mistake she’d ever made.  She said, “Like parasites, they took from me and they didn’t give back”.  My inner voice does not resonate with this tackless outburst from this parent.  Matter of fact, my love for my little sickling has grown exponentially (geometrically – just for Jeff) over these past two weeks, like I’ve never imagined it could.  The feeling I have for my near 19-week old daughter-with-the-feeding-tube-but-getting-better-slowly far outweighs the meaning of a simple faaaantastic.

Yet I am disappointed at missing a good couple weeks of sabbatical leave.  Sabbath, a time for intentional rest, isn’t happenin’.  But, like I’d like to say to a some people I know, get over it, right?  Right.  Kind of like when people can’t wait for someone to show up to either finish or remove laundry from a dryer, so they just take it out and leave it an a damp heap on top of the dryer with their stuff running inside.  Nice. (I left a note…and the door to the dryer open, too.  Just kidding on the latter of the two.  An eye for an eye only leaves the world blind.)

I’m wrestling like Jacob with this sabbatical angel who really wants to know my name…who I really am.  I’ve begun to say that name, and just like Jacob, I’ll walk away with a little gimpy.

So life doesn’t circle around me as much as it used to.  Having a sense of this fact has helped me get a grip on my emotions for cancelled plans – two MLS soccer matches, two RV parks in Washington, one in Montana, and a whole 1,400 mile re-route yet to be finagled.  Water under the bridge.  Unless you’re in Grand Rapids, Michigan, right now where water flows over the bridges.

Interesting… Very interesting. Gun permits before ownership? What a novel idea.

In all of life we see similar instances of injustice on the self, only to be awakened to the reality that our own ego doesn’t like what’s happening to us.  For example, this whole debate of gun control is out of control.  It’s gone from understanding what it means to care for others to preserving the self…out of fear and in the face of all whose lives are fragmented by the devastation lack of gun control has left in its wake.  See photo to the left.

Having lived in an area for nearly 6 years which has little control over who buys and has access to guns and having seen, as a Volunteer Police Chaplain, the suicides committed via guns, I’m even more convinced that people are more concerned about being right than being safe.  After all, getting what I want, over an above the needs of others that live in this same world, makes sense to me! (Last sentence laden with heavy sarcasm.)

Gun control also bleeds into a form of religious control.

Hypothetical question:  “Can I make you angry?”

Now, the italics should give you the correct answer.  Truth is this – I can’t make you angry.  Having said that, I can sure push your buttons and provoke an answer out of you that would please me if I were that kind of a person.  Vise versa you can not make me angry.  Something you do or say I may choose to become angry with, but that my choice.

This is where religion loses its relevance.  If I’m unhappy with a pastor, I can simply get up without a word and go to a new church, perhaps one that reflects my beliefs and not those of a well-studied, even scholarly minister.  After all, my needs are more important than the rest of the world’s and that makes sense to me!  (Again…sarcasm)

Sadly, the line that begins, “A deeply religious…” speaks volumes.  Even sadder, Grand Rapids, Michigan is my home town.  No one should ever have to feel so bound by an errant view of “biblical marriage.”

So what happens if a pastor may have a different opinion?  What happens when a preacher goes into a church and, heaven forbid, asks them to act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with (their) God when all they want to do is worship the organ, the hymnals from 1957, the un-padded pews, the memorials most everybody walks by without reading?

They leave.

What happens when a pastor preaches and encourages his/her members to work for justice for the marginalized, even though the sight of these people may make a majority of them squirm?

They leave.

All to easy any given member can get up from the pew, head to the nearest exit, and then bitch (because I can think of no other diplomatic word than the verb to bitch) to everyone in the neighborhood about how their pastor sucks and is a “false man of God,” because they know this for fact and they’ve all been through the rigors of an accredited theological seminary.  Oh, the pettiness of the Church.

Of course, I realize it’s horribly difficult to place an accurate meaning on scripture when it’s been so heavily scrutinized under a microscope for eons.  Still, Jesus’ prayer in John 17 paints a bigger picture – so that they may all be one.  Perhaps the writer of John left out that line filled with righteous indignation.  You know, the one that completes the verse with, “…unless you like guns, hate the preacher, dislike gay people…etc.”  But then the writer would have had to leave that out three times in the same passage.  Highly unlikely.

This two-week and one-day endeavor in hospitals has left me with a foul taste in my mouth.  Most of it from the pricey hospital food.  The rest of that foul taste is me getting over it.  And I will.

There are many things that life tries to teach us if we stayed and listened.  In this case, I don’t know what they are yet.  I’m not a big fan of the whole God-does-everything-for-a-reason theology.  If that’s the case, I think we’d have billions more atheists.  (Although, we are working in that direction!)

This face. I LOVE this face.
LOVE WINS.
(being in the UCC, I believe that is the only place a punctuation period should exist.)

Let’s start with love.  Love is a good starting point when trying to sift through life’s crap.  As Miracle Max said in the Gospel of The Princess Bride, “Sonny, true love is the greatest thing, in the world-except for a nice MLT – mutton, lettuce and tomato sandwich, where the mutton is nice and lean and the tomato is ripe they’re so perky, I love that.”

The Apostle Paul follows that with, “If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.  And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.  If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.  Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth.  It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” (Italics and bold are my own.)

Love is patient and kind.  And it endures.  To endure means you’re in for the long haul.  Are you?  I am.  Because it’s not all about me.  There’s another 600 Billion I think about.

 

Love Me a Good Roller Coaster

I love a good roller coaster.  I lived in eastern central Florida for four years, close enough to enjoy the amusement parks and their entry fees and long enough to realize you’d need to visit all the theme parks in Florida to equate to one in the midwest – Cedar Point.

Don’t blow your top.
A view of Mount St. Helens from the Hospital.

Universal Studios Island of Adventure has one or two.  Sea World has one.  Disney World has one or two.  Busch Gardens has beer… I mean, two or three good ones.  But Cedar Point is the end all, be all of roller coaster, puke-your-guts-out glory amusement.

I took a group of Coloradans to Cedar Point.  Meh, they first thought, we have Elitch Gardens!   I told them to just wait and see.  On the ride home from Cedar Point they wouldn’t shut up about how lousy Elitch Gardens had just become.  Cedar Point, HELL YEAH! became the motto for the rest of the trip.

Life presents itself in a variety of roller coasters.  Some are kiddie rides – boring, unless you’re 5 years of age when 30 feet in the air seems like 30,000.  Some are tilt-a-whirls – eat before you ride and you’ll be sure to lose your lunch.  Some are the heart-in-your-throat rides that you are glad you just had the chance to get off…until later, when you want to ride it again for the sheer thrill of it or the line is only 20-people long.  The others are like that except you don’t ride them ever again.  Cedar Point only has one of those for me.  That wooded one in the back.  The one that gave me an instant headache from the incessant shaking – like those machines that mix up paint.  I haven’t ridden that one again.  I don’t plan to, either.

I’m on one of those right now.  After 11 days in two hospitals and a doctor telling me there may be yet another week of hospital stay, I’ve got that headache that tells me I’m pretty much done with this ride.

If a lot of lava and ash was under St. Helens, what’s under the Hood? (Did you catch that one?)

Stop the ride.

I want to get off.

I’m going to vomit.

Of course, this is my own bowl of pits I’m spitting into.  This roller coaster of life hasn’t dealt me a blow like this before.

With all the serene beauty of this region and everything I’ve seen and experienced in this life, this little “kiddie ride” isn’t going to get me out of the amusement park.  There’s too much salt water taffy yet to be eaten.

My little girl is making baby step improvements.  For an impatient father, this isn’t going fast enough, indeed.  I’d like the doctors to prescribe something that propels healing into hyperdrive like the Top Thrill Drag Roller Coaster.  The ride lasts a whole 20 seconds long.  0 – 120 mph in three seconds.  ORDER UP!

What has helped keep me moderately calm are the virtual prayers, the family support of hundreds of immediate and distant relatives (hell, we’re all distant relatives, just ask Kevin Bacon), and the flashes of brilliant smiles my little girls shows here and there.

I keep thinking of the movie What About Bob? and baby steps.

Baby steps.  

Baby steps.

Cedar Point is big and the lines even bigger.  To wait sometimes 2 or more hours for a 20-second ride isn’t exactly efficiency, is it?

So, too, is life.  The thrill I’m seeking will come.  I do have to wait a bit, but I can handle it.  There are people all around me making sure I do handle it.  Holding my hand, praying, simply talking or listening.  They are all around.  Besides, Portland is a beautiful place.  Lots of great people and scenery to pass some of the hardest times, as you can see from the above photos.

Yeah, I’d like to get off this ride for its made me a little sick.  There are other ones I’d like to try.  Soon enough.

Soon enough.

(P.S. – for Portland roller coasters, simply attempt to drive the Portland area freeway system.  I understand building anything on the side of a mountain is difficult, but, holy crap, these engineers were either on acid or roller coaster freaks.)

These are the Days of Our Lives

This is getting old.  Actually, I am mentally over it.

It’s been a week.

I’m done…fried.

I can’t keep track of the adjustments of medications as they go from a drip to a bottle, back to a drip and back to a bottle again in varying amounts and consistencies.  They tell us that vomiting is okay.  Okay, but it doesn’t make it acceptable for a parent to watch it over and over again.  Darn it all to heck.

Yesterday I spent my 43rd birthday here, in a hospital room.  I also had another allergy attack that left my face drained in color and enthusiasm and hope.  Sneezing fits reminiscent of my previous post.  I’d sneeze ten to fifteen times, about 2 to 3 seconds in between.

Today I felt great, considering the allergy fits from the day before.

Still… I want out.  I want to leave this place with my wife, a healthy Sophie Ann, and our cat and do what we were doing before this all seemingly collapsed.

The impatience in me is getting the better of me.  Just a few moments ago my wife was in the hospital bathroom shower getting cleaned up.  The predictable happened.  My little girl had a fit that I couldn’t console.  After my wife was done, she did the job.  Again.

You just feel so completely helpless and useless all at the same time.  I feel my own breathing is only making the air filters need to be cleaned more frequently.  I try to be strong.  I’m just beat.  I’m frustrated.  I want out of this place.

I am trying to recall the passage the Pastor who visited us on Thursday read to us before prayer.  I can’t remember it.  I can’t find it.  I need it back.  Something about the worry and anxiety of today…

In each of us there is a line that is drawn.  For some the line is miles and miles away, the ability to endure is great.  For others, like myself, while I can endure physical pain the pain of seeing my child in discomfort is overpowering.

My greatest frustration is trying to live into the role I’ve feel I’ve been given.  Pastor.  There is something about that word that insinuates strength in the time of weakness.  I know, it’s more stereotypical than a reality.

Rob Bell wrote, “We plot. We plan. We assume things are going to go a certain way. And when they don’t, we find ourselves in a new place-a place we haven’t been before, a place we never would have imagined on our own.  It is the difficult and the unexpected, and maybe even the tragic, that opens us up and frees us to see things in new ways.  Many of the most significant moments in our lives come not because it all went right but because it all fell apart.  Suffering does that. It hurts, but it also creates”

I need to read that book again, but I don’t have it with me.  I get it.  I am struggling to exercise it.

What I am supposed to see in new ways?  What is this hospital situation creating?  (both of these questions are rhetorical)  The suffering part is more than in the open.  Both my wife and I have had our breakdowns.  Our little girl has had her share of discomfort.  More than some, less than others in this place.

Many have asked the question, “Why do bad things happen to good people?”  Several more have tried to answer this question.  A few have answered it with shallow theology leading to statements like a Westboro Baptist Church protest.  A few others have said what I typically say… I don’t know.

I don’t know why my little, sweet, innocent babe is suffering so.  I’ll never have that answer other than, at the moment, a potential milk protein allergy.  As I’ve said before  #%*$@!

There is no real answer for suffering.  It happens.  It happens to the best of people and it happens to the worst.  Really, I’m not defending the arrested suspect of the Boston Marathon bombing, but what suffering, if any, had he endured to lead to such action?  I know in my current suffering I want to throw this laptop clear through the window and watch it smash on the pavement below.  I know that if another person rudely accosted me for doing so that person would get more than an earful from me.  It may not be very intelligible, but it’s be more than an earful.

And that’s not pastoral at all.

There are a few things that I have to come to grips with.  Others must to.

First, I am human first, called and ordained into ministry second.  Without my wits in a stressful situation I’m prone to be less pastoral and more human – meaning, less able to control my emotions than I’d prefer.  I’m not going to go “postal” or anything, but the rage certainly boils occasionally beneath my skin.

Second, these are the days of our lives.  Everybody walks these hospital hallways at one time or another.  Weather we’re in the room with joy or across the hall with grief and frustration, we all walk these halls.

Lastly, I’m not in control and I wish, more than anything today, that I was.

I’ve used this blog to vent before.  I’m using it now.  Perhaps this is the constructive manner of “seeing things in new ways” that Bell was getting at.  I still don’t know for sure.

I do know this:  One thing I do see differently is the fragility of life in my daughter.  I know she’s absolutely helpless as an infant, totally dependent on her parents, as all newborns are.  Yet she was as healthy as a horse up to two weeks ago Thursday, when this all began.  At this same age I had spinal meningitis.  I know my own circumstances then placed my parents in a similar context.  They’re here in Portland for support, nearly reliving the same thing they went through 43 years ago.  I know Sophie doesn’t have spinal meningitis and, so far, no life-threatening diagnosis has been made.  But I feel for them as I do their granddaughter.

No one wants to see their child, grandchild, great-granchild, etcetera, suffer.

And no one should.  This hurts.  I wish it didn’t, but it does.  This is another day of my life.  Tomorrow I can hope and pray for better.  Better for my daughter, the victims of all our national and global tragedies, and all those who walk these hallways.

Best Laid Plans…

Day number 4 in the hospital with our little misses.

Sunday was an afternoon in the ER.  Monday through today in a room number 123 – a cubicle.  No, a cell.  No, wait… a closet.

Food is mediocre.  The best thing on the menu are two words that should never be placed together except when separated by the word “stuffed” – turkey bacon.  The staff is kind yet a little discombobulated.  Sometimes it good when the left hand knows what the right hand is doing and when its doing it.  Waiting until the patient has only just fallen asleep for some much-needed rest to re-enter the room to poke her for yet another blood draw is NOT communicating needs effectively for the health of the patient, or the sanity of what was once a rational father.

My worst complaint is the room…  I had to share a room like this with my older brother, Jon, growing up in a 3-bedroom, 1-bath ranch in west Michigan.  There was a bunk bed, a dresser, and a desk in that room.  It felt just right when I was that size.  Now, however, in a similar-sized room, about 8X10, I feel claustrophobic.  A rat in a cage.  An inmate.

Sleeping soundly, after being repeatedly poked and prodded…

Could be worse, I could have what my daughter has… which is something no one has yet to figure out.  “Probably a stomach virus” they say.

#$%@*&!

We arrived in this lovely Oregon harbor town of Hammond/Astoria last Saturday.  Sunday afternoon was the ER (which my wife, who works in a medical-related field tells me is now properly referred to as “ED” – Erectile Dysfunction?  Really?  Oh… that’s Emergency Department.  I still can’t say ED without giggling).  Monday was ED (hee, hee, hee) again followed by admission into our current residence of room 123.

Now the plan is to go to Portland, to further exhaust the gamut of pediatric testing at the Portland University Hospital.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thrilled about this.

I would do anything to change this expression back into…

This means we have to transport our infant.  In an ambulance.  For 2 hours.  To Portland.  I’m thinking, this should go well.

Then there’s the RV.  While we’re in this lovely park called Fort Stevens State Park (I highly recommend this to RV’ers), there is our cat to take care of along with considering that we’re to check out on Friday anyway.  Today is Wednesday.  Wednesday, with a trip to Portland and somehow move the RV to Portland, too.  We were supposed to drive another two hours north to Hoquaim, Washington.  I think that plan is a bust.

I really wanted to see more of this area.  I really wanted to see more of the Pacific coast on Highway 101.  I’m still gonna drive over this bridge here in town only if it means I have to drive back over it to get the RV to Portland, way too cool – It’s like a smaller version of the Mackinaw Bridge in northern Michigan.  Any drive like that in an RV has got to be entertaining to some degree.

…this one. Anything.

Point is, I’m extremely disappointed.  Frankly, I’m pissed.

This little hospital detour has sucked the “sabbath” right out of my sabbatical.  Best laid plans, right?

Instead of doing the things I wanted to do I am forced into something I really would dislike on any Facebook status.  And I own that.

I’m not going to be that guy and say, “screw it, I’m doing my own thing,” leaving behind my wife to be with my sick child all on her own.  No, I am sticking right here, bedside until someone has a decent answer or until I have to go back to the RV and feed the cat.  The latter of which is going to happen first.

To plan a 13-week RV trip with two adults, one 3-month old (tomorrow it’s officially 4-month old), and a neurotic cat was an endeavor no reasonable person would try to plan, or so I’ve been told…several times over.  We’re only 5 weeks in.  So far, so good, I’d say.  No real issues until this.

As I’m typing my poor little girl is sleeping by my side.  She appears more pale than an albino ginger.  The hardest part, there’s no diagnosis…and her cry is deadly.  What’s worse?  I can’t console her.

Just plain sick.

I’m hurting.  I’m hurting, yes, because my plans are forcibly being changed and not toward any good destination.  I had wanted to go to Portland last Sunday for the MLS Timbers match-up against San Jose (which they won – would’ve LOVED to have seen that!) but instead we stayed at home.  I was just recovering from that loss.  Now this.

I feel selfish.  I feel selfish because this was my trip, really.  I’m happy to spend it with family, just not like this.  I want my smiling little girl back so I can spy the school where Kindergarten Cop was filmed, or the places in Astoria where parts of Goonies was filmed.  Or the really cool lighthouse-looking structure I can see on my drive to and from the hospital, or even more of the beach area at low tide – with my daughter in her car seat attached to the Bob Stroller.

This is the hardest part about parenting I’ve only just discovered.  Not being able to do the things I really wanted to do.  You know what?  I wouldn’t trade it for the world, a billion bucks, and to see Donald Trump in a homeless shelter.

Best laid plans…

Finding My Own One-Eyed Willie

Somewhere just north of Florence, OR, on the 101.

Whoa… Before you all jump on the “HOLY SUGGESTIVE TITLE BATMAN” wagon.  I can explain.  We’re in Fort Stevens State Park in Hammond, Oregon, a hop, skip, and a jump from Astoria, the famed home of the Goonies.  If you recall any of the 1985 cult-following film starring Rudy…um, I mean, Samwise Gamgee…shoot… What’s his name?  Oh, yeah, Sean Astin.  Where was I again?  Oh, yeah, if you recall any of that film you’d remember that this troop of youngsters find a treasure map and go searching and (WARNING:  SPOILER ALERT!!) find it – the treasure of One-Eyed Willie.  Any of you who were thinking something suggestive, well… keep your mind out of the gutter.  This isn’t that kind of a blog.  Although, as I increase in age it may take a turn for the worst.

I am looking for my own treasure in life.  And I’ve found it – In the joys of family, my faith, travel, the people I meet (well, most of them), and in hearing rain fall on an RV.

You could say I’ve found something more impressive than One-Eyed Willie’s hoarded treasure.

This guy was going northbound, but his semi was on its driver’s side facing south. The trailer was on its passenger side…still facing north. And there was no “life-threatening” injuries… wow.  If only you could have seen the rig after they turned ip right-side up.  Holy…

I’m reminded of a short essay by Robert J. Hastings called, The Station.  Beyond all the goals, the achievements, the drive of some people to own expensive cars and fine real estate, is the simple joy of the trip.

Today, we were stuck for nearly 3 hours behind a wrecked semi on northbound Highway 101, just north of Florence.  Friends we met the night before at the RV park were also stopped – just in front of us.  Charlie and Joelle.  Nice folk.  You really do meet the nicest people at RV parks.  Although, I did meet a couple of sketchy ones, too, but they were still nice.

I thought I’d turn the RV around.  After all, we were pulled off the side of the road in a turn-out, made for larger and slower vehicles to pull off and allow the faster ones to pass by.  It’s an Oregon law.  Slow vehicles must pull off.  Mind you, I’m driving a 31 foot Jayco Greyhawk (pictured at the top of the blog) and towing a Honda Odyssey.  Total footage just over 45 feet.  Therefore, my turn radius is that of an aircraft carrier.  Not gonna happen.  Even my friend Charlie had a chuckle over that idea.

Another stream making it’s way into the Pacific. Our view while the wreck was being cleaned up. Not bad.

So, what to do?  I wasn’t motivated to unload the minivan, although there was a picturesque lighthouse I failed to snap a few photos of about three miles back that was tempting me beyond the powers of satan.

Another stopped pickup with a camper loaded on the bed stopped beside us.  They unloaded their cooking utensils and made breakfast.  Eggs and bacon…those bastards.  The smell wafting through the damp air made a bee-line for my nostrils.  I mentally shook my fist at them with a large grin on my face while dreaming of ways to nab a couple strips of that fine meat candy.

That didn’t happen either.  Instead it was a grilled cheese sandwich and Wavy Lays, with a couple of canned okra.

Oh, did I mention that all this was happening while my daughter was puking her guts out?  Yep, that too.  We stopped at an ER in Florence for some advice.  All looked okay, with only a few beginning signs of dehydration.  After a whopping 30 minutes in the ER (that is a total record for me in any medical office) we were discharged with instructions to return if the vomiting hasn’t subsided in 48 hours.  It’s been 27.  She’s still up-chucking.

But WHAT A GLORIOUS RIDE! (Note:  Some sarcasm may be in use)  Albeit a little faster than I had hope to take it due to the wreck delay.  I’m a little bummed as Highway 101 in Oregon has quickly become a #1 place to return to and drive…with a convertible…without a neurotic cat…with a non-barfing child…and my hot honey sitting beside me not stressing about said sick infant…and total sunshine in lieu of spotty rain clouds (The latter of which did make for some pretty pavement – seeing the blue sky reflecting off of wet pavement next to some of the greenest grass I’ve seen in years was pretty gnarly.  I had to use the word ‘gnarly’ as there are surf shops around here.)…and in a vehicle that does better than 7 MPG.

Just north of Girabaldi, OR, overlooking the Tillamook Bay area… Breath taking.

Before my train of thought completely derails, do you see what I mean?  The true joy of life, as Hastings wrote, is the trip.  And this has been one heckuva of a trip to date!  I can’t wait for the remaining 7,000 miles!  Really!  Word up!

We could have been stuck in the middle of LA traffic in downtown LA.  I hear that’s pretty bogus.  Yet here we were beside a beautiful bridge and stream that let out into the Pacific Ocean, less than 100 yards away.  Not a bad place to be stuck at all.

Where your treasure is there also is where your heart resides.  I’m happy to say my heart resides in the simplest of things:  travel, family, non-barfing children, sunlight and rain, curvy roads and places like the Goon Docks, which weren’t sold at the end of the movie because Rudy found some gems to buy it back…  Rudy?  Sheesh, I’m tired.  I mean, Mikey.  Yeah, that’s it.  Mikey.

Hug someone, people, and then go for a ride.  Tomorrow its laundry day…lots of vomit-filled blankets.  Sooper dooper.  Its all joy.  It’s my One-Eyed Willie treasure.

 

Pan-handling in a Bust Town

Another beautiful drive yesterday.  Wow.  California 199 into Grants Pass, Oregon, is truly a site, in daylight.  At night, it’s like driving the old Saddle Road on the Big Island (Hawai’i)  – twists and turns at a rapid pace with a speed limit of 55 of which one has to wonder who, in their right mind, would actually drive 55 in that area other than reputable NASCAR, Formula 1, or Indy Car drivers.

This giant of a Redwood stretched at least 200 feet into the misty sky.

We drove along the Smith River banks, 10 miles of the pathway was a hard-packed, clay, old mining road called Howland Hill Road – right through an old-growth Redwood forest.  And I thought Sequoias were alone impressive.

I even claimed a little exercise riding my bike along a portion of Highway 101 on Tuesday and darn near fell over a few times due to a combination of under-inflated tires and my head careening upwards to view old redwood stumps…yes, looking upward to view redwood stumps.  Even the stumps are amazing.

The Smith River, as many rivers in northern CA and southern OR, run azure all year, a quality that comes from the unique minerals in the local area.

While the old-growth areas are beautiful and awe-inspiring, the Smith River is another feature of this drive that makes it worth-while.  The color was described to me as being azure, a color I’ve only names out of a crayon box – but it’s spot-on.  The Trinity River that runs beside much of Highway 299 is also the same color as is, I’m sure, the Klamath River which we’re going to view later today.  There aren’t words to describe the beauty of the color alone.  We’ve been to Hawai’i a few times in our short lives and have been in wonder of the deep blue sea that we’ve traversed.  This is a much different color, a beauty all its own.

A faster-running section of the Smith River, the azure color pops against the rock bed.

During our drive into Grants Pass to meet a former soccer player for dinner, I was inspired by a few of the smaller, more economically depressed towns we drove through.  The undercurrent of the movie Cars was about a small town called Radiator Springs.  A place that had been by-passed by the tourniquet of newer freeways, fast-paced byways that cut off the life supply of the smaller towns.  While Highway 199 isn’t located nearby a major freeway system (even I-5 is less imposing as a major freeway in some parts of northern CA and southern OR) these small towns have been impacted by a similar phenomena where the younger locals area drawn to more metropolitan areas.

Imposing beasts. And the less imposing beast (me) standing at the base of this monster.

I live in a similar town in northeastern Colorado.  Largely agricultural in nature and industry, many of our young folks aren’t carrying on the family farming business with exception to a few dedicated FFA youth who are inspired by their parents – an attribute I find quite virtuous.

I-76 runs right by Fort Morgan, Colorado.  It doesn’t drain the life from our small community but aids in its existence as passerby’s participate in our local economy.  Yet 199 travelers are going from “point A” to “point B”, form one place to another without batting an eyelash at the smaller local communities and their commerce.  I was such an example.  Its not that they offer much, I’d have to admit they are limited in their capacity to produce a wide variety of interests.  Even the down-and-out are even more down-and-out.  We passed a gentleman holding a sign that read ANYTHING HELPS on the corner of 199 and a small-town, impoverished and nearly-bust community grocery store.  Um, hey fella, you’re not going to have much luck pan-handling from this location.

From a fallen redwood many years ago, this stump was roughly 10-12 feet in diameter, about 6-7 feet tall.

As I drove by this unfortunate person I began to think, in my own perverse way, that this guy is really in the wrong place.  I’d help him, too, perhaps offering a ride to a high-traffic area for greater success if he didn’t also look like a stereotypical axe murderer.  I mean, if he were hitchhiking he’d have an even longer wait for assistance.

I began to think of a list of items that could help this guy improve his situation, only a few of which were actually practical, the rest were from my perverse line of thinking.  For example…

1.  Shave.  Look less like a vertically-challenged yeti (Sasquatch is pretty popular in these areas) and more like you play for the New York Yankees.

2.  Scent.  Deodorant.  Even the less-expensive travel size and a single swipe in each armpit may help.

3.  Smile.  The look of vacant emptiness (I know… that’s a bit repetitively redundant) in those eyes combined with a flat affect of facial expression are less attractive to folk who want to help.  Actually, they even frighten a few of us.

And this list goes on… Again, less practical and more useless, really, for a guy like the one on the corner.  For me, the above is even less pastoral than my calling suggests.  Still, what resources are available to guy like this especially in a near-bust town?

I don’t pretend to have the answers, but there must be one for each community – a niche in which a smaller community could build upon to thrive once again for those residing there.  Even if it begins with the thought of the traveller to intentionally stop in and say a kind “hello.”  At least that’s a start.

Tahoe, Tahoe, it’s Off to Work I Go

My God.  This place is beautiful.  And we aren’t going to be here much longer.  Should’ve picked this one for a full week.  Wow.

A view from Zephyr Cove, Nevada, Lake Tahoe in the morning is really impressive.

From the million dollar homes with the billion dollar views to Lake Tahoe’s shorelines that are sure to please any eye that meets it this place is beautiful beyond words.

Like I mentioned, we’re only here until tomorrow morning when we roll out back to the California central valley, Red Bluffs, to be exact.  It’s a halfway point for us as we travel over the weekend to Crescent City, California, home of redwood forests and more pacific coast wildlife.

After seeing the amazing Sequoia National Park in Three Rivers, CA, earlier this week, the beauty of Tahoe the last few days, Crescent City has much to live up to – and I’m sure it will.

Still the beauty of these places almost always leaves me in awe.

I remember a trip my brother and his two children made about four years ago and another trip made by brother-in-law and his family out to colorful Colorado to visit us.

Each visit we planned a trip to the mountains to see the state’s spectacular views, wildlife view without the fences, snow in the middle of June.  Each visit the children were a little less than impressed by nature as much as the adults.  I’m sure this is common.  I am also sure that my blossoming family will not be exempt from this phenomena.  After all, I really don’t recall much of seeing “Mount Mushmore” and the “Bad Hills” when I was three, I can’t possibly expect my 15.5 week-old daughter to be an overachiever and recall the details of this 3-month trip.

The southwest corner of Lake Tahoe hosts this jewel of a bay. Lined with boulders for walls and long, tall pines, Emerald Cove is quite the wonder.

Sophie won’t remember any of this trip like her parents will.  Especially this moment as I’m typing and she’s off-the-chain upset at something, which woke her up in her sleep…less than 30 minutes into it.

But we’ll have plenty of digital photos to share.  I can see it now:  just like those days at grandma’s house looking at Kodak slides projected onto the wall.  She’ll be bored out of her gourd.  I’ll have to wait until her first boyfriend comes over to start this.

I must have been a strange kid.  I loved the photos my grandparents would show.  I still love looking at other people’s photos and listening to the stories of their journeys. I also lived off Velveeta grilled cheese sandwiches, Oscar Mayer hot dogs (no buns necessary), Kraft Mac & Cheese, chocolate ice cream, bananas, green grapes, and McDonald’s hamburgers (just the burger, plain please) and french fries (leave off the ketchup).  Oh, and I didn’t eat pizza until I was 21-ish.  That alone is odd.

This is what I hope my daughter will pick up from me.  Not my early-childhood to early-adult picky eating habits, but a desire to hear stories.  And if they don’t come with photos then to be able to imagine what scenery would color in the blind spots.

Stories, read or told, is fertilizer for children’s imagination.  The beginning of wonder, the seed of discovery, the ignition for the flame of desire to see new things.  Dr. Seuss‘s Oh, the Places You’ll Go is a favorite.  Then there’s Shel Silverstein.  Despite his freak-a-delic mug on the back of his poetry books, The Giving Tree, is a timeless classic.  And, of course, being an ordained minister, there are several parables and Old Testament stories that I love to hear from different voices – each bringing or adding a new dimension to a two thousand year old or more story.

What to say about this other than if this tree could talk it would share some great stories about this lake with a view like this.

Countless generations orally passed along some of the greatest stories of our times.  Several more generations wrote them down and read them frequently to their chidlren.  Jacob and Esau.  The Prodigal Son.  Even this one from the Old Testament as told only as Hollywood could tell it – David and Bathsheba.  I never knew David could play the lyre like that nor did I know that Hollywood could glorify extra-marital affairs like they did this one (King David comes off pretty clean after committing nearly all 7 deadly sins in a little less than 2 hours or, scripturally, less than 20 verses).  Each individual voice can cast any one of these stories in a different light – which makes them come to life. (Beware of this last link – I also didn’t know Lego’s were capable of some Biblical literalist atrocities…this guy has WAY too much time on his hands – check out Leviticus stories…they’re pretty amusing.  That’s all I have to say about that.)

What stories do you have to tell?  How would you tell them?  Do they have photos to accompany them?  Should they have photos to accompany them?  If you have a story, I’d love to hear it – if it has pictures, well, that’s just a bonus.  Leave a comment – leave a story.  Pass it on.  Oh, by the way, mommy has successfully calmed the raging storm that is my daughter…at least for the moment.  But that’s another story.

A picture is worth…

A good walk in the fresh air always…um…makes her fall asleep.

 

 

 

The Most Expensive Gas Ever

We’re in Nevada, again.  A lovely three-night’s stay within eyesight of Lake Tahoe.  Beautiful…when it isn’t raining.

This morning, as my lovely bride woke for a 6 a.m. conference call I stayed in bed watching over our snoozing 15-weeks old little girl.  When she woke about 8:00 a.m. it was time for daddy day-care and a spousal rescue effort.  That’s right.  I had to go for coffee.

I had to drive all the way to California for coffee this morning.   A whopping 8 miles there and back.  I even surprised my bride of nearly 12 years with banana walnut bread.  Scored major points.

The last time I filled the gas tank of the RV was somewhere in the central valley of California, about 120 miles south of Sacramento, give or take a few miles.  The price, if paying via credit card, was $4.17 per gallon.

This morning’s “gas” was about $9 bucks for barely a quart.  But it was the best $30 per gallon “gas” that I’ve ever had.

And to top it off, I was able to help someone in need.

At a women’s fellowship gathering this past January, my wife picked up this idea from another lovely lady in our congregation, which she found on Pinterest, to gather some necessary items for a little gallon zip-lock lag of helpfulness.  Included in the bags are a $10 gift card to Walmart, a few disposable razors and shaving cream, some snack bars, tissues, shampoo, toothbrush and toothpaste, hand sanitizer, and a number of other items – the bags can be quite unique with whatever may come to mind.

I simply handed the bag to the gentleman standing on the corner, expressing my hope that the items could provide some comfort and help along this man’s journey, a journey that I hope will turn more fortunate in the days to come.

There’s a raging debate over social care these days.  I have been patient to listen to all sides of the story before putting this response together.

There’s a small piece of scripture that sums up our society.  You will always have the poor with you.

The idea behind social services is to offer a hand up, not a hand out, as many will debate.  I also understand that some people invested in the welfare programs offered exist to abuse said social services for just that, a hand out.

However, I do believe ideas like drug testing for welfare recipients is just as inane an idea as bears playing basketball.  Florida has already proved that beyond a reasonable doubt.  And now North Carolina, Michigan, and a few other states are considering the same testing.

Let’s face it – the concern is wasting public monies on the degenerates of society, if there is such a thing.  I get that.  I wouldn’t want to waste money either.  Especially on coffee…oops.  However, while the concern is heavily on our welfare recipients, why do lawmakers consistently turn down the idea that they should be tested too?  What do they have to hide?

We will always have the poor with us.  That doesn’t mean we should neglect those in need or keep giving those who want a hand out a hand out.  It means we need an overhaul of the social system that offers a consistent hand up.  It also means that we need to recognize that some people just won’t take advantage of a system to help themselves to a better place.  In my line of work, that doesn’t negate the obligation to offer help.  As author MK Asante once said, “if you make an observation, you have an obligation.”

Perhaps that help comes in the form of a zip-lock bag that was relatively cheap to put together to offer some assistance in the interim.   Perhaps that means another food drive to fill the shelves of a community pantry.  We will always have the poor.  Neglect is not an option.

So my coffee was great.  The the bag to someone in need offered a little hope for myself that I’m doing the right thing – offering some assistance that won’t necessarily go to waste.  Sure, the young man could simply throw it out.  I suppose I’ll run into that.

Compassion for others is a great gift.  We shouldn’t let that go to waste.  We must not let that go to waste.

I know this is overly simple.  I know I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of an issue that deeply divides.  But it doesn’t have to be complicated.

Keep it simple people.  Start with loving one another.

 

 

 

 

Lifestyles of the Rich and the Famous

I was fascinated that with all the elaborate and intricate features of this massing home all Hearst could think to call it was “Big House” – Casa Grande.

There’s something interesting and disturbing, all the same, about Hearst Castle.  I was in awe over the architecture and the relics that reside on the expansive property.  With the simple name of Casa Grande, which doesn’t seem too original if not for the date of the historic build, the rather imposing structure of the home stands alone.

A eclectic collection of religious, particularly Catholic-based, paintings, tapestries, monk benches, elaborate ceilings, and stone carvings occupy the space in the grand rooms of the Castle.  It was William Randolph Hearst’s private collection, donated back to the state of California and its residents when financial woes became his reality.  Most of the artwork was from a particular period of time that Hearst was most fascinated with – thus the large amount of religious artifacts – because Hearst himself wasn’t big on religion.

These halls played host to the rich and the famous of the 1920’s and 30’s.  Charlie Chaplain.  Irving Berlin.  Movie and sports stars galore.

With such a rich history why does a place like this become a museum, or better yet, a mausoleum, a memory to that which has come and…gone?

Well… Money simply doesn’t last.

700 year old spanish monk seating – Used as ‘paneling’ for many of the grand rooms in the Hearst Castle.

Yet we still live like it does.

Does Hearst Castle exist to inspire us to do something similar?  Or is this Californian State Park  something through which we learn from past mistakes?

Either way, the State Park does serve a purpose.  It’s radically awesome to look at.

Close up or from a distance.

It sits high up on a grassy hillside hidden only from view when the spring-time fog off the Pacific veils her from view or during the drive up to the home as the driveway was designed to hide and reveal the castle over and over again.  The pathway is lined with cattle now, part of the Hearst Ranch that sits at the base of the estate.  However in previous years you’d see Zebra, some of which have become native to the surrounding area, giraffes, gazelle, and an assortment of other range animals popular to local zoos.

Believe it or not, that’s the Pacific ocean beneath all those clouds.

I can only imagine the view of the Pacific, deep blue and as vast as any body of water, would be spectacular to view from the various verandas embedded in a rainbow of colorful flowers.  This day wasn’t the case as that mist I mentioned earlier blanketed the entire ocean, making it look more like a soft downy-filled comforter across a king-sized bed.

Truth is this:  Things come and things go.  Memories fade with the passing of time.  History is only made when an event is published…or given, like the Hearst Castle.  Sure, when jolly old William became sick he could’ve stayed in his private Mount Olympus and withered away peacefully.  The entire estate could have simply been moth-balled or even bull-dozed…although, I’d hate to be that bulldozer driver riding that rig all the way to the top of this hill.  Yikes.

Hearst gave it back.  Whatever the amount he made off the folk that bought into his interests, he gave this piece of history back to them…and to their future generations.

As long as the estate went largely unaltered, the State of California Parks and Recreation service could have it.  Can you imagine the millions of people who have traipsed through the Hearst grounds?  Could you imagine, if William were still around, the smile on his face knowing these people enjoyed this place…even though they didn’t get to swim in either one of the pools.

The Neptune pool at Hearst Castle. Nice.

You’ve heard the saying you can’t take it with you.  You can’t.  So why not give a little piece of joy back to others?  I may not have much of an inheritance when I come to pass.  But I do want to give the world back something it can use.  A legacy of sorts.  I haven’t quite figured out what that is.  But according to my cardiologist I’ve got plenty of time.

Maybe I’ll leave behind a grand ool.  That’s a pool… just without any “p” in it.

Located out of general site, beneath the tennis courts, is the Roman Pool. Wow.

Climbing Out the Valley

The Santa Barbara Mission prepared for the Holy Week & Easter.

Another 40 days of Lent have come and nearly gone.  Another time of sacrifice and journeying coming to a close with the celebration of Easter and the entrance of a number of people who haven’t set foot in church since last Christmas Eve.

My own journey isn’t what it has cracked up to be.  To borrow a friend’s expression, it rather “crapped” up to be less than I had hoped.

I had wanted some real time in silence.  Some intentional time in prayer.  Some time spent on my own faith journey in reflection, other than writing blog posts.

It hasn’t happened.

That feeling of renewal I had hoped to experience this time of Lent hasn’t happened.

Maybe I’m to caught up in the travel to settle my own spirit down.  Maybe I’m too busy providing daddy day care to find time with God, after all, I did chalk up a good hour and a half nap today after one fussy ride into town and back.  And maybe I’m just not wired the way I had hoped I’d be.

I look up to a lot of spiritual-based people of the past, hoping to live up to those expectations and do something great – like, maybe, change the world or something.  Martin Luther King, Jr., Archbishop Oscar Romero, and so many other notables run through my thoughts.

At this point, the fictional Luke Skywalker sounds pretty appealing, too.

I think I’m right when I say, I’m just not wired that way.

If I can self-differentiate that over and against my own expectations, or even those who have expectations of me, then I’d be fine.  I’m not fine.  I am in this valley.  This valley shadowed with doubt.  Doubting myself.

While touring the Santa Barbara Mission, a beautiful historical site founded in 1786, I had a few moments to reconcile my own faith.

So here goes…

Listen, I’m not the kind of guy that’s gonna be remembered in 300 years.  For that matter, I’m probably not going to be remembered after 100 years except in old digital photos carried on by family and the occasional Rev. Larsen 8X10 hanging in a hallway of a church I used to pastor.  I’m not the kind of pastor that many think of when they hear that term, pastor.  I prefer to not wear a robe (I know, I’m a real trend-setter here), I prefer to step out of the pulpit and “talk” to the congregation rather than preach.  I prefer to not do a lot of things traditional pastors do.

I have a friend on Facebook who writes an awful lot about personal achievements.  I’d consider this person a scholar – smarter than your average bear…uh, pastor.  While trying to read this person’s posts I feel I’ve been dumbed down.  It seems like half the words this person uses are not in my vocabulary…all my literary slots are full.

Inside the Santa Barbara Mission

If I can’t understand him… well…

I’m a tell-it-to-me-like-I’m-a-third-grader type of guy.  A real keep-it-simple learner.  And doer.

I’m too broken of an individual to be in a spotlight.  The skeletons in my closet are enough to make any politician feel at ease.

There’s this statue inside the Mission that appealed to me.  It’s an image of Christ appearing to Mary Magdalene after resurrection.  I love this for a few reasons…

First, the Son of God appears to a woman…first.  Not just any woman, but a woman that some think he may have been quite fond of.  And she was broken.

The image of Mary looking up, responding to a call from the resurrected Christ.

Second, and sounding a bit redundant, she was broken.  Quite the follower, though.  Stayed by when the others had left or even denied.  She was a cast-away, a marginalized of society…and yet loved.  Loved enough to be appeared-to first.

Third, whatever she thought she was she had left behind.  This is the absolute power of Grace.

My own memory prevents me from moving forward.  The faults of my past, and there are many, bitterly linger in my thoughts, only a second away from being reminded at moments notice.

This image of Christ holding out his had to Mary struck me silent.  I mean, aside from looking rather caucasian and being ripped – you could do laundry on those abs – there is a sincere look on his face that is replicated in Mary’s.

The way I see it, that is complete understanding.

Call it love, call it grace, call it whatever you want, there is this moment where the two understood each other.

I guess that’s all I want to be.

For my congregation members and my peers and my family, I just want that understanding.  The kind of understanding that says okay, I get it, you are who you are and that is more than okay with me.

I’d love to lead a large, mega-church style congregation.  I’d love to be published (I have a feeling my vocabulary will hold me back on that one).  I’d love to be admire in the field of Theology by hundreds…

But…and that’s a real big BUT…

OMG – The cuteness is overwhelming. Please God, don’t let me screw this one up.

I’m okay if it doesn’t happen.  I have to be.  Matter of fact, my focus is a little more on trying not to screw up the life of my beautiful 100-day old daughter than it is on the realities of practical ministry.  I can’t believe these little critters don’t come with Lego-style how-to manuals for us guys.  I mean, Ikea furniture does, why not babies?

All said and done, I am your average Joe pastor.  Not too much flare, but sincere, loving, grace-filled, and wanting to have an honest talk with those who want to honestly listen to something simple and obtainable – how to love one another.

Doubting isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  Being an insufferable know-it-all may be to those trying to find a way in from the margins, for those trying to climb up out of a valley in shadow… for one like me.

I’m grateful for the sincere face holding out his hand…  This Lenten season I am reminded of that relationship of acceptance for who I am – me.