Christmas Musings

I live in a world in which some people who choose to use words also choose to ignore their meanings and impute others. Much of this is due to commercial interests that wish to sway people's decisions by obscuring reason and inserting their own version of what is real.

I made waffles this morning. The recipe calls for one egg. I am no stranger to the grocery store and am adept at following the list (checking it twice) and executing accurate cost benefit analysis on goods desired. I know that eggs come in two colors. White and brown. My question is about the use of the word "natural". Someone would have me believe that if i choose brown eggs I am getting natural products, but if I choose the white eggs I would be getting something artificial. Having cracked an egg or two, and knowing a little about the reproductive cycle of chickens, and I have discovered that inside of both white and brown eggs I will usually find a yoke and and egg white (uncooked). The only discernible difference is the color of the shell. As far as I know, nothing inside the chicken alters the process of producing the egg or the color of the shell. Interestingly enough, the brown shelled eggs are typically much more expensive--40% more Thursday when I last shopped.

This morning the package holding the brown egg, (Which I did not buy--it was in the refrigerator without my prior knowledge.) made a bold declaration. ALL NATURAL EGGS. The full color paper insert was inserted into a tri-fold clear plastic very unnatural container. I began to speculate about the kind of person that would prefer all natural eggs. I would suspect the profile would include some degree of environmental concerns. Granted, I am sure that the design of the container is for the safety of the enclosed ovum, an important consideration that. My white eggs come in a plain cardboard-highly biodegradable-carton. I was a boy scout and consider myself to be an environmentalist. I try to eat healthy and avoid things when I can that are harmful. I find the disconnect between the "All Natural Eggs" and the poly packaging disturbing.

The other word is "organic". I have friends who buy "organic" food. Am I to believe that the lettuce that I buy in the other section of the produce department is "inorganic"? What I believe they mean is that the process by which the produce was grown was void of certain chemicals and compounds. Nevertheless, the produce is no more organic than any other plant. I am not a fan of the abuse of chemicals in the production of food. I am a fan of the correct use of the common language. Organic means organic.

Lest you think I am ranting rather than musing, I have not compunction to change the way people buy or eat. Just use the words right.

Who says I cant?

One of the greatest joys in my life is being Granddad and being with all my grandchildren at once. This weekend we traveled to Connecticut to see our 4 year old soccer star show us her stuff (unfortunately she was on the disabled list-she got a bug) and was joined by daughter Sara and granddaughter Gwendolyn. Gwennie had the misfortune of falling from her swing and breaking her leg. She has a cast from hip to heel. According to the doctor she can't walk with this think. According to Gwen, "watch me!"

She doesn't just walk, she runs, climbs, scoots with the greatest of ease. She adjusted her gait to extend the cast forward and plant it to bring the flexible leg forward. Her aunt Lara pointed out that she walked like Mr. Tumnus from the Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe. Gwen has a new nickname and a ride in Hudson's truck.

You play to win, Granny!

A few weeks ago our granddaughter Reese was here for a visit and as is her custom ensnared my child bride for a game. The set up the checkerboard in the kitchen and as is our experience when her family comes, there was much hubbub in every direction. As Ginger was distracted, Reese, in her indisputable 4.5 year old logic, determined that if Granny was not paying attention when it came her turn that should not slow down the game. She proceeded to continue taking her turns. When Granny turned back to the board she discovered that half of her checkers had been jumped and captured. When she registered her concern with the unusual rules for play Reese replied, "You play to win, Granny! You play to win!"

Fast forward to today. We surveyed the paper for something fun to do and found that people gathered at the city library to play scrabble. As we find our library a most enjoyable diversion we called our friend Ellie and decided to check it out. After all, G and I have been playing Scrabble online for several weeks now and enjoy it much.

We arrived at the library and found the site downstairs and met Stella and Connie. Stella gave us the ground rules and set up boards for two on two competition. Ginger was playing Stella-I squared off against Ellie. We began to play.

Stella it turned out to have a lot in common with our dear Reese. She plays to win. Not satisfied with a unilateral attack on Ginger she decided to coach Ellie between turns to increase her scoring potential. Twice she challenged words that I played on our board, even though she was playing another game, but refused to challenge an ineligible word that Ginger played because it set her up to score a load of points. Stella finished with a score of over 400 points and seldom made less that 20 points per word. She informed us that she once won a prize in a tournament for spelling a word using all her tiles that straddled two triple word score markers netting 212 points for one word. By the way, did I mention that Stella is in her 70's or 80's--we were afraid to ask.

At one point as she was helping Ellie in her quest to vanquish me I could not resist the urge to channel Marlon Brando and cried out, "STEL-LAH".

We walked away chuckling. What a great afternoon.

Fathers' Day

This Fathers' Day I am thankful for the fathers of my grandchildren. (Their mothers are awesome in their own right, but today is Fathers' day.) My grandchildren are among the most fortunate to have men in their lives who are worthy of the title "Daddy". We are all blessed because they understand the importance of being there for their kids. Thank you Adam. Thank you Emrys. Well done!

My own Personal Acronym

I am normally not a big fan of acronyms. They are particularly annoying when you don't know what they stand for. However, I have decided to take advantage of that reality and create my own acronym for strategic use in conversation. For those of you that read my blog, you will be in on the gambit, for others, oh well.

The root of my acronym is in a message I heard a few years back by Bill Johnson in which he said that he often times is asked for his opinion on things on which he has no opinion. Furthermore, he is not required to have an opinion on everything and is not required to state it even if he does. Brilliant!

To my acronym: IHNO (pronounced like "I Know") When conversation requires my obligatory response and I am not fully engaged or interested, I can put on a concerned/agreeable/distressed face, whichever is required by the situation, and say "IHNO". Which means of course, "I have no opinion." The duplicity is delicious. The conversation continues and I have extricated myself with two syllables.

If you are reading this, you are welcome to use my acronym. Who knows we may start a movement. Then again, you may just decide to respond IHNO!

A few of my favorite things

Raindrops on roses and whiskers...oops! Wrong list.

There are things in life that are just so good. Why not list them?

Fish tacos! Don't knock them until you try them--especially with good salsa verde.
Fresh peaches! enough said.
Pandora. Internet radio where you can create your own radio stations.
Podcasts.

• Freakonomics
• The God Journey
• Mars Hill
• Bethel weekly message

Laughing so hard your eyes leak.
Going to restaurants with Josh. (It is like having your own tour guide who knows the local language.)

To be continued--I am still alive, you know.

Inaccurate Labeling

lib·er·al
   /ˈlɪbərəl, ˈlɪbrəl/ Show Spelled[lib-er-uhl, lib-ruhl] favorable to or in accord with concepts of maximum individual freedom possible, esp. as guaranteed by law and secured by governmental protection of civil liberties.

con·serv·a·tive
   /kənˈsɜrvətɪv/ Show Spelled[kuhn-sur-vuh-tiv] Show IPA
–adjective
1.
disposed to preserve existing conditions, institutions, etc., or to restore traditional ones, and to limit change.

In a recent discussion of the Arizona law pertaining to illegal immigration I discovered the weakness of current labels to accurately define a persons perspective on difficult issues. The discussion was with one of my friends who I would describe as "Liberal". I suspect that most people would describe me as "conservative".

His argument was as follows:

1. The constitution protects citizens from unreasonable search and seizure.
2. Enabling law enforcement officers to request documentation constitutes unreasonable search and seizure.
3. Therefore the AZ law is unconstitutional.

My response was:

1. If a person is in the country illegally they are not a citizen of this country.
2. If they are not a citizen of this country, they are not protected under the constitution.

He agreed with my assessment. He went on to say that determining the status of their citizenship would require the law enforcement personnel to make assumptions and act in a way that would violate that protection against unreasonable search and seizure.

My response: If they are not citizens they are entitled to no such protection.

His response: But how will the enforcement officials know whether they are citizens.

My response: We have a constitutional conundrum.

His response: I agree.

So now I am confused. My "Liberal" friend is being conservative by definition in adhering to the spirit of the constitution. I am being liberal in that I want to protect the liberties of citizens of this country but not necessarily extend them to criminal elements that may be here illegally. Oy vey!

In virtually every country on the planet, documentation of citizenship is something that is required. I am not sure if papers are carried and available for inspection on demand in all countries. I do know that most countries take extraordinary precautions to protect their borders from intruders. The United States does not.

Last week a sheriff's deputy was shot with an automatic rifle by drug smugglers and left bleeding just south of Phoenix. Texas, Arizona, and California have thousands of miles of borders that are essentially unsecured. Estimates are that 11 million illegals are in this country now. And we have a conundrum. If we grant amnesty to all that are here now, there is no mechanism in place to prevent more illegals from coming and no plan in place to secure the border.

In the meantime these illegals work here, many for cash with no taxes. They are eligible for social services for which citizens pay. What's not to like about that set up? Granted, most are hard working people of good character. But some are drug smugglers, murderers and thieves. Immigration and our Southern border may well be one of the defining issues of the 21st Century with far reaching ramifications on all aspects of the political, social and economic fabric of our country. It will force a resolution to the constitutional conundrum that will likely require a restriction on the liberty we now enjoy in order to preserve a future liberty that may well be at risk. As our politicians fiddle, the issue burns and burns out of control. Would that we would have an intelligent discussion of this on a national basis and bring it to resolution.

Nothing Left Unsaid

I recently celebrated my 59^th birthday. Granted we all live in 24 hour compartments and they are the same length for each of us. But when you have tallied up enough days you begin to realize that the supply is not unlimited. I have known people who died young and that is a tragedy. I have seen and known people who lived too long and that too is tragic in its own way.

Ten years ago this summer my sister died. She was 59. Sis and I always had a special relationship. I was the youngest of three. She was ten years older. She was actively involved in my care when I was young. We were always close. She was a wonderful woman who lived an extraordinary life when faced with tragic and difficult circumstances. I learned from watching her that a person can survive even the greatest trials. She always looked out for me.

One of the things I learned from her is to not leave things left unsaid. My feelings for those close to me are strong. I care deeply. I often am unable to articulate those feelings. I think it is a guy thing. As I traverse the milestone that is my 59^th year, I have a desire to live in such a way that nothing is left unsaid. One of my guiding principles comes from the Bible in the book of Ephesians. “Let no unwholesome word proceed from your mouth, but only such a word as is good for edification according to the need of the moment, so that it will give grace to those who hear.” (Eph 4:29)

I have great admiration for the people in my life. I am surrounded by extraordinarily gifted and talented individuals. My wife, my children, my grandchildren and coworkers are amazing people. They need to know—I need to tell them.

The Power of Example

I learned recently that my blog actually has readers. Shock! Humbling! When my favorite daughter-in-law went to pick up Reese at school, her teacher inquired, "Who is Reese's grandfather?" Evidently Reese had informed her that her Granddad writes and makes movies. (see vegas entries) Lara set the record straight by letting the teacher know that I write a blog and she reads it to Reese.

Needless to say, the knowledge that you have readers changes the way you write. (Hi Reese!) More importantly, the knowledge that someone is watching alters the way we behave, or should. (see back to school entry)

Last weekend I had the privilege of having Adam's family (I love saying that) stay with me in NH. On Sunday morning Reese had a difference of opinion with her mom that erupted into a demonstration requiring a time out. (See picture right, "who me?") Reese accepted the judgment of her mom, as she should, and went to sit in the corner and contemplate her behavior, her relationship with mom, and who knows what else she was contemplating. She whimpered some but not much and when time was served we all went on with our day.

Moments later, little brother Hudson evidently decided that he wanted to be like sis. We looked in the corner and there he sat, whimpering and contemplating how cool it was to be like Reese.

Time Travel

When my daughter was between one and two years old, it is accurate to say that she was a young lady with her own agenda. Her words, or lack of them, her facial expressions, her every gesture was one with purpose--hers. She was a mini control freak--until the sippy cup lid.

Sara had a sippy cup the lid of which had a convex bottom. If I sat the lid on the table and hit down sharply on its edge, it would fly up into the air a couple of feet, spinning end over end. This broke the icy composure of the control princess and reduced her to a helpless adorable giggling treasure. We played this game every night for a while. It got to the point that I only had to reach for the cup lid and she would begin to snicker. Thirty two years later this is still one of my life treasures--the memory of my cackling daughter.

Fast forward to the year 2010. At my work vendors will often send us trinkets to get our attention with the hopes that we will remember their name and evaluate their products. Last Monday I got such a toy from an insurance company. It was a half sphere rubber ball with a sort of a golf tee device sticking through the axis. The instructions said to invert the sphere, hold it six to ten inches from a hard surface, and spin it with the tee device, dropping it at the same time. I followed the instructions and the sphere hit the surface and with a loud pop flew all the way to the ceiling. I was immediately transported to 1979 and the sippy cup adventure.

I immediatly grabbed a padded envelope and addressed it to Gwendolyn H. Tyler in New York. I taped the instructions onto the ball and wrote a note telling her to enlist the help of her father with the fun. (He is totally qualified to assist.) Off in the mail.

I started calling on Wednesday to see if it had arrived. The US Mail was unaware of the importance of the package and did not deliver it until Saturday. Gwendolyn, knowing she was expecting a package waited patiently. (see photo right)

Then it happened. Today I got a video on my phone that completed my time travel journey. See and hear what I experienced in 1979 and in 2010. Same giggle, same joy. Thank you Emrys and Sara for the assist.

Rules are Made for When Brains Run Out

April 15, 2010

“Rules are made for when brains run out”, Matt Eaton

I have a good friend and former co-worker who is a graduate of West Point. We had many discussions ranging topics from finance to philosophy, politics to polemics. We have jousted with windmills we found in the corporate world and with those we saw in the world of policymaking. One of his favorite proverbs was, “Rules are made for when brains run out.”

This is undiluted truth. I experienced it today. For some reason my briefcase which has traveled with me on countless flights has now become a shady bag. The x-ray technician at the airport determined my leather companion to be suspect and in need of further scrutiny. I was politely asked to move to a separate area where I watched Barney Fife take a cotton patch and wipe the inside of my briefcase, sort of a accessory pap smear if you will, and put the cotton patch into what I believe to be a anti-terrorist sphygnogroptamassameter. Much to my surprise, my bag, without my knowledge, has evidently been exposing itself to substances that make the sphygnogroptamassameter very excitable and prone to beeps and tones.

Where could it have gone wrong? It has been such a good bag for so many years. I rarely let it out of my sight. Could it be cavorting with shady backpacks or, dare I say it, purses without my knowledge? Substance abuse! Who would have known?

Now I am an accessory to a suspect accessory. Barney’s comrade steps me over to the TSA welcome mat where I am told to remove my belt and empty my pockets while Barney unloads my bag and inspects all the contents. He carefully examines each and every phone, headset, and computer charger, while his partner, let’s call him Andy, carefully inspects me. First the wand, then the hands—first the front, then the back. Shoeless, beltless, and bag-less I wait for Barney and Andy to determine that the contents of my briefcase are worthy to board a Southwest flight.

Then it happens. Attached to my keychain is a 2.25” swiss army knife in a small leather holster that I had forgotten to remove. This diminutive blade was almost useful for cutting up an apple, and very helpful for letter opening and emergency hangnail clipping, is in the words of Barney Fife, “something that should not be on board an aircraft.” I am given my options and bid farewell to the tiny tool and am allowed to gather my things and begin to dress myself again.

We have all seen it—dutiful civil servants patting down Nana as she enjoys some attention that she can get nowhere else; travelers frantically removing shoes, computers and arguing over 4.5 oz bottles of contact lense solution as “the man” assures them that the extra 1.5 ounces over the limit will endanger the rest of the passengers and the planet; and the incremental striptease as the metal detector requires the removal of the belt, then the pen, then the glasses, then….bada bing!

Which brings me back to Matt’s undeniable truth: “Rules are made for when brains run out”. The TSA is a master of the obvious. If a person wanted to destroy a plane in flight they would probably not use the obvious tools that have been used before. As seen on Christmas Eve, underwear could be a weapon. I am surprised that TSA does not now require us all to drop trou so that they can scan the skivvies. Granted there have been no new airline tragedies since 9/11/2001 for which we are all thankful. The TSA is eager to take credit for that. But screening the obvious is an exercise not in safety but in psychology. Anyone with a brain would be able to tell the difference between a briefcase and a bomb. That is why we have rules, x-rays, and phygnogroptamassameters so that Barney can do his job and we can all be safe. However, someone who really wants to hurt us will likely use the not so obvious device. Here is hoping that while Barney is groping Nana, the real threat is not walking through the security area with lethal socks.

Back to School

I really was being good all day. I drove 5 miles under the speed limit most of the day, if you can believe that. The limit was 75 and I drove 70.

EXCEPT, when I did not see the 45 mph sign on the construction zone and thought the limit was 55, which I did see.

According to the trooper, who was not impressed with my lack of observational skills or my heavy right foot, I am in need of further driving education, or an immediate cashectomy of $300. (A cashectomy, for those of you who don't know is when the government extracts funds from you without an anesthetic. See, income taxes, estate taxes, sales taxes, etc.) Being quick with numbers i deduce that $189.50 for school and dismissal of the fine and points is a better deal that $300. So off to school I go.

Small Miracles

On the last day of our road trip we find St. Arbucks in the Safeway at Gallup NM. Sweet!

Moments of Clarity: A Princess is Born

There are moments in my life that I can revisit at will. I can go to them in my mind and see and feel what I saw and felt then and time travel back to that experience. One such instance is when at age 9 or so I was at church in the plenary meeting before we divided into our separate classes. The room was packed. A young lady came in and was standing by the door looking for a seat. I stood to offer her my seat. She walked across the room and sat elsewhere. I was standing there—next to my empty seat—horribly embarrassed. I can go back to that moment and feel that discomfort. That day chivalry died for many years to follow. Probably the first time I really had that kind of public experience. There was another in high school when a mistake on my part cost our basketball team an important victory. I was crushed—I still remember it.

On a more positive note I remember the first time, thirty two years ago today that I set eyes on Sara Jane Wheat, now Tyler. Her face was red. Her chin quivered as she lifted her complaint about the new environment she had been thrust into, and the difficult transit she had just experienced. It was love at first sight—at least on my part.

Her mother was sure she was a boy until Sara proved her otherwise. We had a girls name picked out as a contingency but our friends named their daughter Jessica in January of 1978 so we decided that would not work. Many at the El Reno hospital commented on the beauty of our new baby. On day two, which was a Saturday, we agreed that we would call her Sara Jane. Sara (means princess) because we had a friend in Tennessee named Sara and we thought it a beautiful name; Jane in honor of my sister Nelda Jane. We found out later that Sara’s great-great-grandmother on her mom’s side was named Sara Jane, spelled the same way.

The next morning I had breakfast at the Boll Weevil Café in Fort Cobb, Oklahoma where we lived. A friend of mine asked me if I was disappointed that we did not get a son. I told her, “Not at all!” Her reply, “Just remember, a son is yours until he takes a wife, but a girl is yours for the rest of your life.”

This is a true statement. I remember clearly walking down the aisle with her in the church in Durango and blessing the union with her chosen mate. I can still feel the pain of sitting in my living room, hearing “Dad its cancer.” We cried together and prayed for healing. I remember driving to New York in January 2009 to meet a new princess, a joy in her own right. Our Gwendolyn Hope is definitely an heir to the crown.

I have moments that are frozen in time in my heart. Many of those moments are connected to my Sara. She is my favorite daughter and always will be. Happy birthday Sis.

Coffee Snobs R Us

In the past several years I have heard more than one business consultant extol the genius of Starbucks and the experience based model that they believe drives their success in business. Frankly the idea of ordering my coffee with Italian words for the sizes is a bit pretentious in my opinion. Granted, the environment is comfortable, the music is good, but the coffee—the coffee is addictive.

Day four of our road trip finds us in Missouri. An emergency BCO directive (see the blog on the receiving principle) stops us at a gas station to fill up and deal with biological urgencies. Although we have purchased gas we suffer the guilt of having facilitated the proprietor’s utilities without additional purchases. At 7:30 am there is only one purchase that makes sense and that is coffee. I step to the coffee bar and note the adjectives describing the lava hot liquids inside and choose the one that I discern to be the boldest

.

I have a friend who drinks his coffee black. His comment is “I want no chemical pollutants in my coffee.” I respect that. I have another friend that only uses light cream. In fact, we met eons ago at the coffee bar at Hope Chapel in Nashua, NH. Andy was wearing a large green army parka. He poured his coffee and reached to the inside pocket and pulled out a small container. I watched with great interest, as supplementing beverages from small containers was not a behavior with which I was unfamiliar. However, small hidden containers to supplement coffee at church—this was a new adventure. When Andy realized that he was caught, he said, “It’s cream. I don’t do powder in my coffee.”

I responded, “Hit me!” Andy shared his cream and we have relished our friendship for twenty years now, and many gallons of coffee with cream. But I wander—back to Missouri.

I pass on the powdered creamer—thank you Andy—and cap my cauldron of hot liquid and set out down the road. Cup in cup-holder, westward bound, cruise control set I reach for the beverage and that first, I wish my lips were made of asbestos, sip. “AUGH%#*@(*^%!” In the court of culinary law there is not enough evidence to convict this liquid of being coffee. In the Midwest the word coffee is defined as a hot brown liquid with no discernable flavor that you drink in the morning for God knows what reason. Then it hits me….

HI. MY NAME IS DAVID AND I AM A COFFEE SNOB! That’s right. I drive the interstate looking for the green circle with a star that points the way to what Graham Cooke describes as his favorite church St. Arbucks. I am a convert. I am not a missionary yet as I practice my rituals in small groups and one on one meetings. I am not sure what kind of commitment is required, but evidently I am ready to make it. As Graham says, “It’s a lot less expensive than regular church, and often times much more anointed.” But the bottom line is—it’s all about the coffee.

Thank you Jack Taylor:

Ginger and I are on a road trip. This is the most recent of many in our 35 years of our journey. Road trips can be the best of times and the worst of times. Our experience tends toward the best of times. I genuinely enjoy her company.

As I ruminate on our experiences driving, driving, driving to places, I wonder “what is the origin of the word “companion”. I learned that it comes from the latin word companionem (nom. companio), lit. "bread fellow, messmate," from L. com- "with" + panis "bread." (thank you dictionary.com). Sharing bread—a key component of a covenant meal—seems a fitting handle for our relationship. We are companions.

In our transcontinental transporter we listen to music and lectures; pause the music to talk and listen to our thoughts and dreams and expand our shared understanding; listen to our bodies’ rhythms. The latter requires a biological tag team approach in which the BCO (bladder control officer) is an office that passes from one traveler to another on a discretionary basis, learning to feel one another’s pain. Sometimes we just sit next to one another and say nothing.

Which brings me to Jack Taylor:

Early in our marriage, a friend gave us a teaching tape by Jack Taylor called “The Receiving Principle”. This teaching has contributed as much to our well being as a couple as anything I can remember. The receiving principle is rooted in Genesis chapter 2 where God gifts woman to man because he was incomplete on his own. Jack draws from this story a principle. When God puts two people together in marriage they often have conflicting traits than can grind on one another. The man who is punctual is mated to the woman who is always late. The woman who is fastidious and neat inevitably connects with a man who is organizationally challenged. The spender marries the tightwad. You get the picture, and if you are an observer of people you know that this is an almost irrefutable law of nature. Opposites attract.

Jack says this is God’s design in order to help us complete one another. (Rene’ Zelwiger had it right in Jerry McGuire). His key to the process, the receiving principle, is to receive your mate as God’s perfect gift to you. Understanding that of the 6 billion or so people on earth, the person next to you is perfect for you makes the differences take on a different hue. When you are thankful for the person (and the differences) it changes you. As God changes you, more often that not, your companion changes too. It causes for Mr. Punctual to say, “I would rather be late with this person than be on time with anyone else in the world.” Mrs. Neatnik realizes, “Living with this slob is better than having a clean house with anyone else that God could have given me.” This realization opens the door to love, acceptance and forgiveness at new and deeper levels—further up and further in.

We heard this early. We have learned it over and over and over. We have not always expressed it perfectly, but we get it. I can truly say that my companion and I have shared our bread for nearly 34 years and she is without a doubt one of the most remarkable human beings I have ever known. She is God’s perfect gift to me. We are as opposite as you can design—way to go Dad. Admittedly there are days when she does not see me as her winning lottery ticket, and there are days when I may not fully appreciate her giftedness. However we have years together to show that the principle is valid. God willing we have many more to keep working on it. We have children and friends that bear witness to the reality that it works. The receiving principle—Thank you Jack! Thank you Lord!

Seasons

The seasons they go round and round, and the painted ponies go up and down,
We are on the carousel of life. Joni Mitchell

Yesterday Ginger and I went to the decommissioning of a church in Londonderry, NH. We were a part of the team in 1998 that planted that church and we served there for just over three years as it became established. It was one of four church plants we have participated in since 1989. Three of the four no longer exist. One is still going and there are other offshoots that we were not directly involved with. Our role was mainly supportive of the leaders who took great risks to establish groups in what most would consider a difficult area for such endeavors.

As I sat and listened to the words being said, heard the words of the heart that were not being said, I probed my own heart. What is the fruit of two decades of focus which consumed enormous quantities of time, energy and money--not to mention hopes and dreams? Three out of four churches are gone.

I looked around the room and remembered.

I saw a vibrant young woman who is in her first year at university. I remembered visiting her mother in the hospital when she was born. I remember sitting with her parents when her grandmother died. Listening to her father as we discussed his plan to start his business, which still thrives.

I had a conversation with a young lady who had been in my Sunday School class who was telling me with enthusiasm of her plans to join the navy and work in naval intelligence.

I discussed difficult issues of the day with a pastors wife who is engaging her world in a creative and dynamic way. I was remembering her wedding day--we were there. I remember how smitten her husband was when he first met her at our church meetings--he is still smitten.

All afternoon I reconnected with people with whom I am connected. From the standpoint of religious score keeping we are batting a meager .250. But as I spent the afternoon in the presence of fellow sojourners, I realized that our purposes and hopefully God's purposes had indeed been fulfilled. When we moved to New England our theme came from Psalm 37:

Trust in the LORD and do good; Dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness. Delight yourself in the LORD; And He will give you the desires of your heart. Commit your way to the LORD, Trust also in Him, and He will do it. (Psa 37:3-5)

I was surrounded by the faithful. A faithfulness that had been cultivated by all of us together as we passed the seasons on the carousel of life. I was surprised that I was not saddened. Frankly, in my opinion, the world needs not another religious group nearly as much as people who will trust in the Lord and do good. I experienced the joy of the journey in a new and surprising way. I sensed the Father's pleasure in his children. "Trust also in Him, and He will do it!" Good job Dad!

Viva Madiba!

There are times in my life where I realize that what I thought, or was led to believe, was off target. I recently went to see the movie "Invictus" with Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon. It is a story of Nelson Mandela during the first year of his Presidency in South Africa. I recommend the film highly. It is one of the best dramatizations of the power of forgiveness that I have seen in recent years.

I was so impressed by the portrayal of President Mandela's character, I went to my local library and checked out his autobiography, "The Long Walk to Freedom". My first awareness of South Africa's struggle was in the late 60's and 70's when the quest for freedom in that country was coming to a head. I did not know that that conflict had been going on since the 1920's and that Nelson Mandela had been a leader in that effort since the 1940's. Much of what I heard through the media, as it turns out, was biased and often false.

I came away from the book (a 635 page odyssey) with a sense of remorse that in a civilized world that the subjugation of a people would be tolerated as it was for over a century. I was humbled by the patience and longsuffering of the African people under the iron fist of the National Party. Through it all, Mr. Mandela fought for the rights of people under the rule of law, even in prison. When he became president, he fought for the rights of his former oppressors against the popular mood that they should be punished.

Some books changes the reader. Old paradigms sometimes melt like an icicle on an eave, and sometimes they shatter as it turns loose and hits the sidewalk. This book did a little of both for me. The abuse of one people by another for economic, political or prejudicial reasons will be a force in our world as long as there are people, I suppose. Our people are just as guilty of the same offenses over the years. That does not make it right. "The Long Walk to Freedom" has helped me to view these situations differently. (Madiba is a term of respect for Nelson Mandela attributed to his tribal royal lineage)

What happens in Vegas Part II: Ears to Hear

Ginger and I had a couple of hours before our rendezvous with the Cirque so we decided to stroll over to Caesars Palace and see the 50,000 gallon salt water aquarium. We got there at feeding time as the diver hand fed the stingray. Very cool.

As we were leaving a very cheesy display ala Disney animated characters spouting atlantis mythology, we noticed that the three men in front of us wore kilts. This did not strike us as that unusual. Upon closer examination, I saw that one of them carried a bagpipe.

I walked up to him and asked, "Will you be piping tonight?"

His reply, "I'll pipe any time for anyone!"

I responded, "How about now?"

"You don't think they will chuck me out, do you?" he asked.

"Of course not!", was my confident rejoinder.

Then in the middle of the Forum Shops at Caesars Palace, Grace appeared.





I ran into him later and learned that his name is Andrew and is from Edinborough. He was in town for a rugby match. I can't remember having more fun walking through a mall in my entire life.

What happens in Vegas Part I: Eyes to see

Sometimes the shortest distance between two points is not a straight line. Sandwiched between a business meeting in Orange County and time in our AZ winter home, we found ourselves with a few days to spend. As much as we love New Hampshire, we decided that going back for four days to more snow was not our first choice. Ergo, a few days in Las Vegas seemed just the ticket.

This is my first visit and my impression is that it is like a Disneyland for adults--thousands of people walking around looking for something that will make them happy. I am not a gambler. Ever since I lost my weekly grocery money in a card game back in college I have had a subconscious fear of hanging around in a cafeteria bumming food.

Our chosen form of entertainment tends toward shows and people watching. Vegas is an excellent venue for both. We were searching for people who looked happy. There could have been a lot of happy people there but it was difficult to tell by their faces. Our observation was that there were more Japanese happy people than Caucasian happy people during our time there. Especially the Japanese people for whom we snapped pictures in front of the fountains. We sat next two four Japanese girls at a buffet where we had lunch. They would retrieve food, take pictures of the food, then taste it. At one point they had a dozen desserts in the center of the table to photograph them, then they each sampled every dessert. They were having a lot of fun. So were we. (that would be six happy people)

Money is the dominant force in Vegas. People want it, spend it, lose it, make it. I read that the backbone of the gaming economy is the slot machine. Most slot machines cost 1 to 25 cents per play. On the backs of the 1-25 cent decisions spectacular temples rise out of the desert as a testimony to people's regard for and desire for money.

I have long believed that money is an amplifier. It makes a person more of what they already are. For instance, if a person is generous, more money will make them more generous. If a person is a greedy, they will become more greedy. Which brings me to my story today. Ginger and I were filling the time between our lunch and the 7:30 presentation of Cirque de Soliel's "O". We went outside and stationed ourselves front and center in front of the Bellagio. Every hour on the hour, the fountain erupts into an aquatic dance of light and droplets orchestrated by who knows how much hydraulic horsepower under the surface of the man made pond. As the street was filled with beautiful music, I was mesmerized by the creativity and the magnitude of the palette on which the artist displayed their vision. A Sample:




I was overwhelmed with the beauty and creativity on display. It would be easy to say that this multi-million dollar extravaganza is a waste of money. I prefer to say that this money has amplified the creativity of talented people to extract beauty from pumps and water, light and music. It was a moment to appreciate the seeds of the Creator sprouting in the middle of the desert.

Visions of Things to Come

This past weekend we enjoyed a visit with our son and helped with an early start of the celebration of Reese's fourth birthday. Watching our childrens' children is a favorite activity. Sometimes you can get to see characteristics in them that you recognize in their parents and others that are uniquely theirs.

On returning from lunch, there was the odor of an overheated electrical motor in the kitchen. The adults set about sniffing and searching for the culprit. Reese, however, immediately went to the playroom and donned her fireman's helmet. She didn't say much, just stood in the kitchen with a concerned look on her face while we sorted out the source of the problem. In her mind there was obviously only one thing to do when you smell smoke! She was calm and collected, and obviously prepared. I am sure there are very few emergencies that a 4 year old with a fireman's hat and a "Hello Kitty" tee shirt cannot handle.

As Adam evaluated the situation he decided that the smell was coming from the refrigerator. He removed some plates and cleaned out around the coils. Obviously this is too big a job for one man. Hudson was more than willing to assist. You can see in the picture to the left that the project goes much smoother with a capable supervisor on location. It is important that inexperienced repairmen have the proper tools with which to work. Hudson was able to select the right implement and instruct the laborer on its proper use.



It is comforting to know that my son and daughter-in-law are in such good hands. I can rest well knowing that the fireman and repairman are on call.

Favorites

I wrote an essay one time entitled, what "I Have Learned about God from my Granddaughter". It seems that the lesson continues, but the title needs to be changed to, "What I Have Learned about God from My Grandchildren."

When Reese was my only grandchild, I always told her she was my favorite. Hudson came along and I decided that he is my favorite too. And then Gwendolyn arrived and there is no doubt that she is my favorite. I have learned that I can have as many favorites as my kids decide to have grandchildren.

I have always told Sara that she is my favorite daughter. She grouses, "I am your only daughter!". To which I reply, "So what?" I also have two favorite sons.

In the book The Shack the character that represents God speaks of people who are not quite the picture of righteous living by saying "I am particularly fond of that boy!" That story helped me to understand that God has just over six billion favorites. Each of us is the absolute apple of his eye.

I am not putting myself on the same level as Him, but I learned that if He can have that many favorites then I can handle quite a few myself. I have lots of favorite nieces and nephews, favorite coworkers, and one very favorite wife.

Try it. When you look at your son, daughter, husband, wife,_______(fill in the blank) say to yourself, or tell them, this one is my favorite. It can only do good.

Rescued

I don't know how it works. Sometimes you just get a hunch--a feeling that something is not right and you need to stop. Where does that come from? Is it a subliminal mental activity? Is it a spiritual interaction? I don't know.

Last week I was doing my job. My team and I had been working on a very complex project and had received instructions on how to make the transactions. We finally got all the pieces lined up and I authorized my operations manager to proceed. As soon as she walked out of my office, I had a start. I was uncomfortable with the instruction. I called another advisor working on the project with us and asked for clarification on the tax impact of the transaction. I discovered that if we proceeded it would result in just under a hundred thousand dollars in taxes that we were trying to avoid.

I walked into the other room and had the transaction stopped. All of this took place in the space of about 30 minutes. We had been working on the project for weeks. Why then? Why did I think of the possible issue then?

My client told me I must have a little angel watching over me. I replied, "In my work, I need several really big angels to keep us out of trouble."

Winners and Winners.

One of my favorite things to do is to play games with my family. This week we were blessed to have Sara, Emrys and Gwendolyn with us to enjoy the holidays. We played cards, we played liars dice, and we played board games. I lost every game. I am not complaining, not whining although I was falsely accused of such. I told the kids when they left that they know where they can come to win games. I am the winner as long as they keep coming.

I remember when Sara and my Dad would team up to play cards they seemed to be unbeatable. When we played cards with Mom and Dad, Dad would annoy my mother by counting out the cards she dealt to him, deliberately and methodically--one at a time--and she would let him know of her displeasure.

I remember the time when cousin Vicki was losing badly at a board game. She took the board and flipped it over ending the game--a move known in the annals of our family as "Pulling a Vicki". (Vicki to this day denies the incident in spite of numerous eye witnesses.)

I remember watching TV while playing Skip-Bo with my sister and the crew. I would be focused on a football game and would only look back to the game when my turn came. Sis would whine profusely when I would win without paying attention--much to my delight.

When I was a boy, I remember my father and his brothers sitting around the dinette set in Uncle Ed's house playing dominos, smoking cigarettes, talking and laughing, the cloud of tobacco smoke forming a haze near the ceiling of the kitchen. It was a different time.

My brother and I and our friends would go to the fire station late at night with our friends and play dominoes until time to go home. The night life in Fort Cobb, Oklahoma was spectacular.

When family and friends gather around a table to eat, to play there are only winners.