Hero

There are few people in my life I would call a hero*. The term is thrown around loosely and usually involves super powers or supernatural abilities. This guy possesses neither (to my knowledge) but has the character traits that, in my book, qualify him as being a bonafide star.
*(n. a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities.)

The man is at the top of his game and got there via a faith-filled approach to his life, family and work-a life of integrity and honor-treating people with respect, grace and care. A division I athlete at the University of Minnesota, he took his outstanding work ethic into his professional life and made excellence his forte. A humble man, never yelling or using foul language to make his point-rather leading by example, he is respected by peers and those who have had the good fortune of being under his tutelage. His family and friends have the utmost reverence for him as he is a man of his word and strong leadership.

Yes, my Dad is one of my greatest heroes and I am grateful to be his son. Thanks Dad, you are one of an ever-decreasing number who exemplify what it means to be a man.

And the other guy in the picture just happens to be Tony Dungy. I think he won the Super Bowl or something last year.

Lunch Lady Land

For some reason, the other day, a memory hit me. Not a frightening one or a particularly significant one, but a memory nonetheless. I think it was because I've been watching my friend Chad work day and night on a project (he's the new product developer for an educational software company) that seems to have no end. It's a software that basically allows parents/guardians to add money to their child's 'lunch account' at school. By using a credit card, a parent can easily add credit so their child can eat lunch at school.

My memory was the one with Mrs. Hess (or Juanita Ernst, can't remember whom) and her lunch ticket cart. Every week this woman would take her media cart and roll it from room to room and offer wee kids the chance to purchase lunch tickets. At so young an age, I can still remember whose parents had the most money. Our teacher would let us line up at the front of the class, pull a wadded up check from our little pockets and approach the ticket cart. As we fumbled our little hands to hold out the money, in return we received a number of tickets (the same ones used for drawings, wound around a big roll) corresponding to how much was written on the check-I think at that time lunches were like $.90. I still remember some of the kids walking away proudly with a stack of tickets folded on top of themselves-a virtual smorgasbord promising peanut butter sandwiches and mushed turkey and gravy on potatoes. Others returned to their desks with enough for the week. And still others-with one or two goldenrod tickets that held the hope of mere days worth of lunches. I now wonder about the kids who never visited the cart.

It's funny how at such a young age we were subjected to the scrutinizing eyes of our classmates. Who came away with the most tickets? Who remained at their desks, averting their eyes onto a list of spelling words or math problems?

I don't think it's ironic that Chad and his wife, Liz, share a compassion for the people, the wee kids who never get to buy a lunch ticket, never have their 'account' full. They started a non-profit organization, Project Foodstock (watch the video here) to ensure that every kid gets to eat not only while at school, but at dinner time, every day. It's the contribution, not only on the clock, but in their free time, of friends like the Caswell's, who bring action to their convictions.

Days Like This

When you wake up to bright, sunny skies in Minnesota in February, you don't need to have lived here too long to realize you're being duped. Such is the case today. There's not a cloud in the sky, branches swaying a little, maybe I should take Tabby for a walk? In 3 minutes we'd both be frozen solid. It was -15 with a -40 wind chill as we headed out the door to church. Reminds me of what now feels like 4 months ago-a Caribbean cruise.

Enjoy the pictures. They never do the experience justice. What you can't see in the pictures are all the open time slots, the lack of schedule, not having to rent a car or take out my wallet all week. In marriage there are lots of things to learn. Very few you grasp off the bat-most take wading through the differences in wiring many, many times. For some reason, we got our vacation philosophy set year two. (Just writing about vacation ignites some ideas to blog the question, 'what is vacation?' and who in the world deserves it?) Anyway, we have been very fortunate to take a yearly holiday and (spending consciously) we see them as an opportunity to get our batteries recharged, to connect, to rest. And as far as I'm concerned, I would never have to change that philosophy!

We talk about a European 'vacation,' or a 'vacation' to the mountains to go hiking and sightseeing. Sounds like a lot of work. For now, we're perfectly content to pull up a chair, read a book, close our eyes and do nothing for a good week.

Pictured (L to R): Mary and I in front of some Norwegian viking symbol aboard the Norwegian Sun. Troy taking shot at arm's length. Mary looking out over Roatan, Honduras. Troy with Atlantis over his shoulder. At the port in Nassau, Bahamas. And, oops, how did a picture of the Nassau Starbucks get in here?

Signs

I saw an intimidating sign today. I was driving north on 35W and noticed a big orange construction truck blocking the entrance to an off ramp. Several garbage-can-looking objects were sitting in the bed of the truck, blocking it's rear window. I was almost past the truck when I took another glance back and saw a sign the cans were hiding. It read:

Stay Back. Stay Alive.

To read this on the back of a construction truck as an individual who spends a fair amount of his time putting words and moving pictures to relay experiences, I found it all at once amusing.

I saw visions of small soldiers guarding the rear view mirror with mini shovels, heard the "Mr. Big Voice" movie trailer guy warning in his stern way, saw 2 people fencing, John Travolta dancing to a new rendition of his song and a scene straight out of Camelot.

I think I would have written the sign: Please do not get too close to this moving vehicle since your very livelihood is at stake in this matter. Thank you for your cooperation. -Management. But I suppose it's true-in the world of words, less is more.

Good Blogging

I just read a blog about blogging. When you read books or articles by writers, for writers, you will come across plenty of similar encouragement: read and write. Read a lot so that you can get a feel for others' voices. Because, after all, much of writing is about finding and developing your own written 'voice.' The second general encouragement you get is to write, write and write. It's like anything-you have to practice to get better. Even Stephen King says so. I can't name most rules of the English language, meaning I can't tell you when you get wrapped up in a dangling participle or expound about modifiers. I think I can eye a sentence and, for the most part, manipulate it so that it sounds like it was freed of a dangling participle and that no modifiers are imposing. But that is some crazy God-given talent that I still don't really understand.

Like Mary can throw numbers around all day, do it well and be energized by it, I am more and more eager to read and write, read and write. I got the bug bad about 5 years ago and watched it fizzle a bit in the past 2 years because of my career change. But there is something so liberating about sitting down and allowing the words to jump through my fingers. Those few aha moments when I can articulate something exactly the way it is in my core are worth every keyboard strike. Sometimes they turn into one long run-on sentence (I lied, I know a few grammar rules)...and sometimes they just work.

So, back to this blog about blogging (after reading it I realized I broke most of the rules). Great little article and I've been encouraged more than a few times by the practicality of Writer's Digest. Check out the article here (20 Tips for Good Blogging). Enjoy and happy blogging!

Minimum Speed Limit

In the words of Tom Cochrane, Life is a Highway. (Beware, by clicking this link, the song will be in your head for days.) So, let's say, for the sake of argument, that life really is like a highway. It's a worthy comparison and one that I've spent some time thinking about this morning in relation to who I am.

I seem to have spoken/written a vocational description into being when I added 'storyteller' to my business card almost 2 years ago-ooh, call it providence. I get a cute, warm, fuzzy picture of a bunch of kids squirming around in a semi-circle in the library of Neill Elementary school when I first think of storytellers. But after letting this image go and embracing the term in its timelessness, I sense a great responsibility to try and fill the shoes of this role. I could, of course, scrap the stacks of business cards for a sharper descriptor, but wouldn't that be boring?

So, life is a highway and I often find myself in the slow lane, turtling along at 40 mph. There are lots of cars on the road and with every rotation of every tire, each car/person is experiencing another little patch of life it hadn't the moment before. And with cars speeding along at 65 mph, and every rotation bringing new encounters, smells, words, thoughts, it's hard to imagine how much life we experience in one short trip down the highway. It's time-consuming enough to digest our side of the story at 40 mph, but imagine the speedsters flitting from one destination to the next at 70+.

While turtling along at 40 (this doesn't mean I'm an underachiever or slacker as I've also come to appreciate), the rushing of traffic is to my mind's ear and eye an onslaught of small graces, conversations, major life events, menial tasks, elation-the gamut. It's the trip to Chicago this past week to celebrate the life of Mary's Grandmother and everything those 2 days brought with it: reuniting with extended family (and for me in-laws), laughter, tears, a passing of the torch, seeing again our vulnerable lives in the reflection of eternity, trying to bridge relational gaps, and of course the 15 hours in the car which is another story altogether). Each of these pieces can be transcribed and crafted into a worthy narrative that holds a nugget or ten within. Instead, I'm forced to pick and choose which I have time for and the others will have to settle with being tossed in the back seat alongside empty doughnut bags and Starbucks cups.

I'm reading Improving Your Storytelling by Doug Lipman (and had you told me I'd be doing so 10 years ago I would have laughed and taken you off of my Christmas card list). It's a great tool to help develop your aural storytelling skills. Yes, you are a storyteller, too. We do it all the time when we share stories around the dinner table, tell a spouse about our day, recount embarrassing moments at a party. It's just that with life whizzing by, we have to develop an eye and ear for those stories that we need to communicate-those with teaching moments, truth and common ground for the human experience. It's why we're drawn to novels and movies, because we find our stories in those of others.

The speed limit in our society seems to increase all the time and it shows no signs of slowing down. This is not to say we just stop the car. But maybe it means picking a few of our stories, honing them and putting them in our back pockets for use in the right situation. Master them, tell them in different ways to different 'audiences' and enjoy being a conduit for God's creativity and voice. Telling stories is a gift-to the teller and the receiver.

So, go on! Tell your stories, pass the tradition, open lines of communication, break down walls.

You don't need a business card.

Facades

In my quest to become even more Midwestern (very proud of my heritage as a Scandinavian), I finally picked up Lake Wobegon Days by Garrison Keillor. While set in small town Minnesota, I love the vivid imagery and storytelling ability of Keillor to relate even to us city folk. He picks up on the subtle nuances of life and character so well. Here's a passage from chapter 2 that I found striking a chord.

It was a printed poster entitled NEW ALBION, THE BOSTON OF THE WEST, and under the title, a perfect picture of a town with great buildings, stately homes under broad trees, avenues thronged with traffic. "Home of New Albion College, World Revered Seat of Learning Set in This Mecca of Commerce and Agriculture. Dr. Henry Francis Watt, Ph.D, Litt. D, D.D., President. Choice lots Remain For Purchase, $100."

"Mr. Bayfield," Henry gasped. "You take me for a much better man than I am!"

"Mr. Watt," Bayfield replied, "you will do just fine, sir. You will accomplish the purpose admirably, I have every reason to believe it."

"But Doctor! You have me a doctor of philosophy, literature, divinity-great God! I'll be found out! There will be a scandal! Outrage! People will never forgive it!"

Bayfield put his arm around the young man's shoulders. "You seem to be ignorant of the true nature of doctors," he said. "My boy, the first and foremost work of a doctor is to inspire confidence in his being one. So long as the public has faith in him, then any man can be a doctor, and if the public hasn't faith, then the greatest doctor in the world will have no effect on them."

"But the degrees. I have no degrees," Henry pleaded.

"First, we shall get the college on its feet. Then the college will grant you every degree that is needed."

"I will get my degrees from my own college? Me, the president of that college? Do you think it is right, Mr. Bayfield?"

"This is the West, Mr. Watt. Here, men are not so dependent on the opinions of others. Here, it matters less what others think than what a man himself says he is. Look around you, sir, and you will see men who are mere mechanics, workingmen, even foreigners, become masters of great affairs and vast estates. That is why we have come here. So as not to be held back by requirements!"

The facades that we erect around us are many. The 'degrees' that we hold are even more numerous. If you have any confidence in the world, I wouldn't doubt you, like me, have faked it. Be it in a work setting, at home, or before an audience at a dinner party. We're trained fakers.

Unless you're willing to spend lots of money and time, sometimes the best education is living. It's getting involved. It's meeting new people, engaging. Learning through experience. I've found this is how I learn best and I'll never have a degree to show for it. After all, I'm a writer.

Togetherness

As I was sitting in my favorite spot the other day eating my favorite food and drinking my favorite drink I experienced a flood of short conversations I've had recently. Not the ones in my head, mind you, but rather chit chats with Mary, my Mom, Chad and, o.k., maybe a few from my head. I'll spare you the backstory that led me to this place, but all at once I realized I am enjoying a great sense of togetherness right now. Not that I don't normally, but it's always a good time to take stock in the many small and big graces I both enjoy and take for granted. And not that I'm 'happy' or 'carefree,' because words like that don't ever tell the story-no, it's more of a deep-seeded sense of togetherness.

I'll explain. Mary is getting her MBA right now and so the simpler life we enjoyed until September waved bye-bye, at least for Mary. But, this new challenge affords creative ways to spend time together. I had the privilege of putting together a short video for her last big group Organization Development presentation (no one else had a video in theirs) this past week. It wasn't a paying gig, but it was rich in time and creativity spent together.

This month is a month of celebration for Mary and I: both of our birthdays, our anniversary, Christmas, nephew birthdays, brother-in-law birthdays. Exhausting! And one of the joys is getting to eat and laugh and play games with our family. These precious times are here, right now, ripe for the picking. We're both so grateful for those in our family who encourage and challenge and love on us. It's a good day being together with family.

I get to meet my dear friend Chad at Starbucks every single week. We talk shallow, deep and anything in-between. We've been getting together every week for something like 6 years now.

Mary and I get to take Tabby to the 'parky' a lot this time of year and watch her frolick in the snow. She absolutely loves the snow and can't get enough. So, more Mary, Troy and Tabby time...together.

And today Mary and I celebrate 3 years of marriage together. She is the beautiful-inside-and-out woman who talks me through sleeplessness, pursues laughter, stays in shape (and keeps me in shape,) challenges herself, desires peace, lives a raw determination yet balances the chaos, spends time every single day being quiet and enjoying God, has became the loving adoptive mother of my doggy daughter, cherishes my family and so much more. Every day of being married holds new promise and I'm grateful to Mary for helping me see life in a way I never could have experienced it. I only hope I can be this for you, Mary.

At the end of the day-when I've given up on an unreturned e-mail, read one too many news stories, been disillusioned by empty promises-togetherness is a gift I can't hope to parse with words.

Expensive newspaper

It's four below zero in Burnsville this morning. We've got an ongoing battle with our 20 year old furnace that wants to keep puttering out and I've gone to bed several nights in the past two weeks of below-average temperatures thinking we may be frozen to the bed in the morning. Last night we were victorious once again. So, it's really cold here. But we've got nine inches of snow on the ground and it definitely feels like December should 'feel.'

I am sitting on the downstairs couch that looks out onto our small plot of back/sideyard with a view to the main road in front of our place. From my vantage point, I can see (an obviously crazy) person walking slowly on the street. I couldn't see what this person was doing until he got over the snowdrift that was blocking my view of him/her.

It was the humbly paid local newspaper delivery boy/old man. It's hard to tell how old anyone is after age 12 nowadays, especially so bundled up in layers in four below zero temps. But, as he slowly, slowly got closer, I could tell he was an older gentleman. With a beet-red face. And he was delivering the little local paper that I read maybe once a year because of someone I know in a story. It typically sits on our front step, two, three or four bi-weekly editions deep, collecting mold, until someone decides it's finally time for recycling.

I watched the man amble slowly-with his drop foot and shuffling gait, to the other townhouses on our street. It took a while-long enough to develop frostbite if you weren't very careful-to get to our place. I imagined why he must be doing this. The news must be delivered to the people! Or maybe the regular delivery guy was "sick" and he was a last-minute stand-in on this frozen day. Or maybe it was his only source of income as a retired person and he is supporting himself and his wife with it.

We're really good at being end-users. That neat little boxed-up term that means we don't have to do any of the grunt work, we just get to enjoy the final product. I get to savor a meal prepared by a middle-aged man on medication for depression-just barely holding his job. I get to wear clothes made by children who are forced by their parents to work 15-hour days. I get to experience life and freedom because someone who didn't have to gave their life.

There is a backstory to everything. I have an intense 'context' complex that (forces me or allows me) to see situations, attitudes, facial expressions, dialogue, etc. nestled in the context of the backstory, the history or special circumstances surrounding a person. It helps me to a better glimpse of why we are the way we are. We are so accustomed to seeing the tip of the iceberg, the head of the pin, that we often forget what went into getting to that place. I wonder if we stopped and considered the backstory more often we would hold our tongue, our thoughts, suspend our judgements more...just long enough to find the common ground in both of our contexts.

The CEO who has risen to the top of his/her field after 40 years in the industry. The alcoholic desperately trying to cover a life of disappointment. The single parent. The successful teacher. The car salesman. We all have backstories. The man with the makeshift cart delivering the community newspaper to a townhouse development on a crazy cold Saturday morning.

If for no other reason, I'm going to read that paper for the delivery boy and the painstaking effort I know he took to deliver it.

Specialness

Enlightenment.

My short blogging hiatus can be blamed on self-loathing and lots of learning. As anyone in America is vividly aware, the Christmas season has now been upon us for a little over 9 weeks. It's not even December and I've heard every Christmas song ever recorded at least 12 times. I would be frustrated at the overkill but for those entertaining little nuggets of sales information we affectionately call commercials.

I started to feel bad when I saw an intriguing spot about a guy getting a slew of white elephant gifts for Christmas. (I'm not in the habit of memorizing television spots if they don't have a catchy jingle, so I'm taking the liberty of summarizing here.) The guy got a wicked looking clock, some little trinkets and it was evident he simply wasn't enjoying a fruitful Christmas season. I mean, really, how could you? The man had probably been a good boy (40 years old or so) the whole entire year and then...what?! No good toys? Aw, nothing but a bunch of junk he'd have to return in long lines. But, just when you think his holiday is a bust, the jolly voiceover reminds us that we have it within our power to rectify others' shopping follies. We can get what we really, really want. Cut to serene and snowy picture of 3 brand new Lexus' perfectly gift-wrapped. And just as I was getting bummed with the guy for all the crappy stuff he got for gifts, my hopes were renewed when I realized that if I visit a Twin Cities Lexus dealer and give them $35,000 of my own money, I can have a good Christmas, too. Brought to you by the car company who engineered a self-parallel-parking series. Life would be easier if someone else did the parallel parking, you'd have to admit.

And then I learned something from Dodge. I guess they have figured out how to bring the family together. Again, a wonderful service brought to us by those kindly generous higher ups in the executive community. They have actually done their research and found, first of all, that the family nucleus in America has suffered. Perhaps a result of the video games or internet or headphones or constant DVD's playing as babysitters...I mean, who truly knows why the family in America has suffered? It would take at least ten minutes to figure that out. And I don't have that kind of time. Regardless, Dodge is making some headway in this area of familial reconciliation. The voiceover tells us that "Dodge is bringing the family together again..." And guess what they found brings the family together, no kidding? A minivan (that looks exactly as past models without increased safety features) that has, get this-headphones and DVD's playing and video games! Dodge actually found that those same distractions that have caused a healthy family nucleus to become less interactive actually reunites the American family. That is so cool. I can't wait to have kids so we can pop in a DVD, crank up the tunes and never talk to our children in the backseat. And then kick my feet up and watch the reuniting take place. Thank you, Dodge.

This holiday season, if you want your dignity questioned and your intelligence insulted, watch lots of commercials.

(The author does indeed, for research purposes, recommend taking one 15-minute span of television watching time with your family or friends to critically analyze the advertising genius of American capitalism--then come to your own conclusions.)

The Wistfully Whacked Out World of Disney

Saturday mornings I don't usually watch cartoons. But I turned on the TV Saturday morning (another thing I don't normally do) and found myself watching the Disney cartoon The Replacements. I'm not familiar with the show, but it was a scene about baseball, so I indulged for a few minutes and found myself critiquing everything I saw, which I usually DO do.

Here's the setup. The family: mom is Agent K, a beautiful blonde cartoon with a slim figure and British accent who "insists on trying to adapt her super-spy skills to parenting, with little success." Dad is Dick, an overstuffed stuntman and "Like Special Agent K, he has no experience parenting, but a total lack of knowledge has never stopped him from doing anything." Todd and Riley are the two stereotypical kids.

The situation: down by a run (or maybe they are tied), the kids have to score a run to win the game. I think Todd was at bat and I found myself intrigued by point 1.) The kids used a satellite contraption to steal the signs from the catcher as an advantage in hitting. The scene passed by so quickly without so much as a nod to the cheating, Disney must assume all teams have access to such technology and that they were in fact, playing by the rules.

With Todd cheating his way to first base, the plot thickened. Shelton, the potential winning run, a scrawny nerdy kid, made his way to the plate, terrified and knock-kneed. A couple of pitches went by and 'blam!' he was beaned by a fastball. The crowd went nuts as Shelton's beaning forced home the winning run. Ah yes! The little nerd wins it by taking one for the team.

The entire scene was less than 3 minutes but notice what I got from that short segment: 1.) Dad and Mom are less than adequate to parent (but look good), 2.) kids cheat to win and are celebrated and 3.) the little stick of a scapegoat kid gets nailed for the good of the team. I'm not a parent yet, but I'd have to worry about my kids watching this seemingly innocent little show that depicts parents who are inept but attractive, kids cheating and pre-pubescent boys getting hit by fastballs so the cool kids can win a game. Hmm...

Call me over-the-top analytical, but this miniscule act on the stage of unprecedented media intake should warn us that we need to question the value of what we watch. Are we ingesting TV, movies, games, etc that align with our values, beliefs and faith? Or are we settling for a digital babysitting box to breathe our society's flawed systems into us?

Ah, words.

These beautiful little building blocks of conversation. They hold the power to beat down, lift up, honor, discourage, confuse, portray and tell a story. Words are such a creative and wonderful gift with which to communicate. We can use them lazily or efficiently.

We think them, throw them at people (or in expletive cases, at inanimate objects), dream them, ponder them, learn from them, ignore them. We dissect them, analyze them, worry about them and, at times, receive our lifeblood from them.

And throw in the tone in which they're given or received, the attitude to which they're attached, and you've got a virtual smorgasbord of material to critique.

Words have changed nations, history, lives and self-esteems. And an individual letter can alter a meaning.

I just started reading Brendan by Frederick Buechner and found this nugget this morning...

Beg not, refuse not, she said. One step forward each day was the way to the Land of the Blessed. Don't eat till your stomach cries out. Don't sleep till you can't stay awake. Don't open your mouth till it's the truth opens it.

As we make our way through the days, my hope is that I will consider every
dotted 'i' and crossed 't' to mine the truth from the untruth.

Picture this...

So really this entry is more of a daily update. You need to see the picture to appreciate it, but I've got these industrial strength (studio-looking) headphones on to drown out the conference call Mary is on here in the Fig T home office. I'm having to crank up the volume because they are hitting the call pretty (loud) figuring out the group presentation for her Organizational Development class. (Did I mention she aced her first grad school class?)

Just as some people can only fall asleep while listening to music or with the TV on or can study with a movie and iPod blaring...I cannot listen to music with words (though Don Henley is now playing on my awesome 80's iTunes station) while writing. So, if this is an all-over-blog tonight, you'll know why. Blame it on Henley.

The real news (ala the Onion) is what's been going on with the Green Gronseth's. We have replaced some bulbs around the house with the mega-efficient, money-saving version. I replaced a ceiling light with one that uses 1 bulb rather than two. We're trying to drive smarter. But here's the (perhaps 'dumb' as one called it) kicker: we're competing (now within our household) to see how far into the cold weather we can go before turning on the furnace. We've seen lows of 23 a few nights in the last week. And we have thus far beaten old man winter.

In fact, both of us love the colder weather. Save for the cracked skin and 4 hours of daylight, we'd much rather freeze than boil. Truly we are both Minnesotans.

The lowest the temp has dipped inside is 61. Really not that bad when you light a few candles, cook with the oven (then leave the door open when finished) and wear layers.

Friendship

There's a lot to blog about these days and I'd be remiss if any more time passed without mentioning some special people in our lives. Lee and Davis Mitchell and their two beautiful children (Lewis pictured on right with Lee and Davis) and (Bo pictured on left with my wife Mary) are the kind of people you want to be associated with. Friendships are funny. There are people in my life who have come and gone during certain seasons of life (as I've come and gone from others' lives) and there are people who, as time passes, rise to the top as unique people on the journey I need in my life, those with whom I cherish the painstaking efforts of long-term friendship-building. Lee and I met 13 years ago when we were both on our first Young Life camp trip as adult volunteer leaders. Wide-eyed and terrified, we endured, nay, thrived, during the week with kids and following became pen pals. There, I said it, we were pen pals. This was before e-mail came onto the scene and cell phones were consumer priced. We had an excuse. Over the last 13 years our lives have in many ways mirrored each other with similar life experiences, shared experiences and now the great joy of having our wives begin a friendship.

Last month we had the privilege of joining them at the Mitchell family "cottage" on Sea Island. Before we got there, Davis asked us what our favorite color was. "Blue" was our reply and when we got there, we were greeted by blue balloons and got to stay in the blue colored master suite (they're all master suites, let it be known. There was truly nothing 'cottagey' about it). It was a relaxing 5 days of beach walks, food, sweet laughing kids, southern caviar (thanks Davis!) and rich conversation. I mean, hey, if you're going to build deep friendships, why not at the beach? We're so grateful to have had this time to be together.

To me it is a picture of perseverance and consistency. We've put the building blocks of faith, grace and honesty at the forefront and have seen, even through 'slow' periods of life and friendship, the harvest reaped from such a commitment. Thank God for friends and family we get to share life with. This is really what it all boils down to for me-my and Mary's life intertwined with family and friends whose arms we hold up and who hold our arms through the highest highs and the lowest lows.

Davis recently started a blog (got me blogging again) and you'll have to check it out here. Beautiful stories and pics of their family...

Anybody home?

Last night Mary and I took our dog Tabby for a walk. We're pretty good about getting Tab exercise everyday (weather pending), so it is really part of our routine. We have a little regiment that involves me getting Tabby ready (harness and leash on) and Mary getting the house ready (locking the front door and turning on the front light if it's dark). It was already dark, so we turned the light on and took off down the road.

It was only six o'clock, but in our neighborhood we don't typically have many trick or treaters, and last night was, obviously, Halloween.

The walk was fine: Tabby sniffing at and peeing on things, letting the world know she owns Evergreen Drive. When we turned back onto our road, however, we ran into a dilemma. As we approached our place, two tiny trick or treaters accompanied by adults were slowly walking up our drive. Oh no! We left our light on-and on Halloween, in a neighborhood like ours, an outside light signals candy. The scene turned slow motion. We looked at each other.

"Go up to them and aplogize that we left our light on and that we don't have any candy," I whispered to Mary.

"Run up ahead of them and find some candy in the house," she whispered back.

It was dark, but Mary was sure that the candy collectors recognized us and our dog and that we lived in the lit place they were approaching.

We snapped looks back and forth to each other. Walking. Whispered 'what should we do's?' back and forth. Still walking. Approaching...

And at that moment we made the decision. We did what any sorry hosts without candy would have done. Maybe. We kept right on walking. Past our house, down the street and out of sight.

So, our apologies go out to the little princess and Yoda who took tiny little steps, with high hopes that they would hit the sugar jackpot. We're still wondering how the parents broke the news when nobody answered our door.

We'll be sure to turn our lights OFF next year.

Slow Doughnut Weather

I have to come clean and pronounce that I am a doughnut-aholic. I'm admittedly out of my rhythm when I don't start my day with one (or two) and a cup of coffee. It's been a long time in the forming, but I do enjoy my little routine of driving down the street to Byerly's, bantering with Judy over 'the game' and getting my glazed old-fashioned doughnut(s) to go. I start brewing the coffee before I leave so that's it's ready when I get home.

And I'd have to say that over several years I have discovered a science to eating doughnuts. Especially when I have two. And let's just say for the sake of argument that I always have two. There is a strong tendency to devour the first one, making my way into the second almost without noticing the first. I'll have a book in one hand, cup of coffee in another and donut in the third. With the multi-tasking going on, I've found myself halfway into the second without even realizing it. I grasped that not only was this a cherished short time to enjoy the morning, but in breezing through doughnut 1, I'd miss the taste, the texture, the mysterious combination of bitter coffee and the sugar of the doughnut. So I had to consciously change my approach.

I started going slow with doughnut 1. I'd take a bite, sip coffee and let the two dance together for a moment. I'd read a paragraph and then repeat. The philosophy is pretty simple: if you're going to eat something other than fruits or vegetables, something that doesn't have a lot of nutritional value, at least enjoy it! It's like snarfing a Big Mac (which, truthfully, I haven't had in years). What a waste.

In slowing the process down, I experienced more. I felt the rigid contours of fried and frosted deliciousness, I saw the spirals of steam wafting from the coffee, I experieced the clashing of the complementary solid and liquid. I got more out of this little ritual.

This past week in Minneapolis has been breathtaking. It's a particular week of the year that I want to bottle. There is a strong tendency (usually when I'm walking our dog Tabby) to get the job done, mission accomplished, snarf the doughnut. Walk to the end of Evergreen and back, get the dog exercised. But this week in particular I looked up, around, behind me. I witnessed a glowing full moon, a sky painted with pink and magenta, trees that bounced orange and yellow from its leaves. The crisp, quiet air only added to the wonder of the scene. I took the mural in with my nose, my eyes, my ears and it was so delicious.

The days keep moving faster. I can't get this morning's ritual back. I can't get back the walk last evening. I can only move slower, breathe more, taste more...be present more. Allow the weight, the tension, the joy, the sorrow of each moment to be a gift shared with God. I can choose to feel an airy sunset on my face, to slow down my words, soak in smiles and conversations, enjoy being closer to to who I am supposed to be.

Back at it

It has taken watching the blogging efforts of friends to inspire me to get back, but here am I! And I'm fresh off watching game 2 of the World Series last night with a little commentary on how ridiculous Fox sports has become...

Anyone who has diligently watched games 1 and 2 has observed (likely an annoying observance) that a certain national Mexican restaurant chain has offered to give everyone in America a free taco when and if someone steals a base in a World Series game. Fine and dandy. But, leave it to Fox to create the hype and give millions in free advertising to the aforementioned taco establishment. It's what we've become...a free-talking, free advertising nation of money-driven execs who want little more than to pad their pocketbooks and drive consumers to a Grade D meat-filled diet.

But, it's nothing new. Janet got millions of free advertising in giving up self-dignity when she lost her top during the Super Bowl. Britney gets countless hours of free publicity from the press and entertainment media when she makes poor parenting decisions. On and on the list goes of goofs who attract attention by making stupid decisions. And the media continues to feed the beast with...free tacos.

I hope Joe Buck is getting some payoff for his valiant advertising effort for the many detours he took viewers through during games 1 and 2. We don't want to hear about free tacos. We wanted simply to watch the game with some colorful commentary on America's favorite pasttime. We don't want to hear the CEO of already-mentioned-chain-restaurant tell America they're doing it for their customers. And we certainly don't want...your free taco.

Another small example of America's lust for money, publicity and a free lunch.

I'm wondering if next game they'll make a dozen pitches for an antacid.

Yep, I'm back.

Chapter four in A Room Called Remember (Buechner, read more here) is written on hope and the role the church plays in a rather hope-forlorn culture. As God told Moses, the ground he was standing on was holy, set apart. The general premise of the chapter was that awkward, unsure and faithless as we western church-goers are, there are reasons that we continue to go back on Sunday mornings: in hope that we will see, hear, taste, feel or smell God in that place set apart.

I thought of the service we attended yesterday. A few rows in front of us sat a woman with special needs. That’s how ignorant I am: I can only say that she had needs others sitting around her didn’t have. I would guess her to have been 35 years old, and it appeared that her mother or a caregiver sat in the pew behind her.

It was confirmation Sunday, and unless you think high school kids great, which by great fortune I do, you might have thought yesterday at church to be one of few during the year God doesn’t take roll call.

The service, led by the youth pastor, was a barrage of contemporary music, kids sharing their testimonies about how their beloved pastor pointed them in the way of God and they can’t now fathom how they would ever have become a Christian if not for the youth guy and confirmation.

And as it often unfolds for me, the message wasn’t spoken from the pulpit. It was communicated in disruption.

The woman a few rows in front of us was swaying a lot during the music. Her right leg seemed to want to walk out of her socket, but she wasn’t going anywhere. She was clapping, if I remember it right. When it was time to sit down, she sat like everyone else. But she was jittery. At a couple of, what most in the church would have deemed inopportune times, she clapped, sort of like someone trying to start a clap, or the wave, except that she could have cared less if anyone joined. She started clapping, almost wildly, as if she might even stand and start bucking her arms wildly.

A nanosecond into the inappropriate clap, the woman in the row behind her put her hand on the clapper’s shoulder. She diligently obeyed, and the service went relatively uninterrupted. The younger woman’s enthusiasm didn’t wane, though. I could see that she wanted to clap again and again and then another time during the service. She was almost beside herself with something like giddiness. It was an enthusiasm that was contagious, at least in my head.

I found myself wishing I was more like her. And maybe that’s something the church in my town is missing: more of us with special needs, clapping wildly for our God simply because we can. Because we have beheld Him in a sanctuary, or heard him in a cool new song led by a hip youth pastor, or felt Him brushing against us in a too-packed pew. There are more reasons than breaths to sway our hips, clap our hands and cheer for our Creator.

We don’t need reasons really, to clap for God, to get excited, to show a little enthusiasm. Acknowledging my past and embracing my future and new name should be enough to get me going. And maybe watching this woman clap for God moved others to look for God not only on confirmation Sunday, but in other holy places.

The Shopping Cart

It doesn’t take long, really, for man to recognize the stark difference in the way we think from that of our female counterparts. A clear example shone its revealing glory at Target the other day. On these trips, the ones I would rather forego to sweep the garage or plunge a toilet, I am given a mission. It’s a small mission I’m trusted with, one that doesn’t require a lot of responsibility, but a mission nonetheless. During the few months I’ve been married, the mission usually means gathering two or three peripheral items from the grocery department. These are the ones that, if forgotten, won’t force meal rescheduling. Gatorade, coffee creamer and chips are peripheral items.

It was in my mission-minded state that I returned, beaming, with my items collected and deposited into the cart. Looking at the cart, in horror, my wife began hastily rearranging the fruit in the shopping cart then the bread and the vegetables. Why wouldn’t you put the fruit together and the boxed and heavy things toward the back? She wasn’t making a lot of sense to me at that moment, because, didn’t you see, honey, I just completed my mission? I got each of the three items you requested. And I didn’t break a thing. Seeeeaahh?

The next week I thought I would live out some of my own personal creativity. We both had the oil changed in our cars late in the afternoon. It was a one-man operation, so changing both of our cars out took no less than 6 hours. After filling my wife’s car with gas, I brought it around the side of the station for a wash. It was automated and still open despite the closed service station. Pulling out of the wash and driving home, I called Mary in a panic. Honey, I said with anxiety in my voice. Honey, I’m stuck in the car wash. They closed the station while I was in the middle of the wash, and the doors are locked! What? What?! Her puzzled and concerned response was moving. I said again I was stuck and needed her to call the police and get someone over. Are you serious? She always asks that. Well, no. Ha ha, honey, I’ll be home in five minutes. I laughed hysterically the whole way home.

Rearranging the shopping cart. Could anything be more clear and straightforward? Why would anyone in their right mind put a box of graham crackers on top of a bag of pears as I did that day? Men just don’t get it sometimes. We two sexes are different. Gifted in different ways and very different.

That is the artistry and wonder of God’s creative sixth day.