One day I Heard Voices

WLS ... "THE ROCK OF CHICAGO"

Oh the joys of living in Tinley Gardens. The backyard of our home bordered on a huge open field. We are talking acres numbering in the hundreds here. It was mostly vacant space that seldom saw a tractor come by to mow it. It was separated by an easily scaled six foot chain link fence. In the middle of this vast piece of open country stood a 500 foot tall radio transmitting tower. This was the place where the signal for WLS "The Rock of Chicago" was hurled across the country side at, quite literally, the speed of sound.

WLS was not just any old radio station. In the 1960's and 1970's it was the standard bearer for rock 'n roll music radio nation wide. It was a "clear channel" station. That meant that no other station in the country shared it's frequency, 89 on the AM dial. We listened to that station at night when visiting our grandmother in Arkansas. We heard it from family vacations in Tennessee, Missouri, and even Colorado. We are talking serious power here. Even tonight I can listen to WLS at night from my new home in the suburbs of Cleveland. I don't really want to because it has sold out and become "talk radio."

There were several reasons why WLS was significant to we little ones growing up in Tinley Gardens. First, it was a great place to play "guns." Or "war." You might find that barbaric but you need to get over it. Every kid played guns in those days and I suspect they still do. But we had a real battle ground complete with high grass to hide in, a few rolling hills to sneak up behind the enemy, and plenty of room to roam. It was perfect for reenacting world war two.

The second reason was the way the tower reenacted with the weather. Specifically, thunderstorms. My brother and I would stand in our bedroom window, which faced the tower, and watch as frequent lightening strikes sent visible currents of electricity shooting down it's guide wires to the ground below, sparking and popping all the way. One day we were in school and my mom was out shopping with a friend. As they returned to our house to enjoy a nice cup of coffee mom walked to the kitchen sink to fill the coffee pot. The window over the sink looked out upon the field and the WLS tower. Mom lost her ability to speak. Her friend, Bonnie, said she could only gasp and point out the window. Bonnie joined her in time to see a full fledged tornado slide right past the tower and make a bee line for our little home. They ran to my bedroom where dad had cut a hole in my closet floor making for an easy entry into the four foot crawl space below. That was the safest place to be during tornadic activity. While mom tried with all of her might to remove the floor "plug" Bonnie stood at our bedroom window and watched the twister veer off to the north several hundred feet before it could obliterate everything we held dear. It tore up a lot of homes and property but ours was spared.

The third reason why we loved "our tower" was because once every couple of years we got to sit in the backyard with cheap binoculars and watch skilled men climb their way to the top and paint their way down. The shiny red and white paint job never saw a tarnished day on my watch. "My boys" did a good job. I suppose they even changed the ever blinking light bulbs on the way down.

And the final reason why this tower was so special to us? Well. Honestly, you might not believe this but it's true. One day my dad was eating breakfast preparing to leave for work. Mom mentioned to him that she heard a radio playing. He listened. He heard it too. Actually, they realized they were listening to WLS and its "on the hour" news broadcast. In the broadcast it was mentioned that a convict had escaped Stateville Penitentiary which was located about ten miles to our west. Dad followed the sound of the radio and discovered that it was coming from the heating ducts. Yes, WLS was broadcasting from our metal heating vents. According to their retelling of the story later in the day, mom turned to dad and said, "You think he's in our crawl space listening to the radio?" Dad replied, "You want me to go look?" Mom, in her infinite wisdom said, "You want to get your head shot off?" Dad said that he found that idea less than appealing. And so he went to work. And mom went back to bed. Actually, she pulled the covers OVER her head. This was during the summertime and my brother and I slept in late. But when we woke up we heard the radio as well. We traced it to the same heating duct. The news was not on. Rock and roll was playing. Let's be specifically clear about this. We were listening to The Beatles playing in our crawl space through our heating ducts. And so we did what any eight and ten year olds would do. We decided to go to the concert. We skipped breakfast and made our way to the outside entrance of the wonderful world underneath our house. We pulled the cover off of the little entry way and, flash lights in hand, descended into the netherworld. We saw the water softener, the sump pump, numerous pipes and duct work. No Beatles. No escaped convicts. We scratched our heads and went off to play for the day.

At this point I would like to thank my parents for going to such lengths to protect the lives of their young children on that danger filled morning. They are both in heaven now. Probably listening to WLS broadcasting through those streets of gold.

The WLS building with the big town in the background

*As a side note, we occasionally picked-up WLS on our telephone. Our neighbor got it on her mixer. This was one honken station.

**As a second side note I came across a web site recently dedicated to radio transmitters. Yes, I did. Don't argue with me about this. For the WLS portion check out http://www.fybush.com/sites/2004/site-041015.html . There. I told you so. As a result of this discovery I found myself emailing one of the old "disc jockeys" from those sun-filled days in the summer of my youth. I told him my stories. I confessed that "The Big Dare" among the neighborhood kids was to run all the way up to the tower, touch it, and run back. None of us mustered up that kind of courage. It's inner sanctum was guarded by multiple fences all topped with differing sorts of razor wire. The retired disc jockey replied that I should thank which ever god I worship that I never made good on that bet. To touch the tower could easily have fried me on the spot. You would think maybe they would have mentioned that on the "No Trespassing" signs, wouldn't you?

One Day I Moved To Chicago Again

The day must have come but I do not remember it. I only remember arriving in Chicago. Actually, Tinley Park. Our house in the new subdivision of Tinley Gardens was not completed yet and so we moved into a local motel. No, not a "hotel." That is too nice of a name for it. It was one of those places behind a Texaco station. You know the type. Nice colored lights across the front at night made it look very inviting. During the daytime, however ... not so much. It wasn't really bad. It's just that if you wanted to watch TV you had to put a quarter in the meter. Uh huh. Really. Attached to the Texaco station was a diner. It was exactly what it sounds like. A few tables but mainly a bunch of stools anchored to the floor facing the counter. There were no backs on the stools and they swiveled 360 degrees. It's a major miracle that my brother and I didn't unscrew all of them and fall flat on the floor. It isn't because we did not try.

Dad worked during the daytime. I have no solid recollection of what the rest of us did. I do know that one night mom screamed in the bathroom because a "peeping Tom" was gazing at her through the glass slats of the crank-out window. Dad wasn't there or we probably would have had a killing. In reality, mom was more than capable of dispatching the pervert herself if she had gotten her hands around his neck.

The house we were building was about five miles away. Mom and dad managed to buy it for $100 down. That's quite funny given the current market prices. It was a simple two bedroom ranch with an attached garage. Dad way paying to have the shell built and then he was going to take it over and finish the inside. When we finally did move in I realized that this was not a perfect plan. All of the walls were mere 2X4 studs. That means the privacy ratio was effectively zero. Mom hung blankets around the bathroom to afford some privacy. That didn't help much because the plumbing was not yet hooked up. And the house was located across one street from city sewerage. That meant that a septic tank was being installed. When we moved in there were big trenches dug in the back yard. They ran the entire depth of the yard and were about six feet deep. For the first week we lived there those trenches were designated ... our bathroom. It was not pretty. Don't try to imagine it.

The water was hooked up but it was from a well dug on our own property and tasted like pure steel. So my parents and our neighbors (which was also dad's new business partner in the storm door and window industry) would drive into the downtown area of Tinley Park and fill metal trash cans with fresh city water. That's was for drinking. This trend continued until water softeners could be installed in each of our homes.

But there were many huge pluses to living in a new ... VERY new ... neighborhood. Bull dozers were parked everywhere and at night they became the dream machines of every kid that had moved onto the block. We would climb into the drivers seat and for a few precious hours practice being the ones moving the dirt and digging the holes. There were new friends. Kids we had never met. And most of them had no desire to beat me up. That too, was a major benefit. During the daytime we could ride our bikes to our content around all three blocks that had been whittled out of the corn fields on the edge of town. And as an extra added bonus, the land directly across from my house had been designated a park. Volunteer dads took the time to carve a baseball diamond out of it and for the next years I would practice being the latest star of the Cubs or White Sox, whichever team held my fancy at the moment. Yes, in those days you could root for both and nobody called you evil or a traitor. It was the game that mattered.

Finally, one day the house was finished. We had a new home. I found my way to a new school. This time there was no walking involved. No, the wheels on the bus went round and round. I got my own lunch box and my monthly bus permit was dutifully taped to it by my mom. Detroit? Who needed Detroit? I was now an official resident of suburban Chicago.

Little did I know that the best was yet to come. Tornado's and snakes. They were to shape me into the man I am today. (Snickering will not be tolerated.)

One Day I Moved To Chicago ... And Back

Dad came to get us. That was the good news. We were moving to Chicago. That was the bad news. And to make matters even worse we did not know if the move was permanent. But I was like ... five years old. So what did I care? Mom and dad moved all of our stuff into the basement of our home and rented it out. Then we made the trek to a rented house on Seeley Street (Avenue? I have no idea.) In Chicago.

I don't remember much about it except that mom was not pleased. At all. Even a little. Dad rented the place all by himself, a dangerous thing for any man to do. I recall mom mopping and mopping and mopping, trying to make things clean enough for her little kids to live in. Or maybe on. Whatever. She was really and truly hacked-off.

One day we went to a park. It was within walking distance to our rental. It had to be because mom did not drive. She wanted her kids to be able to play. Well, it didn't work out so well. While my brother and I played on the swings a car beside us caught fire. I have no idea how that happened because it wasn't going anywhere. It was just sitting there and suddenly flames were climbing up the sides of it. Mom rushed us home and that was the end of our excursions to the Chicago City Parks.

Sometime in the not too distant future we moved back to Detroit. I know it was less than a year because our house was still rented out. This time mom must have had something to do with the situation because we rented a two story townhouse on Chicago Avenue. Catch the irony?

This one was a winner. I really don't recall whether or not it was clean. I could not have cared less. Because from my upstairs bedroom window my brother and I could clearly see over the tall fence across the street and directly to the biggest video screen my young brain could imagine. Yes, my friends, we had a ring side seat to the first drive-in movie in my personal history. Unfortunately, (or perhaps fortunately?) we were unable to hear the sound. It didn't matter to us. We were in movie heaven. Every new release was ours from our bedroom perch. I have no idea what God was thinking but as far as my brother and I are concerned ...

It was very good.

One Day I Moved to Detroit

I really don't remember much about it. I mean, there was not much to remember. I moved to Detroit from the womb. Now there was a dark place.

But I digress.

9976 Vaughan Street, Detroit, Michigan. I remember the address because, well, because it was written right there on the front of my house. Little kids might not be smart but one thing they do is notice things. And before I moved away from there I had it memorized. Don't ask me about the phone number. I could not reach the phone so there really was no reason to concern myself with it.

I had a tricycle. And from it I eventually graduated to my brother's BIGGER three wheeler. It was shaped like a policeman's motorcycle. Decals and everything. Yeah, policemen in Detroit must have ridden three wheelers. Can't prove it by me. I was between zero and six, remember?

What I do remember is a "ribbon" driveway. That means that the places where the wheels went were paved with a grassy strip between them. There was a front porch with an awning over it. The backyard had a concrete porch too. It also had a sand box and a brick barbeque grill that my dad made. Very cool. I don't remember anybody ever cooking on it so maybe it wasn't such a big thing after all.

There was a basement with a workshop for my dad. He took me there one day and showed me a gallon jug full of a green liquid. He told me that it was not kool-aid. It was poison and if I drank it I would die. He really didn't have to mention the kool-aid part. The drinking and dying was quite sufficient to get my attention.

There was an upstairs too. It had mahogany paneling with closets with doors that blended into the walls and, to a little kid, was shockingly awesome. I never understood why we didn't live up there instead of down stairs.

I went to Horace Mann Elementary School. That is where I attended Kindergarten. I'm not sure but I think we moved away from Detroit before I graduated to first grade. My teacher was really nice. Her name was Mrs. Lambert. I may have been five years old but I knew she was hot. No, not in a sweaty way. I made a pumpkin out of newspaper one day just before thanksgiving. It was colored all orange with a greenish yellow paper stem. Very authentic. (Did I mention that I made it myself?) When the bell rang that day I walked out of my classroom with my paper pumpkin in my hand. And there was nobody there to meet me. I remember standing all alone on the sidewalk. No mom. No dad. No brother. Just me. And so I started walking in the direction they always pulled me in when they took my hand at the end of the school day. For some reason I suddenly noticed for the first time that the driveways actually sloped down to the street. I mean they didn't make you go "thump" over the curb to get from the drive to the road. They sloped. And they sloped very, very well. I had not picked up on that before. But I noticed it on this day and I examined every driveway on every block during my walk home. And I did get there. Not before I crossed several busy city streets. I shudder to think. And then I proudly presented my pumpkin. I would imagine that at some point my mom went ... "oops" ... and realized that she had forgotten to pick her kid up from school. But it was not a big deal to me then and it isn't a big deal to me now.

As my days in Detroit were winding down my dad started driving frequently to a far away city because he could work there. I did not understand that Detroit was a city with a whacky economy. When the auto industry went sour everything went sour. My dad did not work in the auto industry but we were affected by it. And one day I found myself crying as I looked out our dining room window at my dad's pink 1957 Chevy backing out of the driveway and turning to the left. He was going back to that far away city. He would be back as soon as he could but that didn't mean much to a five year old. I just knew dad was leaving. I did not yet know that I would be leaving soon too.

Even forty-seven years later i remember Woodward Avenue, Hudson's Department store, Vernor's Ginger-Ale, the big building downtown with the huge Christmas tree fashioned out of lights on the front in December, Willow Run Airport, Silver Cup Bread, and the building my dad worked in. I remember my friends, Chrissy and Tony. Their dad never mowed their back yard and we had big steel rods to kill snakes that surely lurked back there. We never saw any. But they were there. Tony said so.

Oh. And I remember that walk home. It was no big thing. Every five year old kid should be deserted by their parents in the depths of Detroit at least once. Seriously. I made it. And I sleep just fine at night.

Once the nightmares stop.

VBStressin

STOP!

I stole this from my son-in-law. It reminds me of Baptist business meetings.

180 degrees. It's just a thing.

I suppose the title to this blog is misleading. Let me say that it is not 180 degrees outside. 75 maybe. No sweat. (Pun intended.)

I was sitting outside on the balcony last night after our evening in Vacation Bible School ended. It was cool and the sky was clear above me. The stars made certain that I knew. I found myself on the balcony because, after arriving home, I had glanced at the weather on my laptop and had noticed a rather strong thunderstorm over the middle of Lake Erie and directly off shore of our apartment. Hmmm. Debbie was on the phone and so I made my way through the bedroom and before I could even open the blinds on our balcony door I saw the lightening. This could be cool.

And it was! As I settled into my high-rise lawn chair God's fireworks display began. For the next half hour I watched the lightening dance and flicker to my north, lighting up the lake in ways I had never really seen before. In the flashes I could see that the clouds were multi-layered and incredibly tall. When the cloud-to-cloud lightening was hitting its zenith the reflection off of the water was breath taking. I tried to get a picture but my camera just wasn't fast enough. The picture above is the best that I could do.

It's different, living on the edge of such a vast body of water. I thought about that last night after the last light had been turned off and the last words had been spoken. It's not just the view. That is the good part. However, there is an ironic part to it too.

Believe it or not, you don't have as many places to go. I mean, think about it. Being a suburban adult who grew up as a suburban kid I always had 360 degrees of potential activity. 360 degrees of roaming space. Living on the edge of Lake Erie, while beautiful, reduces your "roaming potential" by 50%! Driving northward is not an option. You can drive southwest but you cannot drive directly west without very tall tires. And you can go northeast or any other direction. But, any way you look at it, you only have half of the menu of directions to choose from. Hmmm. I suppose it is a good trade. View is important. And if I really, really want to drive a northerly route I can do that. I just have to drive a southerly route first.

There are no malls to my north. No restaurants. No stop lights. No intersections. No pedestrians. There is water. Actually, I live on the epidermis of the country. I grew up in the heartland and now I live on the skin. It doesn't mean anything. There is no lesson or deeper truth to this. It's just a thing. And sometimes things are all I have to write about.

Too tense to tango

I wasn't doing anything when I noticed it. Nobody was messing with me. I wasn't speaking or teaching or in a heated debate. I was just ... sitting. Just being. And I was tense. I mean REALLY tense. Like I was expecting a punch to the gut. You know what I mean. You've found yourself like that before. Stressed with no real reason.

I tried a little self-analysis. What is it that's making me so tight? What happened that left me tense and ready for "fight or flight." And what does it all mean? Why and what. It occupied my mind for a few minutes with no real results.

And then it hit me. Okay, that is a bad choice of words. Nothing "hit" me. Then it OCCURRED to me.

I am either too stressed or I am not stressed enough. Too tense or not tense enough. But my current level is totally inappropriate.

Here's the deal. I am a Christ follower. I believe everything Jesus said is true. I trust Him. I believe that He is alive today and living in me through the presence of His Holy Spirit

Now, if I am right, then I am way too uptight. If Jesus is who He said He is then I've got nothing to worry about. Nothing to stress over. He knew well in advance about every situation, every sin, every defect of my life. He figured it all into the equation before I was ever even born. And He went to the cross and died in order to take care of my every situation, every sin, and every defect. None are excluded. If I blow apart and commit some horrible sin later today or in five years, Jesus already knew and had already paid for it because I am His. If my life situation blows apart and I find myself alone and destitute, Jesus already took that into consideration and He has provided all I need to get through it. And so if I am right about Jesus then I am WAY over stressed.

And if I am wrong? If Jesus didn't do all of those things? If He was just kidding? If His sacrifice and grace are not sufficient? Then I am WAY under stressed. Because I am in deep trouble and nothing is going to fix that. I have an expiration date and it is quickly approaching. There is nothing I can do about it. So I really ought to be more tense and stressed than I am.

But my current stress level? Entirely inappropriate. I can think of no circumstances under which living life moderately stressed is appropriate. Jesus was who He said He was and did what He said He did ... or not. I am either over stressed or under stressed. But the middle of the road isn't a viable option.

Well. That's what I learned today. So I thought I would share it with you. Now all I have to do is figure out how to put it into practice. I have to learn how to dance when I should be dancing. That ... is where I always blow apart.

Pray for me and I'll pray for you.

Maybe anorexia isn't always a bad thing ...

A long, long time ago in a garden far, far away, a woman picked a piece of fruit from a tree and she ate it. It was a very bad decision. I do not know if she ate the entire piece of fruit or simply took a bite. No difference. For all I know she may have cleaned off the entire tree. Again, no difference. The damage was done. She had eaten fruit from the only tree on planet earth that she had been forbidden to eat from. The only one. The single tree. That one.

And I am really hacked off at her about it.

Her culinary indulgence launched the human race into a downward spiral that continues this very moment. The woman's name was Eve and she had disobeyed God. There you have it. The first sin. God said, "Don't eat it" and so, naturally, she ate it.

Ladies and gentlemen, the score at the end of that fateful day ...

Sin - 1
Obedience - 0

I've spent too much time wondering why Eve wasn't a binge eater. Why wasn't she one of those people that makes an entire chocolate cake and eats it in a single sitting? God never said anything about eating a chocolate cake. Why wasn't she inclined toward greasy cheeseburgers like I am? They may give me a coronary but they won't condemn the human race. Why wasn't she anorexic? Lots of that going around these days. What if Eve had this idea that "thinner is always better" and forced herself to stay away from foods altogether?

No. No. Eve had to eat fruit. Eve had to eat THAT fruit. And it was so unnecessary. Such a horrible decision. You know the rest of the story. With the entrance of disobedience came the reality of sin. I wasn't even born yet and I was already condemned. Fair? No. Reality? Yes. But lest I get to cocky, every time I sin I reinforce Eve's original decision. When it comes to sin I'm not anorexic either. These bad decisions are why people come to my office with screwed up lives looking for solutions. They are why people wind up in the hospital with rebellious bodies that have turned on them. That's why cemeteries are full.

I imagine that Eve was a "hottie." She was the perfect woman, set in God's perfect garden, living with God's perfect man. Naked. Without shame. And yet she had to mess up the human race with FOOD. Think about that one for a minute. Never turn your back on a "hottie." They have a way of burning you.

Fortunately, God had/has compassion on us and sent His Son, Jesus, to pay the price for our sin. That's the good news. The bad news is that things in this world are still screwy till this very day. We still live in and with the effects of sin. And it won't go away until we do. And we won't go away until we physically die or Jesus comes back. That's just the way it is.

I wish Eve had been anorexic. I wish she had taken a pass on that fruit. It would make today a lot easier. The air would be clearer. The water would be sweeter. Nuclear weapons would not exist. Neither would bullets. The planet would not know a hospital or a cemetery. Medicine? No such thing. Work-out? Why bother. Your body would be perfect. Like Eve's. Like Adam's. And you would be naked. And not ashamed.

But noooooo .....

A simple reason to worship

It's all about the sun.

It's big. Really big. It's bright. It's round. It makes my mood improve dramatically. I am admittedly solar-powered.

I am also developing this habit of going out onto the balcony of my apartment on clear evenings and watching the sunset. I do not really understand why but it is mesmerizing. It isn't like a drama is unfolding. I know it is going to happen. (Tonight I watched it go down and then returned to the living room where Debbie was watching "House" on her laptop. She asked where I had been and I told her "watching the sunset." She asked, "Did it go down?" I assured her that it had not. "No, it bounced off of the horizon and went back up. Strangest thing I ever saw." Yes, I did get "the look.")

All winter long it was impossible to see the sun from my northward facing balcony door. That was the only window I had. So from my move-in date of November 4th through ... oh ... about mid-March I could not see the sun from my apartment. Not once. Not at all. Now it sets at about my "ten o'clock" if I am looking straight out toward the lake. So it's made major progress. And you know what bothers me? I know that sometime between now and November 4th the sun is going to hide from my balcony again. It may only be mid-July but in the back of my mind I know that winter is coming. It's out there. It's waiting. (insert heavy "sigh" here.)

It occurs to me that when I am watching the sunset, I am not really watching it set at all. It is (according to astronomers) standing still. I, on the other hand, am flying backward at (living at mid-latitudes) somewhere between 700 and 900 miles per hour.

Can you believe that?

At the equator the rotational speed of the earth is approximately 1,038 miles per hour. So if the earth were to suddenly stop spinning, the atmosphere would continue moving, and everything would be wiped out by incredible winds.

All of this is going on and I have absolutely no sense of movement at all.

I say all of that to say this. Don't you dare tell me there is no God.

Game. Set. Match. Case closed.

She Takes My Breath Away

Sometimes life just is not fair. It's been a tough week for one of the best people on the planet. Unfortunately, the old idea that if you are good life will be good to you and only bad people have bad times ... well, it just isn't true.

My wife is one of the reasons why I breath. What I mean is that she's the one that makes even rainy days seem a little bit sunny. I use to think she was perfect but then I found out she isn't. Since then (and that happened a looooong time ago) our marriage (aka: friendship) has been even better. You see, if she were perfect then she probably wouldn't want to hang out with me.

That makes sense.

Asthma has been pretty good to Debbie this year. It seems that the climate we have relocated to has been much friendlier to her lungs. Less heat. Less humidity. Less of whatever it is that triggers her desperate gasps for air. This is a very good thing. A thing we are both grateful for. I hear that it's been a nasty spring and summer in St. Louis. Tons of rain followed by tons of heat and air crud. I'm glad she's not in that. I'm glad she's done so well. But the last few days haven't been quite as good. No, nothing like some of her past years. We haven't darkened the halls of any hospitals. (Thank you, God!) But she has gotten reacquainted with her nebulizer. She's lost her voice a few times. And her toes keep turning blue. Yeah, blue.

You know, I can't imagine what that must feel like. I mean to have to fight for every breath. To have to look down at your feet for a clue concerning how much oxygen is in your system. That stinks and I hate it for her. But I'm so glad that she keeps winning the battles. Living on the lake is something that she loves. Last night was a rather cool night and she asked if we could open the sliding balcony door in our bedroom so that she could hear the waves crash into the shore all night long. I hesitated. That meant turning off the air conditioner that we count on to help filter her air. I slid the door open and it felt cool and clean. The breeze, while not strong, was coming from the lake. So I complied and listened to her breath while she listened to the waves. She did just fine. At two in the morning I closed the door and turned the air conditioning back on. No reason to take chances while she is sleeping.

I know that most of the people that read my blog also have active prayer lives. So I'd be really grateful if you'd pray for her. God has done wonderful things in our lives and we are tremendously grateful. Every day is a gift. And it would be really nice if she would be able to breath her way through them all with me.

Thanks. It means a lot.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #23

I left a yellow piece of paper under his windshield wiper. Just for fun...

Crazy Glue. It's not just for crazies anymore.

I've done it again. After years of benign glue activity I have managed to soak my finger tips in crazy glue. I caught the problem in time ... I think. After realizing that I had done this unfortunate deed I stood in the parking lot of our apartment complex turning circles with my hands and fingers pointed toward the sky. That way nothing could stick to me except a wayward sea gull (which could conceivably think I was offering up bread crumbs for a mid-day snack.) Or perhaps a Mayfly which survived the most recent manifestation. It didn't happen.

Finally, I reached oh-so-carefully into my LEFT jeans pocket with my RIGHT hand in a desperate attempt to reach my keys. Debbie realized I was acting oddly (okay, not so odd for me but still) and I told her what had happened. I got "the look." After retrieving my keys I got us into the building and, finally, our apartment. I went directly to the sink where I washed and washed and washed.

Note: You cannot wash off Crazy Glue.

I do not have access to any Crazy Glue remedy: fingernail polish remover. So I just waited until the stuff hardened. Currently I have no finger prints on the index or middle fingers of my right hand. They are glued over. And yet, like an idiot, I made my way directly to my mac and began blogging this post. I cannot feel two fingers and yet it occurs to me that I may well end up "one" with my macbook pro. I mean, I love Tess (that's her name) and all. But I also like to put her down occasionally. (I mean on a table. Not put her down like, "You're ugly.") So perhaps I best stop now. But I know what happens if I stop. I'll wind up glued to something like the TV remote. Or a book. Or a chair on the balcony. Or ... toilet paper.

Decisions never come easily these days.

Parade time on Lake Road

Well, we are experiencing our first "Community Days" in Sheffield Lake. Translation: There is a carnival down at the parking lot of a grocery store downtown. Downtown won't be downtown for long because they just announced that the grocery store will be closing in November. Hey ... more room for next years Community Days!

Anyway, our church had a float (nice job, Hicks family!) and a bunch of kids rode on it throwing candy to the crowd. Adults walked along side handing out lunch bags with information on them about our coming Vacation Bible School. I drove Emma the Mustang behind the float with kids sitting on the back throwing candy too. Debbie was having an "asthma day" and I didn't want her to try to walk the half mile parade route. Anyway, it was pretty cool. TONS of people And here are a few quick pics from the cell phone.

Pieces of "The Pie" to die for

#1 - Aurelio's PIzza ... suburban Chicago
#2 - Geno's East Deep Dish Pizza ... Chicago
#3 - Gino's 140 Pizza ... Bethalto, Il (Pepperoni & Onion, please)
#4 - Giordano's Deep Dish Pizza ... suburban Chicago (ANY toppings will do)
#5 - Imo's Pizza ... St. Louis (extra sauce!)
#6 - Mama Santa's Pizza - Cleveland's "Little Italy"
#7 - Roma's Pizza - Bethalto, Illinois (White Sauce!)
#8 - J Bucks - Clayton, Mo. (BBQ Chicken. Mmmm.)
#9 - Cannoli's - Florissant, Mo. (Okay, it's actually pizza soup but it counts)
#10- Still searching!

Write right

I love to write. Sometimes I live to write. It's cheaper than a psychiatrist. And yes, I do know that for a fact. Writing is often where I take the saplings that are growing in my mind and turn them into full grown trees. Sometimes they turn into Redwoods. Sometimes they just turn into Maples or something of a lesser quality. But writing is where fledgling thoughts turn into full blown ideas for me.

If only they were always good ideas.

I have not written much lately. I suppose that is because I choose to write in a place where people (that would be you) can read what is going on in my head. In my heart. And every now and then my head and my heart gets full of things that just don't need to be published. Things that are best left between God and I.

I've watched my blogs evolve over the years. I won't bore you with the story of how or why that happened. But it did happen. And it will probably happen again. Or maybe not. One thing I have learned is certain is that I really do not know what is going to happen tomorrow. And I certainly do not know what life will be like one year from the moment I now inhabit. I suppose it is best that way. It makes it more difficult for me to screw up God's plan.

Not too long ago I spent a couple of nights in my house. No, not my apartment. My house. The one that one of you should buy but won't! (I wish you would stop being so selfish!) While I was in that house I looked at the pictures on the walls. Many were pictures of a young family. A family that has spread out now. A round trip to all of our homes would now (according the the Almighty Google Maps) take about 1,300 miles. How did that happen? I thought about the family parties and the many get-togethers with friends. It kind of made the place feel haunted.

It's not haunted. It's just empty. Nobody is asleep in that house tonight. No dogs bark. No garbage in the can. It's just a house.

But I digress.

I've said just about all there is to say about the big old lake outside my door. I no longer ride a motorcycle so I have no harrowing stories of near death experiences. The Mayflies are gone again. For now. Life is different. Life is, well, new. I don't know who plays second base for the local major league baseball team. I have no idea where to find a real honest-to-gosh shopping mall that is both indoors and also relatively up to date. Just lots of very nice outdoor shopping centers. Does it matter? No. Not even a little bit. It simply underscores the differences between life "then" and life "now."

So here is what I think. I mean, as best I can figure it all out.

Life moves fast. And then it slows down and you don't think it will ever change. I mean, EVER. And then when it finally does it totally takes you by surprise and you aren't sure what to think or what to say or how to act. And you start thinking too much. You spend too much time filtering things through your brain and not enough time smiling at God. He is, after all, smiling at you. I mean ... me.

Family is so important to me. Friends make my spirits soar. The simple pleasures of life that are actually relatively silly become treasures that provide flavor to what can easily become a mundane, tasteless life. But the really important thing in life? Well, that would be His Smile. The smile of God. It comes when I least expect it and it reminds me of the importance of order. The smile of God should be very, very high up in the order of what is important to me. Everything else ... less so. Even those things that are, rightfully, extremely valuable and of great worth. Yes, even those things should pale in the shadow of The Smile.

And so I stopped writing for a while. And I had to really push myself to write tonight. And I doubt that I have written anything at all that should be deemed worth reading. But I went to bed when my Debbie did. She was not feeling well so we retired earlier than usual. I listened to a 45 minute long podcast of a sermon. It made me think but did not motivate me to write. And then I tried to talk to God and I am pretty sure that I heard Him tell me to go on and go to sleep because He would stay up all night and watch out for the world. I'm going to do that in just a moment. But first I grabbed Tess the Laptop and made my way into my mega-chair ... better knows as my "fuzzy buddy" or simply "The Date Chair." And I typed in the appropriate web address and now here I sits. Typing. Writing. Telling whoever might take the time to read that, to me, it is so very important that I write right. And if I can't write right, well, then I won't write at all. Because I want to grow trees. Redwoods. And sometimes the seeds just are not there.

Therefore, I beg your patience. Many of you have been reading my blog faithfully for years. Do you know how much that means to me? Well, it means a lot. And I really do not want to waste your time. I want to write right. I use to write most everyday. And I am sure I will do that again. Who knows? Maybe that starts tonight. I'm not the type that can be satisfied by just writing about my day. I have done a lot of that lately. That is because what's in my head needs to stay in my head until God responds to it. What is in my heart needs to stay in my heart until God deals with it. Or shows me how to deal with it.

Because if I am going to write ... I am going to write right.

Wanted: Blogging motivation

I've never felt less motivated to blog. I think I have become blog impaired. Perhaps I have been buzzed by one Mayfly too many. Maybe it was overdosing on Tahitian Treat. Or it might simply be that I've OVER-CHEERED for the Cubs to decimate the Cardinals. (They did 2 out of 3 times. Mission accomplished. We all know that it was my cheering from Cleveland that caused the victories.)

I have nothing funny, deep, inspiring, or mildly amusing to write about. My friends ... I am boring.

Tomorrow I shall take the proverbial bull by the horns. I shall step out of bounds. I shall pursue creativity and frivolity. And I will reenergize my blogging. For now it's ESPN or C-Span. I just can't decide which way to go ...

Duped by Dastardly Dead Beats

They got me. Right between the eyes. The previous blog? It's animated. Lies. All lies. http://www.animusic.com/index.shtml

John Deere. I trusted you. I'm trading in my tractor.

God Bless John Deere

I got this from a friend in John Deere land. It was accompanied by the paragraph below. Read it and then watch the video. Not bad for tractor boys.

This incredible machine was built as a collaborative effort between the Robert M. Trammell Music Conservatory and the Sharon Wick School of Engineering at the University of Iowa . Amazingly, 97% of the
machines components came from John Deere Industries and Irrigation Equipment of Bancroft, Iowa, yes farm equipment!
It took the team a combined 13,029 hours of set-up, alignment, calibration, and tuning before filming this video but as you can see it was WELL worth the effort. It is now on display in the Matthew Gerhard Alumni Hall at the University and is already slated to be donated to the Smithsonian.

You've Got To Be Kidding

This is what my apartment door looked like when I left for the office this morning. Hundreds of Mayflies. They crunched under foot on the sidewalk. Sweet.

Fifty-Three

I am suppose to be in a meeting right now. I'm going to be late. Today I am fifty-three years old and I have decided to take advantage of my new found maturity (no laughing) and get there when I get there. Besides, they'll be better off without me.

I've been thinking about this whole "53" thing. It shouldn't bother me. And it doesn't. But it does have me thinking. Not so much about the future. I've been thinking about the past. It has been a very good past.

In those 53 years I have managed to get somewhat educated. I managed to do the usual things young Americans do. You know. Survive Kindergarden. Drive a car. Date. Get married. Have children. Figure out a direction in which to point my life. It's all worked.

But here's the real deal. As I look back I see very, very few decisions that I would change if I could. And the ones I see are so minor that they really would not have much of a bearing on my today if I were to be able to change them.

God blessed my childhood with parents who loved me and a brother who didn't kill me. (Though he tried.)

God gave me the wife of my dreams. I am still amazed when I wake up every morning at her love and faithfulness to me. I could not be more serious about this. I think there are times that I tested her resolve on these issues but she has NEVER failed. Not once. How many men can honestly say that? (I love you, Debbie. Deeply. Passionately. Permanently.)

My kids are tremendous. They are not exactly mini-remakes of me. They all have brains and plans and the ability to chart out their own lives. The thing is, they are all going in the right directions. They love God. Two of them have taken mates and the third is about too. And the mates they have taken are beyond ... way beyond ... anything a dad could have dreamed for his kids. Not once have I looked at any of them and said, "Ooops. Maybe that was not the best decision and choice." And their spouses (and almost-spouse) even seem to love and accept me. Warts and all.

I have the world's best granddaughter. She gives me hugs. Deep, huge hugs. And when a month or two goes by and she doesn't see me because we live over 500 miles apart ... well, I show up with a bit of concern that she will have forgotten this particular grandpa. And you know what she does? When she sees me she smiles and walks right to me. And then she melts into my arms and we hug and hug and hug. And in her hugs there is peace. The peace of knowing that God is still at work in this world because He produced someone like her.

I have friends that I do not deserve. Two of them just spent the weekend here in our apartment visiting Debbie and I. Stephanie and Eric are this early 30's couple that we got to know well when I pastored in Illinois. They are great people. And for some reason they have decided to allow this 50-something couple to just be real long-term friends with them. Why would they do that? I have no idea. But I am so glad because I love them so much. (Eric and Stephanie, if you are reading this ... thanks.) Beyond that there are many more friends and I am deeply grateful and amazed by them all.

What do I have to complain about? I have a God who loves me and sees after my every need. He listens to me when I need to talk to Him. He puts food on my table. And He puts gas in my car so that I can keep up with this long distance family and the obligations I find on my plate each day. Best of all he has guaranteed my future with Him forever. In His house. And, my friend, that is nothing to dread.

So I plan on enjoying 53. And I plan on looking forward to 54. There is just nothing to dread. And the reason? Because my Heavenly Father loves me. And He sent His Son, Jesus, to pay the price for my sins so that I can be forgiven and live a life with Him forever. Nobody ... not the fiercest enemy ... can take that from me.

So, Father in heaven, thank you. Thank you for 53 years of untold goodness. Thank you for amazing love and amazing grace. Thank you for accepting me unconditionally because of the sacrifice of Your Son. Thank you for today. Can we spend it together?

Why I ...

Shave - Because my chin looks like a 8 month old Christmas tree when I don't. Lot's bark with nothing growing on it.
Sleep - Because sometimes I get lucky and dream about playing for the Cubs. (I'm starting to think maybe they really never will call me up.)
Email - Because it's easier than talking on the phone and I can't go over on my minutes.
Read - Because I have a bottomless hole in my soul that I want to fill up with truth.
Write - Because I have to do something with the stuff that keeps leaking out of the bottomless hole in my soul.
Avoid my ipod lately - Because I'm psychotic and am afraid somebody is trying to get my attention and I won't hear them. (I told you ... I'm psychotic.)
Love the Cubs - Because they represent all that is right with loyalty, tradition, and ... my childhood. And they are the best team in baseball. I'm just sayin ...
Love cheese - Because it's either orange or it has holes in it and I love orange things and things with holes in them.
Am a Coke-a-holic - Because I love things that tingle, burn, and are opaque.
Hate my feet - Because my big toes don't bend. Really.
Love Katie Voitek - Because her brain is warped in the exact same way my brain is warped. (And because she tells me things about Bratwurst that makes me eat chicken.)
Miss "Rhonda the Motorcycle" - Because she set me free on back road Illinois.

Hail VS. Pizza. And the winner is ... PIZZA!

You ever see hail the size of your head? Me neither. But as Debbie and I left Chicago yesterday the clouds were building. We had time and so we chose the route through downtown Chicago. We crossed the skyway and entered Indiana. I punched our favorite pizza place into the GPS and found an "Aurelio's" in Muncie and we headed there. It was beginning to rain as we got back into the Trail Blazer and hit the toll road again.

Then it started. Like, REALLY started. First it rained. Then the clouds dropped. It was s-c-a-r-y. (Tip: When you are driving through a major storm do not ... NO NOT ... look in that little convex blind spot mirror you might have on your gas guzzling SUV. It would make a sunny day in Hawaii look tornadic.) Well, then the hail started. And it just kept coming and coming and coming. I mean, this wasn't just a hail storm. This was the mother-of-all hail storms. Traffic slowed to about 25 mph. I figure that was about how fast the storm was moving and we were both going in the same direction. So we drove through it and through it and through it. It took like ... an hour to get out of it. And the genius on the radio kept talking about the beautiful weather in Chicago. Well, we were about 25 minutes out of town and the only thing that was beautiful was my pizza pie.

Speaking of which, do you know how hard it is to drive with your knees through a major league hail storm? I'm here to tell you, it ain't easy. But I had the worlds best pizza and it had sausage and mushrooms on it. What was I to do? I did what you would do. I ate the pizza. If I'm going to die in a hail storm I'd prefer it would be while chewing a sweet sauced, greasy pizza.

Well, we didn't die. Debbie was looking out the side window as I drove and she said the ice appeared to range from moth ball sized to golf ball sized. It wasn't fun but the pizza helped.

I have a new favorite restaurant!

As you can see on the banner photo above, I a new favorite restaurant! They have a "Deacon Enchilada Buffet" every Sunday afternoon! (Just kidding, guys.)

Stupid Picture Chronicles #22

Well, this isn't really a stupid picture. It's just that Debbie and I were sitting at a stop light. In Madison. Madison, Wisconsin. This was the view out the windshield as she asked, "Is Madison the capital of Wisconsin?"

"Uhhhhhh ... Why do you ask, honey?"

Just another night in my backyard

Use to be in my backyard I would heat up the old weber grill. Throw a couple of burgers on it. Maybe a dog or two. A brat if I was REALLY living high. Sometimes I would climb on my dad's old riding lawn mower and make a few spins around the grounds, trimming the grass down to a very low level. It brought back great memories. Almost as if dad were riding there with me. When Bear (our Golden Retriever) was still around I would clean out the dog run. Okay, I'd have the kids clean out the dog run. (I'm too old to start lying now.) Sometimes the boys and I would play a game of catch. Or we would take turns standing in the front yard hitting whiffle balls over the house to be caught by the other two in the backyard. Our huge trees would often make the whiffle ball act more like a pin ball, bouncing from limb to limb before (hopefully) coming to rest in our hands. After dark the hammock was the great temptation. It would hang between one maple tree and an iron pole marking the end of the clothes line. You could look up through the branches of the trees and see countless stars. Until an ant dropped off of a leaf or a limb and into your widely gaping mouth. Yum. Kelli loved the hammock. She hated the ants. The hum of the air conditioners could be clearly heard as the neighborhood fought to keep the oppressive summer heat at bay. It was a great place to raise kids. Actually, it wasn't a bad place to just "be." Then, in the last years, the storms came. The trees paid the price, nearly dying in the gales dropping out of the thunderheads. It cost me over $1,000 to get them shaped up so that they would be safe to walk under again. Today they are beginning to regain some of their former beauty. I've always believed in letting trees grow. Never was one for much pruning. I always said, "They are God's trees. He can trim them anytime He wants to." Well, he took me up on my offer and it took me days to clean up the mess. There is a lesson there. Somewhere.

My backyard is different these days. Tonight it is filled with hundreds of the famous Cleveland "Mayflies." You don't dare walk outside tonight with your mouth open. I'm not exaggerating. They will fly in and bring a few friends with them. The wind is howling in off of the lake. With sliding doors open on both ends of our apartment we officialy live in a wind tunnel. Last night we slept with our bedroom patio door open and enjoyed the lullaby of God's waves crashing into the shore. It was hypnotic. And tonight? Well, a picture is worth a thousand words. A video? Must be worth a million. Here is my backyard on this cool, windy, bug filled, June evening. (About a third of the way through the video you will see a black blur. Not to worry. It's simply a Mayfly buzzing my lens. And by the way, walk 31 miles straight ahead and you find yourself in Canada.)

Score one for the little guy!

Cars have feelings too. I mean really. Emma the Mustang isn’t any different. We’ve developed this relationship over the 6 years of her life. It’s quite special. You might even say intimate. She shares her deepest needs with me. Her thirst for fuel. Her desire for frequent oil changes. An occasional bath. I meet her needs. In turn she takes me places. We go up and down the highways (always abiding by the speed limits and other rules of the road.) That’s all I need from her. I nice sunny day, cool temperatures, and a casual ride. The relationship works for us.

And so we look out for each other. That’s what brought us to last Saturday night. Debbie and I had been out of town. Emma stayed in our apartment buildings parking lot while the Trail Blazer did the dirty work. Shortly after we got back a survey of the fridge showed us of our imminent need for a grocery store. We fired up Emma and drove to “Giant Eagle.” We pushed our little chrome cart up and down the aisles, grabbing the needed ingredients to keep our tummies from rumbling. We went to the cashier, paid our bill, and exited to the parking lot.

My breath became ragged as I saw the car BESIDE Emma. It was a 1970’s vintage Mustang Cobra. Black. Her hood indicated that she sported a 351 cubic inch engine. Ouch. I could only imagine how that made Emma feel.

“Why, why, why does a guy have to park a car like that next to Emma?!” I asked Debbie. She began loading the groceries into the trunk while I secretly wiped the drool from my chin.

And then the owner showed up. He was this studly 40ish kind of guy with a small bag and a big key. “Oh man, did you HAVE to park there?” I asked him.

He laughed and said, “Hey, they are both Mustangs.”

Sure. I patted myself on the back while making a mental note that Emma is a convertible while this beast of a Cobra would always remain hot on those brutal summer days. I watched the owner slide into his car and put the key into the ignition. I braced myself for the rumble to come.

“Click.”

Huh?

“Click.”

The Cobra’s owner looked up at me. I busted up. I am soooo sorry but I just could not help it. I was doubled over Emma’s spoiler when the guy said, “Well, at least I’ve got jumper cables.” I told him that Emma and I would be happy to help him out… providing he wouldn’t mind my capturing the moment on the camcorder of my cell phone. The rest is history.

Score one for the little guy.

Flat

Water is flat.

Okay, that is not always true. Sometimes there are waves. Boats leave a wake. I can only imagine what hurricanes do to the big pond. But basically, in its natural state, water is flat. There is just no denying it. Peter (see yesterday's pictures) and I have been staring at the horizon for an hour and there are no bumps, hills, mountains, or anything else out there. Flat. The sun went down a while back and I can't be 100% sure but there is this freighter out there in the distance that has been making its way slowly from west to east and I have not seen it go up or down one bit. So it must still be ... flat.

It is a study in consistency. And consistency is not something you usually get in life. People change. Addresses change. Your team wins one day and loses the next. The world is in a state of constant flux. Flux can be good. It keeps life interesting. Keeps you on your toes. Consistency can be boring. You always know what you are going to get. There are no surprises.

What is the meaning of it all? I have no idea. I wrote that several hours ago before I got called out on a hospital run in downtown Cleveland to a hospital that I never found. But it's all good because the guy who was in a motorcycle accident (that I was going to see) is going to be alright. But now I can't remember what I was driving at.

Uhhhh.

I love Dasani?

Aquafini makes me smile?

I'll sleep on it and maybe it will come to me in a dream because it was obviously really going to be an awesome blog.

Feeling hot hot HOT...

So it finally got hot in Cleveland. I mean, it had to happen sooner or later. I think this is the first time in my life I've been wearing a jacket into late May. I like it. I received a rather perverse pleasure knowing that many of my friends around the country were already sweltering in the pre-summer heat. I do think I like the climate around these parts. I didn't mind the snow. The cold wasn't all that overwhelming. And the spring has been ... spring like. In the meantime my family and friends in Wisconsin, Chicago, St. Louis, and around the country all seem to have been washing away under floods and huge mega-storms.

Of course there was "The Great Air Conditioner Debacle." There are only about 250 apartments in my building. I would think (knowing what I pay for rent) that they make a fair income here. And yet they have this policy that the air conditioning system is not turned on until the date the average temperature is 70. That was last Wednesday. So they turned it on. Guess what! It didn't work! Guess what else! It was in the mid-nineties! Guess one more time! They didn't get it fixed until after the day I moved my stuff from the old apartment and out of the U-Haul into the new one! Wheeee! I mean, wouldn't ya think that they might just check and make certain the system works sometime around ... oh ... early May? Noooooo. That makes too much sense. I love the people that work in the office here. It's not their fault. But the owners must be a little shy on the brain cell side. You know, the kind that tries to "smoke a ham" but can't keep it lit so they switch to cigars.

Okay, I can't believe I just said that. Chalk it up to the heat.

So anyway, here's a few shots of the new place. Once I canceled Debbie's asthma medication we broke even with what we were paying in the old one room joint. (Calm down. I'm just kidding.)


"Peter" made the trip from our front porch to our new balcony. We purchased him on the Apostle Islands on Lake Superior. He's glad to be back home on the lakes.

The pool view isn't as good ... but that's probably a good thing too.

We'll actually have a tree to turn colors if we are still in the apartment when fall arrives. (Please God ... sell our house!)

Look! A living room!

Look! A living room from another angle!

You can't see the other rooms yet. They need ... um... Debbie's touch.

Ashley

I'm dealing with something that I do not know how to deal with. Again. Ashley. I wrote about her in 2002 on this blog. At that time she was just a young kid. She was in my youth group at church. She had Leukemia. I got to walk a long road with Ashley. It was an honor to be allowed to be a part of her life. A part of her journey. She beat that horrible disease. It slid its slimy tail between its legs and ran off into what is joyfully called "remission."

And now it is back.

While at the airport earlier this week waiting for a flight to St. Louis her father called me and gave me the news. Neither of us spoke with steady, strong voices. When I got to town Debbie and I went to her house and visited with her and her family. Ashley is a beautiful young woman now, having just completed her freshman year at a university in Kentucky. She came home to enjoy a great summer. Instead she developed head aches. The doctor ran his tests and came up with the awful diagnosis. Now Ashley will have to reenter the hospital next week. She will probably be there for a month. At least a month. We are fighting for, praying for, remission once again. And the next step will probably be a bone marrow transplant.

I don't get it. I don't understand this one. There is a lot more that I could say tonight about Ashley but I just do not have it in me to type it. Let's just say that I cannot get her out of my mind. She is my friend. I helped her learn to love Jesus. I saw His joy in her eyes. His light shining through the past filled with pain. I heard her share her story with over 700 kids at camp a few years ago. Ashley taught me a lot about living life in the midst of pain. I think she taught me more than I ever taught her.

I do not know what is next for Ashley. I do not know how this plays out. Nobody does. Only a loving God that allows a fallen world to sometimes experience the results of its rebellion. Ashley is not perfect. But this disease is NOT God's judgment on her. She is His child. She has trusted Him with her eternal future. In 100 years neither Ashley, her parents, her family, her friends, or her old youth pastor will be worried about her. But right now? I just want to make it all better.

One of the toughest parts of being an adult is the realization that sometimes things won't "go away" simply by our kissing them to make them all better. And frankly, that is a part of being an adult that I just hate tonight.

I am praying for my friend. I would be grateful if you would too.

Moving ...

... is a highly over-rated activity. I advise against it.

Okay. Just ONE more...

Dedicated to Dana at Mamalogues...

I don't drink beer

Maybe I'm getting carried away with this Tim Hawkins stuff. But I feel like I just found a gold mine of laughs. This one is a favorite ...

Cletus, take the reel.

Some things just defy any attempt at narrative. Watch and weep.

Check out time is 1:00 PM Saturday

Bittersweet? No. Not exactly.

Sad? No way.

I'm not really sure what tonight feels like. Seven months ago today I moved into this little apartment. I brought my clothes, an air mattress, and ... and ... well, that's all I brought. When I first walked into it after dark on a Tuesday evening the wind was howling like my former Beagle on the trail of a renegade squirrel. In the dead of night you could still see the white caps of the waves rolling in on Lake Erie. I knew that this was the place I wanted to camp out until my house sold and my wife joined me.

Well, the house has not sold but my wife did show up. She's back in Missouri this week babysitting our granddaughter. And so I'm spending my final night in this little room all alone. The wind is absent. Almost eerily so. (No pun intended, Mr. Lake.) There are no white caps tonight though I did see a baseball cap or two on various heads strolling around the parking lot or by the pool. And the dreaded "Mayflies" have not only invaded the outdoors but one just landed on the screen of my laptop. Not good. He paid the ultimate price.

I've spent a lot of time thinking in this room. A lot of time praying. A lot of time agonizing over what God's will is for the church He has sent me to serve. He has not answered all of my questions yet. I suppose it will have to wait for the next apartment. The only meals I have cooked here have been in the microwave. The only phone has been my cell. I have fallen in love with the garbage chute. I have finished six books and I'm in the middle of the seventh. I have read over half of the bible here. I have looked at my balcony with the realization that I would not under any circumstances step out on it because of the ice and snow cover. And, more recently, I have spent entire evenings on it watching God put His sun to bed. To the best of my memory only five people have entered my doorway since I moved in.

Yes, it has been a lonely place. But I won't forget it. And I won't miss it. Still ... it is strange. I was thinking earlier that it is like reading Edger Allen Poe's poem "The Raven." I don't totally understand it. What I don't understand intrigues me. What I do understand frightens me. God has been doing a work on me in this room. It is a silent work. That is my least favorite kind. He hasn't told me what He's doing. He's just, well, doing it. And it leaves me going, "Hmmmmm." God often leaves me going "Hmmmmm."

So tomorrow it's another jet which leads to a U-Haul which leads to my house which leads to filling the U-Haul which leads to driving back here and moving the "stuff" of my life into another apartment. Same lake view but from six floors lower. It's got a real kitchen. And a breakfast bar. And a living room. And a bedroom. Honestly, after seven months it sounds like a mansion.

God, if you read my blog, (and I suspect that you do,) thank You. I mean, for everything. The quiet. The loneliness. The frustration. The joy. The gazillion fast food meals. Blowing backward on the parking lots ice without even moving my feet. The trash chute. The view. The first day. The last day. The days in between. I don't understand it all but you do and I'm good with that. Just ... thanks.

(And God, erase three more Mayfly. Sorry about that.)

Coincidence? I think not.

It has come to my attention that following the Cubs 5-3 victory over the Rockies today they have won 7 in a row. They swept their entire road trip. They have the best record in baseball. And ... they are playing .632 ball. Today is June 1, 2008.

So let me ask you, when was the last time the Cubs played at least .632 ball on June 1st and had the best record in baseball?

Anybody? Anybody?

That would be June 1, 1908. One hundred years ago today. Interestingly enough, that was also the last time the Cubs won the world series. Yes, it has been 99 years of frustration. I've lived through 52 of them and I've cared about the Cubs for roughly 44 of those years. 44 long painful seasons. My autographed Ferguson Jenkins jersey is turning a bit yellow with age.

I might also point out that the White Sox are also in first place in the American League Central. This irritates the life out of my new Cleveland friends who have fallen 5 games behind the Sox. And that is after the Sox managed to lose the last 3 games.

What does it mean? Well. I'm not sure. I just think it is ... interesting. Very interesting. Gas is quite expensive these days. Jet fuel can't be much different. Maybe it won't matter, come October.

Maybe they can just take the El?

Stupid Picture Chronicles #21

You know, I don't mean to poke fun. Really. I'm not the type to do that. (STOP LAUGHING.) And I certainly don't mean any disrespect. But sometimes, well sometimes you just have to say ... "What?"

Like with this statue. I came across it this week.

Now let's make one thing clear. Jesus is my Lord, my King, my Savior, my Hero, my Everything. And I'm positive He held children just like this one in His arms. No doubt. I am not making fun of Jesus or children. I'm not making fun of any person's faith. It's the expression of faith that sometimes makes me cringe.

Having said that ... do you really think Jesus would have given that child a cross to hold? Obviously, this statue of Jesus was pre-crucifixion. There are no nail scars on the hands. No thorn marks on his brow. I kind of doubt that He walked around handing out miniature crosses to children. Actually, I doubt that He met many children with blond hair. Maybe I'm wrong about this and if so I'm sure you all will let me know. Still, I have my doubts. A cross was an instrument of torture and execution and I kind of doubt that the God of love would have tormented children by passing out trinkets of the equivalent of the modern day electric chair or a gurney with an arm rest for your pending lethal injection.

I do like the Lilly's though. That's a nice touch.

That Girl

I will go ahead and confess. The title for this blog post has been ruthlessly ripped-off. I stole it from a song my son-in-law, Joe, wrote about his daughter, Elle. Joe looks like this ...

Ignore the bars in the background. Joe was not in jail. His band, the "Fundamental Elements" were in a battle of the bands before a Cardinals game at Busch Stadium this week. The bars are to keep out the non-paying Customers. Anyway ... If your brain is engaged you will have already figured out that his daughter is my granddaughter. The song is amazing. It will be available in a few weeks on i-tunes. If you like love songs ... especially love songs from a dad to his daughter ... you will want to check this one out. The bands name is the "Fundamental Elements." They already have a cd available but the one with "That Girl" will be out soon.

This blog is not about the song. It's about ... that girl. Elle turned two years old this week and she looks like this ...

Now I ask you. Is that not a face that could conquer continents? (Hint: Go with "Yes.") Elle is an unusual child. I know, I know. I'm suppose to say that. I'm her grandfather. It's a girls birthright for her grandfather to brag about her. To be proud of her. And I am. For all of the usual reasons. But there is one reason that is ... different.

You know what is most remarkable about Elle? She loves me. I mean, it's just that simple. She doesn't ask questions about whether or not I've been good. She has no idea what I do for a living. She doesn't care if my shirt matches my pants. She just loves me. Just because. I can't talk too much in her opinion. She doesn't think I am capable of saying something stupid. She never gives me "the look." She loves to talk to me. She loves to sit with me. When I ask her for a hug she always gives me one. How is it that two little arms can bring so much peace?

You see, my granddaughter is ... is ... well, she's the best granddaughter God ever created. No, I have not met them all. I don't have to. I've met Elle. That's quite enough. I got to spend some time with her this week in between dragging branches to the street at my house that has been empty all to long, trimming bushes, dusting furniture, and doing all of those things you have to do in order to make your house attractive enough for some unknown person to buy it. I spent the nights at Elle's house. We celebrated her birthday in her garage on Memorial Day. (Don't ask.) We ate cake. We played with toys. We read books. And in the middle of all of that Elle did something to me that very few other people can make me do. I simply relaxed. The world went away. There was just "that girl." And that was more than enough.

When I am with Elle I understand a little better what Jesus meant when He said we must become "childlike" in order to inherit the Kingdom of God. We have to love like Elle, without reservation. We have to trust like Elle, knowing that the one in charge is trustworthy. It helps to laugh like Elle. Her laugh makes me laugh. It makes all of the darkness that likes to gather in my heart melt away into pure light. (Yes, I admit it. Elle has her moments. Every now and then she gets crabby. But it's almost always because she's over tired. No, she isn't perfect ... but she's the closest person to it that I have seen in a long, long time.)

Okay, well I just wanted to make certain that you got the opportunity to meet "That Girl." At least you can see her through my eyes. Do yourself a favor. Find yourself an "Elle." There are more of them out there than we realize. And then do what I'm trying to do. I'm trying to build a little bit of "Elle" into my life. I want to be childlike again. I want to remember the simple, the awe inspiring, the trusting. I want to be worthy of The Kingdom.

That Girl

My Next Career...

After much thought, deep pondering, and a bit too much pepperoni I have decided on a post-ministerial career. (Note: I don't plan on having a post-ministerial career. But should I be wrong, I've got my next gig lined up.) I am going to be ... (drum roll) ...

AN ICE ROAD TRUCKER!

Yes, indeedy. I will never trade in my bible for a trucker repair manual but I will set it beside me on the big seat. And then I will creep northward in my growling rig, edging my way toward the hinterlands and the frozen tundra. (This is going to be so cool.) By then I want to look like that guy they call "Polar Bear." This will be a challenge because I absolutely cannot grow hair anyplace but on my head. And that is getting more questionable by the year. Okay, by the month. Week? Geez. Alright. By the day, darn it.

Just last night I woke up thinking I was listening to the creaking of the ice under the weight of my massive rig. Then I realized it was my spine. (We are sleeping on an air mattress this week. My back is reliving November, 2007 - February, 2008.) Still, it SOUNDED like cracking ice and that's what counts.

Ice road truckers don't have meetings. They don't have to ever wear a suit. Tie's are unheard of. They get to whip around big chains and use neat stuff like ratchets and winches. It's just them, the rubber, the ice. And, of course, the stray shark ten feet under them hoping for a mid-winter snack.

Did I mention that I don't swim? I mean, not even in the summer. I just don't. So I plan on staying on TOP of the ice.

I'm hoping that Kevin Costner will play me in the Hollywood production they are destined to make about me. Buy popcorn. I might get a cut of the proceeds.

(P.S. My next post will be about something deep and meaningful. But it's gotta be "in ya." And tonight I just want to cruise the polar ice shelf. Does it help if I say, "Jesus is my co-pilot?" I didn't think so.)

Now That's More Like It!

Remember that old puzzle kind of thing they use to put in the newspapers? They would print two nearly identical pictures that actually had six tiny differences and your job was to find them? Well ... let's play again!

Here ya go ...

Photo #1


Photo #2


I know it's tough but keep trying ...

Inning #5. Baseball 7 - Ron A GAZILLION!!!!

HOUSTON, WE HAVE SPLASHDOWN!

And I have no video. No proof. Debbie was feeling sick. And she was on the phone with Alisha. She was not on the balcony with a video recorder.

I had already tried once today and my poor sore arm was not happy. But after an hour the baseball called my name again. If you ever played baseball you know exactly what I mean.

It whispered, "Ron. One more time. Just one more time."

When a baseball pleads no self-respecting man can refuse its call. I grabbed it in all of its brown glory. I stepped onto the balcony. No warm-up. No scanning for the best angle. No adjusting for the wind. I just threw it.

It carried over the grass, over the rocks, hit the sidewalk, bounced once, and immersed itself into the Great Lakes.

It is gone forever. And I have no proof. But if there is any integrity left ... any trust left ... so help me that ball is on the bottom of the lake.

And then the strangest thing happened. I was jumping and yelling and dancing. I told Debbie and I ran down 9 flights of stairs and straight to the place where the ball crossed into semi-international waters. And there, on the sidewalk, was a coin.

A coin.

I don't know what kind of coin. It isn't from the United States. I thought it was Mexican but the print looks oriental. And it was just lying there, marking the spot of my victory. What's that all about? I have no idea.

I only know that ... THE BALL IS IN THE LAKE!

We aren't home yet

I wonder why disaster keeps striking in such enormous ways. Earthquakes. Cyclones. Tornados. It just keeps coming and coming and coming. People are dying by the tens of thousands. Why?

(We aren't home yet.)

Life is going whack-o. Gas is $4.00 a gallon. Airlines are cutting service. Truckers are in deep trouble. What's going on?

(We aren't home yet.)

My almost daughter-in-law is having surgery tomorrow. I'm concerned about her. Why does someone so wonderful have to suffer?

(We aren't home yet.)

My sister-in-law is still recovering from a very long illness. She's doing well but not even close to being back to normal yet. Why does healing take so long?

(We aren't home yet.)

I visited a woman in the hospital today who has been knocking on deaths door. Her predominate and repeated statement was, "Bless His holy Name." Why does she have to linger when she wants to see Jesus?

(We aren't home yet.)

The more I ask God what to do about a particular situation the less certain I am concerning His will. Why can't I hear and understand more clearly?

(We aren't home yet.)

I miss my kids, my granddaughter, and my closest friends beyond all ability to put into words. Why does God sometimes require us to be far away from those we love?

(We aren't home yet.)

Living in a one room apartment with sterilite furniture for seven months is not my idea of fun and tonight I found out that the new real estate agency I just contracted with to sell my home has already lost my paperwork. Tomorrow I have to reprint, resign, and refax it all. For the third time. What's the deal with that?

(We aren't home yet.)

My wife and I were eating lunch today at a restaurant in Cleveland. A man came and stood over us and asked if we had ordered the chili fries. (Clue: they were sitting on the table between us.) We said yes and then he told us what he had ordered. He was obviously very, very lonely. Why do people have to be lonely in the midst of 2.5 million people?

(We aren't home yet.)

I was sitting on a concrete wall along the lakeshore tonight watching the waves roll in and the ships roll out when a friend called. He was sitting on a lawn chair near his home watching the traffic go by and breathing fresh air. We had both been thinking of the other. We are connected by the same Spirit. Why does that Spirit draw us together while keeping us at such a great distance?

(We aren't home yet.)

After my friend and I hung up I asked God "Why?" And I heard Him. He said ... "we aren't home yet. But when we get there? When we get there it will all make sense. And it will all be fixed."

He promised. And He asked me to remind you.

inning #4. Close. So very, very close. Baseball 7 - Ron 0.

Today the arm felt good. The wind was calm. Mayeflies were swarming. Yet sometimes you just ... feel it. So you uncork another virtual ROCKET. Here she goes. From the ground up.



Can you believe that? That's her, sitting there all brown and beautiful just at the edge of the rocks. I don't know if I need more altitude on my throw or just more horsepower in the arm. Geez. Maybe tomorrow. All I have to do is carry those darn rocks ....

Highway To Heaven

Why do I miss all of the good accidents? I've been stuck on this particular expressway so many times but I have yet to have free cookies to make it worth my time ...


MORRIS, IL -- You'd need a lot of milk to dunk all the cookies that spilled on an interstate highway in Illinois this morning.

A trailer loaded with 14 tons of double-stuffed Oreos overturned, dumping boxes of cookies all over the road and the median about 50 miles southwest of Chicago.

It shut down the highway and backed up traffic.

Illinois State Police say the truck crashed after the driver fell asleep at the wheel.