Every once in a while, a news story distinguishes itself as particularly moving, tragic, or enlightening. I'd like to add another category for exceptional news: catastrophically stupid. I want to make very sure the reader understands this early on - I'm incensed. Angry to the boiling point and spilling over the edge. The news story in question is but flint and tinder to a bonfire that has been built over years of listening, reading, and otherwise observing. Here's the story: "Florida pastor plans 'International Burn a Koran Day.'" And at the very mention of it, I've divided any potential readers. Some are offended that a relatively inconsequent man could cause such a stir by the mere mention of such a heinous display of religious intolerance. Others might have been cheering that man on, relieved that someone finally had the guts to take a stand against a radical and violent creed. Still others might be disgusted at the media onslaught and de facto validation of this jerk that looks like he walked out of a Mark Twain look-alike contest minutes before appearing on national TV. I, readers, am all 3 and yet none. And that is why I described this the way I did - catastrophically stupid. In no particular order of stupidity, let me explain.
1) Terry Jones is stupid because he's a jerk who wanted to antagonize a billion or so people, but actually believed that he was doing the right thing! That's right - Terry Jones thought it was a GOOD idea to burn a book that fanatics the world over place more value in than their own lives (or yours!). That is a recipe for a family-size portion of fanatical and murderous hatred. Terry Jones is also stupid for trying to leverage his sudden fame/infamy and make himself out to be someone much more important than he is. It's as simple and childish as my daughter trying to leverage the fact that I want to give her a hug in to being chased and tickled a little more.
2) Those fanatics the world over? Stupid. They are stupid for placing more value in words on paper than human life. Do I really need to state it in a different way? But what constitutes fanaticism and how many murderous, hateful Muslims are there out in the wide world? Here's a quick litmus test that you can do at home: Consider how different this news story would have been if it were bibles, talmuds, or books of mormon on tap for the burn pile. Or, next time one of those ubiquitous Jehovah's Witnesses knocks on your door, tell them you'll gladly take their Watchtower magazine and use it to get a fire started in your wood stove. Might they be offended? Yes, but would you fear for your life? Then ask yourself if you'd say the same thing if it were the Koran and a Muslim on your doorstep. Ding! We have some pretty conclusive, if not scientific results, do we not? Is this based on ignorance, as the media would have you believe? Perhaps, but if the old adage is an adage for any reason at all, actions still speak louder than words, and Muslims are the current world leaders in religiously motivated violence. Sorry, peaceful Muslims, too many bad apples have people avoiding the produce aisle altogether, and I can't really say that I blame them. And here is where it gets even more stupid...
3) The media, the politicians, and every other talking head that made this a huge story is stupid because the attention given to this news item only proves that Islam is to be feared. The president saying that Islam is a peaceful religion AND that pastor Jones ought to seriously reconsider his plan to burn their holy book does NOT imply to me that the president really believes a word he's saying about Islam. It implies that he believes there will be decidedly violent consequences for burning the book of a supposedly peaceful religion. Every talking head and politician who vehemently rebuked pastor Jones gives lie to the peacful nature of Islam. I live in America. People here insult and get insulted every day. Wander online to play a game, as I some times do, and you will learn some of the more colorful ways that people get dissed on a daily basis. We take pride in our freedom to speak out, consider it a matter of identity as Americans that we can say anything to anybody at any time, more or less without fear of repercussion. It's actually a bit disgusting in it's own right that we feel so empowered, but that's another story for another day. So here we are in pastor Jones' back yard again, hearing a man speak his mind, his intention to insult a bunch of people - you know, being as American as they come - and what does the world do? It sucks in it's collective breath and utters what amounts to a "Holy $#@&, people are gonna get murdered over this!" DOESN'T THAT TELL YOU ANYTHING?
But I've digressed a little - my intention is not to convince anyone that Islam is either violent or non-violent as a whole. I mean to say that an awful lot of people are afraid of insulting Islam because there are enough examples in even just recent history to demonstrate that Muslims don't just get mad when insulted, they murder your face off. Know a peaceful Muslim? Great - I've run in to more than a few myself! Does that knowledge make the wackos any less real? No. In fact, the existence of peaceful Muslims over against face-murdering Muslims, or by the same token, peaceful Christians and vigilante abortion-doctor-murdering Christians, is not puzzling at all. It's quite simple, really. Peaceful people are peaceful by and large because they are peaceful. Ditto for violent psychopaths (you peaceful psychopaths get a pass here). I'll grant that there are many people who have found their way from violence to peace through various religious tenets, but you cannot tell me that there aren't just as many people going in the opposite direction for the same reasons. And that leads me to stupidity number four.
4) It is so absolutely futile (and stupid) to play the numbers game like I see so many people doing - Muslims have killed this many people and Christians this many, atheists this many, and so on, ad nauseum. What better way to cheapen the value of life than by comparing religiously motivated body counts (nonreligiously, I suppose, in the case of atheists)? And what better way to artificially up the stakes than by postulating which group will burn forever in hell and which will enjoy eternal bliss? Nutjobs who claim to have been to the "other side" and back notwithstanding, not one human has any firsthand knowledge of what happens after death, so why are we so obsessed with this idea of posthumous judgment? Well there, at least, is a worthy question. We reasoning beings have a corporate sense of justice and yet are faced with a tremendous amount of injustice in the days we live. It is not unreasonable to hope that, somehow, all of that injustice will be dealt with in a satisfactory manner, but as life goes on and we see more and more injustice go unanswered, the hope for that great leveling gets pushed to the realm of the supernatural where it resides, unassailable by the pesky dictates of reality. Grossly oversimplified, maybe, but generally true, as far as I can tell. Let's face it, just about everyone secretly gets a little pleasure out of imagining Hitler and Stalin suffering endlessly for their particularly epic crimes. It's certainly more appealing than imagining that they're just dead and that's it...isn't it? Just like it's much easier to imagine a loved one is lounging with angels on clouds after succumbing to cancer than it is to think of them as just dead and breaking down to their component elements. So let me bring another digression back around to the point at hand by asking why this hope for heaven and fear of hell has driven so many people to kill or be killed over the centuries? As much as I hate to leave a question hanging, I have no good answer for this one. Admitting that pains me but makes it no less true. Why, indeed, is so much of the world's violence rooted firmly in sacred texts and fomented in churches, mosques, and other places of religious assembly? I do not deny that peace is preached from pulpits as well, or sung from minarets, but again I ask, does this make the violence less real? Does it mitigate the grief of the widowed and orphaned survivors of a war between a sovereign nation retaliating and a religiously motivated group of terrorists? Tell the families of the 3000+ killed on September 11th, 2001 that, really, Islam is a peaceful religion and see if their eyes light up with relief. Tell the children whose parents have been killed accidentally by America's ongoing counter-strike that we are a peace-loving, Christian nation and see if they embrace you, the bearer of such wondrous news.
I understand that violence is a fact of life for all animals and obviously not least for us human animals, but we have that most special of abilities in the animal kingdom - the ability to think and reason at a comparitively high level, and we ought to use that gift to reason our way to maybe a little less violence and the incitement thereto. In other words, don't be stupid!
Bit of an oddity here, but I thought it would be neat to post what I was thinking on 9-09-09. I occasionally do this - write down short little thoughts or reflections, really more for myself than anyone else, but this time I'll share. This is unedited, too, so it doesn't have a lot of, shall we say, narrative strength.
Things hidden are discovered as a matter of course. Hide away and store up integrity, honesty, and compassion so that, when you are exposed, there is nothing to be ashamed of. How many friendships and marriages could have been saved but for a few careless words kept secret? How many people have traded temporary discomfort for enduring grief by refusing to come clean?
A parent's wisdom: Since approval and love are two separate things, it is perfectly reasonable to set conditions on one and not the other.
Life is good on Jackson street. Of course, life was good before, but now it is good with the added bonus of being relatively mold-free. Since my last update here, there has been the metaphorical whirlwind of activity. As it turns out, we decided to move in the middle of the worst heat wave on record for the Portland area. We literally sweated our way through the first few nights in our new home, taking cool showers at night not only to wash away the grime and dust from a hundred boxes, but simply to be able to sleep. In seeking to provide at least some relief from the heat, I thought to install our small air-conditioner in the room that was to be our office, only to discover that almost all of the outlets in our new home are not grounded (two prongs instead of three). This presents a problem that a simple adapter won't solve for an air-conditioner. Namely, the risk of death by electrocution should there be a ground fault in the outlet while said appliance is running. Some googling, head-scratching, and a trip to Home Depot later, I installed a new GFCI outlet in the office. It's not as good as having the outlet actually grounded, but it will prevent someone from lighting up like a Christmas tree should something go wrong.
The day after I triumphantly flipped the switch on my grand heat-relief master plan, it cooled off considerably and it really hasn't been hot since. Somewhere, Murphy is laughing...
But we had other problems, too. The second morning we were here, I woke up and padded in to the office to check a few things online before getting ready for Sunday services...to find the computer off and stubbornly refusing to be turned back on. Later that day, I began work on what has been a computer problem of biblical proportions, right down to the weeping and gnashing of teeth. I'll spare you all the gory details and techno-jargon, and just say that, for now, it is fixed. One of our hard drives is still not cooperating and there are some files I'd like to get from it, but all of the really important stuff like our pictures and videos are safely backed up. In fact, it's those two hard drives that are the only parts remaining from the original computer. Through the generosity of a friend - a friend whose cup runneth over with spare computer parts, mind you - and a couple of well-placed buys of my own, everything else has been replaced. And that's all I really want to say about it. Computer problems suck - just thinking about them can get a guy grumpy! :)
And all the while, we've been chipping away at the clutter, finding homes for the various odds and ends that the boxes belch out at us, looking for one important thing or another and not being able to find it, and feeling just a touch like fish out of water. Though with a month gone by now and all the bedrooms more or less in order, that feeling has ebbed considerably. I'm especially fond (if biased) of how the office turned out. We were originally going to have a TV in here, but it didn't work out (literally, the TV didn't work), and that has turned out to be the best thing that could've happened to this room. Well, that and my previously undiscovered talent for interior decorating. HA! That was a joke - I surprised myself, and I think a few others as well, when it failed to look like a train wreck. "Hey - it actually looks nice in here," they've said, in the same tone that Jim Carrey's character in Dumb and Dumber uses after receiving some help from an elderly woman: "Ya know it's true? Old people, while slow and dangerous behind the wheel, CAN still serve a purpose!" You're welcome to come by and visit if you're in the area, but in case you can't make it and are just dying to see what I mean, I took the liberty (and a few steps to my right) of snapping a quick photo.
What you won't see in the photo is the 200-ft. ethernet cable running from the router next to the computer, around the room, in to the closet, up through the attic, across the house, and in to the new Man Cave, or Man Cave 3.0, if you will. There it connects to the Xbox which sits, as ever, on top of the enormous TV. This time, though, the beast doesn't look all that out of place. The room, a converted and carpeted garage, is much more suited for it, and by "suited" I mean "we no longer have to sit five feet away from a five foot screen." Our landlord has graciously allowed us to use not only the room, but the couch and coffee table therein, as well. I love it. It's pretty close to exactly what I wanted it to be, which is a place that is not just for me, but for others to enjoy and be comfortable in, too. The young men from the youth group that came and helped us get all the furniture and heavy stuff moved had trouble suppressing grins when they caught sight of the TV, so I let them know that they'd have to come over and try it out when I got things all hooked up again. So before they could scamper off to college again, I had them and a couple other youth guys over for a couple of game nights. At 3am the second night/morning when the last of them walked out the side door, I had a couple of thoughts. 1) I can no longer keep up with a teenager on Mt. Dew and video games, and 2) It was more fun to watch those guys having fun than it usually is for me to just sit out there by myself. Subsequently, it's been fun to host movie nights with the Johnsons (if you don't know, Steve is the associate pastor for our church family. He and his wife lead the youth group as well) and basically anyone else that wants to show up. If you read my wife's blog, you'll know how much fun we've been having with our next-door neighbors in general. In the short time we've been here, we've managed not just the several movie nights together, but quite a few shared dinners/lunches, blackberry picking in their back yard which led (naturally) to the girls baking pies together, a trip to the zoo, complete with a picnic on the amphitheater lawn during a bird show, and a cook/campout in the Johnson's front yard, which was Evelyn's first successful all-nighter in a tent. Surprisingly (or not), it was the grown up girls that were having a hard time getting to sleep. Since it was a Saturday night, Steve and I opted for our own beds after we'd had our barbecue chicken - cooked in Jacquie's dutch oven on the front porch - and smores over the fire pit. We chatted for a while as the fire died down to dull, glowing embers, but the giggles were still bubbling out of the tent when I retired to our side of the fence. Evelyn, for her part, was sound asleep in between two women who'd apparently rediscovered their long lost love of slumber parties. You can see a picture from the big event over on Brigetta's blog. Being able to share life like this with our neighbors has, I think more than anything else, helped quickly turn this house in to a home. Of course, just being comfortable inviting someone in to our home is a change for us. We're delighted to not worry about whether or not our house is making us, or anyone that visits us, sick!
And on that note, I'm nearly current. It's football season again already, so Brigetta and I, being rabid Duck fans, are doing our part to encourage Evelyn along the path to rabid fanhood. I may or may not have (hint: the former), on an impulse, purchased Evelyn a hooded Oregon sweatshirt that matches my own in anticipation of the season opener tomorrow (September 3rd). If I did, it's definitely the cutest five year old clothing you've ever seen on a three year old. I'll try to get a picture up soon. In lieu of that, here's a pic or two from our first month on Jackson street:
Today is the penultimate day of our tenancy in the swamp house. My wife, a post-grad educated woman of no mean intelligence or wit, has these funny slips where she'll forget a word but try to get something out anyway. A few days ago, in anticipation of today, she said something like this: "Hey, we're comin' up on that - what do you call it.....pentecostal?
Yes, love - hallelujah, the Spirit is moving and so are we! Despite the best of our intentions, the house still looks a little too cluttered for a penultimate (or a pentecostal!) day. Anyone who's moved can sympathize with the realization that sets in at about this time: all of this has to be moved...tomorrow! There is still junk to be sorted through, part of the kitchen to pack, things to be cleaned, and the regular routine to keep up at the same time. So I repeat to myself what's become a bit of a mantra around here - "Don't worry, it'll all get done...because it has to get done." Of course, the previous three days of punishing heat haven't helped the process much. According to the nearest weather tracking station to us, the mercury rose to just over 109 degrees here yesterday. 109! In a low-lying river valley! Officially, or so I read, Portland topped out at 106 yesterday, one degree shy of the all-time record high. Portland, however, is officially tracked at the airport, which sits right on the Columbia river and is prone to be a little more breezy than here. I'm tellin' my grandkids it was 109.
Here's the good news, though - it's supposed to cool off to a refreshing 99 degrees today! Despite the cheekiness I'm sure you detect, that actually does sound refreshing right now. The back room where Evelyn and I are once again holed up for now is holding steady at around 72, but the air-conditioner has been running around the clock for three days straight. I'm excited (not really) to see the electricity bill next month!
So this is a kind of sign-off from the East Avenue house and from the Man Cave 2.0. It's been a good man cave, despite two floods and a skunk attack. There has been no shortage of look-back-and-laugh-about-it moments in the four years we've lived here, starting from the first or second night we stayed here when we noticed a large slug on the ceiling directly above our bed, and straight on through to the aforementioned skunk attack and everything in between. I'm sure the laughs will be easy and carefree down the road, but right now the laughs are a little more...vengeful. We made a list last night of things the landlords may want to address before trying to rent this little gem out again. This is something I offered to actually do for them, since they haven't hardly set foot on the property in this month after we gave notice. Some of the things we wrote on our list last night won't make the final cut, but we had a good laugh about them, anyway. Brigetta wanted to do the writing because she thought it would be therapeutic, so I dictated all the things I could think of that were legitimate issues. Brigetta filled in a few of her own that brought me to tears with laughter when I read them later. Foremost among them, somewhere between "ANTS everywhere" and "Idiot neighbor dog barks incessantly" was this item about a squatter that lives in a trailer on the north end of the property: "Richard dumps large milk jugs of brown urine on your property." Pardon me while I wipe away another tear or two. You see, it's funny because it's true. The guy doesn't have any indoor plumbing and I can hardly blame him for not wanting to walk to Safeway every time nature calls, but there really isn't anything quite like looking out your window and seeing a rather large man pouring out a gallon milk container full of his own waste about 30 feet from your fence. Gross? Yeah. Priceless? I think so. A great memory to leave you with before we get out of dodge? Definitely. So long from the swamp, folks!
The title...well, I'm sorry but it has really nothing to do with what I'm going to post - it just sounded like a good title. I am, however, resting my left foot on a freshly laundered bathmat that has yet to be placed back in it's native bathroom. Regrettably, it is neither bold or new. It is blue and quite worn. It...could be replaced when we move...by something both bold AND new, which provides a terrific segue to my actual post. Whew! I knew I could do it.
Apologies. There's a heat wave on and our poor little North Korean air-conditioner is struggling to keep up with the 3rd (or is it 4th now?) consecutive day of 90+ degree temperatures. My native Oregonian brain is melting. In a week that has started out busy with the pesky details of moving - like packing, etc. - oppressive heat and humidity, the latter thanks mostly to our yard's ever-present and now expanding mudbog, are two very unwelcome distractions. Yesterday, Brigetta had her Mom over for a packing party that stripped most of the little homey touches from the walls and shelves, replacing them with a neat stack of boxes in one corner of the living room. More empty boxes litter the rest of the space, with just enough room to get where you're going in the house. Towards the late afternoon, Gramma Claire whisked Evelyn away for an overnighter from which she has just now (lunch time) returned. This morning, with the extra peace and quiet, I made the phone calls that had to be made - electricity, garbage, water and sewer, etc. all needed to be transferred or started at the new address. The truck is reserved at U-Haul. The water is on to boil, both literally and figuratively, as Evelyn has requested mac 'n' cheese for lunch, the heat is on outside, and we're feeling the pressure (and the excitement) of the move getting closer. That's all for now - stay cool, everybody!
Just a small entry today. On Tuesday, Evelyn suffered a near tragic consequence for not listening to her Daddy - no trip to the mall. Cruel, I know - but don't go calling child services just yet. We're headed to that most treasured of Daddy Day destinations not long after this gets posted. I just had to declare publicly how much I love being this little girl's dad.
One of her favorite ways to play lately has been to pretend to go and get all kinds of different food and bring them back to me. "You stay right here," she'll say, "I close the door so Scout can't get in here." There'll be a few fading footsteps, about 2 seconds pause, then rapidly approaching footsteps as she returns with her imaginary food. We must have had gallons of pretend lemonade together over the life of this game, not to mention quite a bit of tea, and let's not neglect choc-o-late (spoken reverently around here) - we've had lots of that, too. But Evelyn came up with a new one the other night. "I'm gonna go get s'more of my favorites," she announced, disappearing behind a door jamb. A second later, her head popped back in to view. "What are you going to get?" I asked. A very serious, somewhat conspiratorial look settled on her face as she thoughtfully replied, "Ariel. Jerky. Butterfly treats." I couldn't help but laugh a little. "Wow, Evelyn, that sounds...exotic." "Yeah, dad - they have candy in 'em...and grape juice...and [unintelligible]...and grape juice...and they're just soooo delicious." And off she went to fetch Ariel jerky butterfly treats for the both of us. I have to say, they were every bit as delicious as she made them out to be. For our next course, Evelyn announced - and here I should explain that I was laying on the bed, where I had been reading before this little game started, so Evelyn was standing at eye level with me - that we would be having CHOC-O-LATE next. Only she leaned in as she drew the word out, to approximately half an inch from my right eyeball. Close enough to count taste buds had I not closed my eyes reflexively. Even imaginary chocolate is something to get excited about as far as she's concerned.
There are, of course, events in the course of being dad to a 3-year old that cause me to go from zero to destructive rage in less than a second (as opposed to constructive rage...I guess), but even the moments that frustrate are part of a whole experience that I wouldn't give up for anything. Before we head out the door on our date, let me tell what a few of my favorite things are - and I promise they don't involve whiskers on kittens or brown paper packages (though those are kind of neat).
I love that Evelyn rushes up to the stage on Sunday during the greeting time at church, carefully climbs the first two steps, then runs at me with her arms out and a big shout of "Daddy!"
I love hearing her say "You came back!" when I've just been away for a few minutes at the store.
I love her eagerness to have books read to her, especially when she hands me a book, climbs up next to me, then leans on me while I read it.
I love helping her to get over a disappointment, even when that disappointment is discipline related.
I love holding her hand while she gallops through the mall, or the park, or any other place we go.
I love getting buckled in to the car and reaching back before we leave the driveway for a "slap 'n' tap" (low five followed by a fist bump).
I love to hear her prayers at bedtime (but I do NOT love butterfly kisses therafter, thank you very much, Bob Carlisle).
I love to hear her tell me how silly I am.
I love whispering to her what fun the next day holds when it's time to sleep.
I love my job.
A brief update on our first attempt at taking Evelyn to see the dentist:
For the better part of a year we have been preparing Evelyn to make this visit. We read her a book about going to the dentist on a regular basis, we always talk about it as a fun place - a place where they give you a new toothbrush, and we set her up to be excited to go in every other way that we can. Last night, as we talked excitedly about getting to go to the dentist today, she responded with her usual smiley, sing-song "But not today!" It's a bit of a running joke, but what it really means is this: Evelyn is TERRIFIED of going to the dentist. I'm baffled at how the idea made it's way in to her little head, but she clearly knew that she feared the dentist as much as she fears any other doctor. I tried again to excite her this morning and got the same result as last night - "But not today!"
"Yeah," I said. "Today."
Instant devastation. It took me fully half an hour to get her calmed down to the point that she was only sobbing reflexively. You know - those great, shuddering inhales? At any rate, skipping over the intervening time, I ended up making up a Boris-went-to-the-dentist story on the way to the actual visit that briefly gave me hope that she would make it through. She laughed and asked to hear it again and again, so I asked her if she'd like to have a visit just like Boris' visit. She enthusiastically agreed, and so we marched triumphantly in to the office and checked in. Evelyn busied herself playing with some of the toys laying around while I did paperwork and all was on the right track. Until they called her name and I uttered the fateful words "OK, let's go."
Instant devastation. Also instant attention of the entire office. We tried in vain to just sit in the room where we'd be, but she was just too loud to keep around all the other people that were suffering in relative silence. Finally, realizing that she'd get her wish of just going home granted, she made a 180-degree turnaround, thanking me for taking her to the dentist and gabbing the poor receptionist's ear off while she tried to figure out how to refund our copayment. She even agreed to come back another time to "have her teeth counted," but the real prize was that Daddy had promised to take her to play at McDonald's after the dentist visit was over. I gave her what encouragement I could for being brave and trying, then headed off for the golden arches with a talkative, but clearly worn out 3-year old. We made it home just before 2pm and snuggled in for a Curious George story and a nap. We're up now, but I feel like I could've slept for two more hours...
So round one to Evelyn. There aren't any issues that really need addressing in her little mouth, but we'll keep working on it so that she doesn't need to be as familiar with her dentist as, say, her Daddy. :)
At the corner of Breaker and Minnehaha, Brigetta put voice to the prevailing sentiment in our van: "Why do we always have to leave on the nicest day?" I harrumphed in commiseration as we turned south on to Highway 101 today, bound for home via Tillamook and it's famous cheese factory. Barely a cloud could be seen for all the blue sky and sunshine. I peered out the passenger side window for those few miles to Tillamook, taking in the bay vista - it's gentle undulations sparkling under the noonday sun and glinting off the occasional hull of a passing boat. With the temperature pushing 60 degrees and the wind uncharacteristically mellow, forget Spring - it felt like a Summer day compared to what we're used to in mid-February.
that we were going home today. In nothing less than a militarily precise strategic decision, we started telling her while there were still fun things to do. Before we made our last visit to the beach, for one, AND - the euphemious ace up our collective sleeve - before going to the Tillamook Cheese Factory for lunch and - leave nothing to chance - an ice cream cone! Success! Nary a tear was shed as we cleaned up after ourselves and left Breaker Bungalow to it's next guests and hit the road. Evelyn managed to smite a few more strangers on the way - line workers on the factory floor this time - with a simple wave and smile. A few other patrons couldn't help but take notice, either, as she set about consuming her promised ice cream cone with, as Dr. Seuss was fond of writing, "great vim and great vigor." Also a great mess. But we had fun, without a doubt. From what we hear, it may be our last opportunity for quite some time to visit Breaker Bungalow, so we'll treasure the times we had and look forward to some other future adventure.
You should know that, as I type this first sentence, it's 1:00 pm. I finished my breakfast not long ago, and I only woke up as early as I did because a friend called during their lunch break. Let me explain.
Some of you might also read my wife's blog, and if you have seen her entry from last night, you will know that I dismantled Evelyn's crib yesterday. Correction: I finished dismantling Evelyn's crib yesterday. She started it the night before by snapping one of the metal brackets that holds the base to the frame as she tried to jump her way to sleep yet again. When Brigetta got home from work last night, I had the time to look a little closer at the damage and decide that it wasn't worth fixing. We already had the spin in place - Evelyn got to go to the park while daddy tried to fix her bed, but she knew that if he couldn't, he would make it in to a "big girl bed." Translation: I took apart the crib and put her mattress on the floor. I did everything I could to make it a cozy spot - that includes, in case you were worried, vacuuming thoroughly - and she was thrilled when she came home to see her "new" bed surrounded by some of her favorite stuffed animals with Granny's quilt and her puppy pillow on top. Come bed time, as Brigetta wrote in her blog, she ran right to her bed to crawl in and here's where the adventure begins. At about half past eight, after we'd sung our good night song and said a prayer, Evelyn broke from tradition (and why not, given her recent proclivity to break things?) and asked if Daddy would help her go to sleep. If you've kept up on how sleep works around here, you'd immediately grasp the significance here. If you haven't kept up, I'll spell it out: she NEVER asks this if she knows Brigetta is around, let alone in the same room. So, in almost stunned disbelief, Brigetta gave Evelyn a kiss and said good night, and Evelyn settled in to asking me "what animals do." We chatted briefly about the different things that animals do - whether or not little girls and boys do these things, too, etc. - until I mentioned, quite deliberately, that animals go to sleep. To my surprise, she actually stopped talking about it right away and was mostly quiet the rest of the way.
I should have known it was too good to be true.
TWO HOURS later, after attempting (unsuccessfully) to leave several times, mostly after I was sure she was asleep, she finally settled in to a regular snore. I was caught a little off-guard by the clinginess that preceded it, though. I told myself (still am telling myself, really) that it was a different bed at a different level, there was no sense of being enclosed, and so on - but she blame near panicked every time she thought I was leaving. So I stayed. And stayed, and stayed, and stayed. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, I got in a 20-minute power nap - you now, one of those short, refreshing naps that leave you ready to go for the rest of the day? Yeah, one of those, only with no rest-of-the-day left. Don't get me wrong - I was happy (and a little flattered, sure) to be asked to stay with her while she went to sleep, but it was simultaneously and incredibly frustrating to lay awake for the better part of two hours while she tossed, turned, and made sure my face was still right next to her bed. So at a little past 10:30pm, I marshalled all of my stealth skills and left her room as quietly as possible, fearful that any misstep would cause another panic.
Now I'm a night-owl as it is, but with the extra two hours of laying around and a power nap under my belt, I really didn't have a chance of getting to sleep. I chatted and watched TV with Brigetta for a little bit before she ran off to bed and then I was left to my own devices. Nothing too out of the ordinary about that - I'm up later than she is most nights, either reading, watching TV, or playing games online with a few fellow night-owl friends. The latter is what I did last night, meeting up with 4 or 5 friends to run around a virtual WWII, shoot guns, and throw grenades. Ya know - guy stuff. Until 3 in the morning! That's late, even for me...and I still wasn't tired! I had to draw the line somewhere, though, so I bowed out of the carnage and made myself go crawl in to bed. Not five minutes after doing that, the following phrase - again a first-ever - came floating over from the monitor in Evelyn's room: "I want my daddy." Somewhere between "You've got to be kidding me," and "Well, I'm already awake," I found myself padding over to her room, sweatshirt in hand, to curl up next to my little girl and feel her little hand reach out to make sure it was my face there before thinking "This isn't so bad," and immediately falling asleep.
I remember having to move her back on to her bed once after she'd managed to get her head on to the middle of my pillow, and then Brigetta was gently shaking me awake at 7:30-ish (?), at which point I stumbled back to my own bed, bouncing off door jams along the way, to slumber for a few hours more. So when the call from a friend came at ten minutes to noon, I snapped awake with that "I'm late for work" surge of adrenaline, which isn't entirely inappropriate since this is my day to get the bulk of my work from home done. And here I am blogging about it instead of doing it...
It was a story worth telling, though (I think), but not one I'm terrifically eager to repeat. I'll tell you how the "big girl bed" experiment continues when there's more to tell.
Evelyn is enjoying twin treats right now for telling mommy and daddy twice this morning that she had to go potty before she actually went! Little Bear and a lollipop for the little one (that's alliterative, kids!), and an update for the blog.
Mommy's at work today, so the three of us (Scout included) are cozied (pretty sure that word doesn't exist) up in the family room, which smells markedly better than the last time I updated the blog here. There was a little leftover mustiness after things got put back together, but thanks to the strategic use of "man candles" and a little ventilation, we're good to go.
Other stuff going on: Brigetta's back to a four day work week, so I've pressed most of my musical planning duties for the church in to a rather packed Wednesday and taken over watching Evelyn on Tuesdays and Thursdays. So far, so good. For some reason, when Brigetta isn't here, Evelyn goes down for naps much easier. It's almost amusing, actually (and alliteratively). If we're both around during nap time, Evelyn just won't go down (easily, anyway) without her momma. I've tried several times, just to give Brigetta a break, but our little princess won't have it. I take that back - she'll have it, because daddy can be even more stubborn than a two year-old, but she has it kicking and screaming, with a side of rage. So we don't pick that fight too often. The point is, nap time on Daddy Days = less fight, more sleep, win for daddy.
And speaking of fights - I'm still struggling to get the blood sugar issues under control. I had some initial success with moving my basal insulin dose to the evening, but overall I'm still testing way too high. I'm due for a follow-up with the endocrinologist within the next week or so, but I've seen enough tests and feel comfortable enough with the trend (which is to say not comfortable at all) to make a small dose adjustment on my own as of last night. This way I'll have several days worth of data from that change to show to the endo when I go. The infection in my toe seems to have subsided, though there is still some redness in the area (just much lighter and less inflamed). I can't wait to run out of the huge green pills...
And speaking of running out - Evelyn has run out of show and lollipop, so it's time to unplug and make with the playing. Agh, and quickly - a Billy Mays commercial is on! *shudder*
I've got a few minutes while Evelyn is still in the bath over here at Gramma's house (Brigetta's mom) to update those of you who have been wondering how things would go for me at the endocrinologist today. Thanks for the comments, phone calls, and prayers, too! I hadn't meant to sound so grim and bleak, but I was frustrated and your support helped.
First things first. Brigetta and Evelyn are at Gramma's right now because I kicked them out last night and set myself to the task of pulling back carpet and tearing out soaked carpet padding in our family room. About a week ago, our area had over 2 inches of rain fall in less than a full day, which overwhelmed the crude drainage system we have on the north side of our house. The same room flooded last year because some earth had been displaced nearby that funneled the rains right up next to concrete slab that this particular room sits on. This year, having arranged for a drainage pond to collect the water away from the house, we found out the hard way that it wasn't quite deep enough. So when I went to soak up what I thought was an Evelyn-caused spill on the carpet the other night, I ended up soaking through two full-size towels on a spot no larger than a volleyball. Our landlord and one of his helpers came and tried to shop-vac out the water through that spot, but the pad underneath was thoroughly soaked, so I offered to pull it out and our landlord offered to replace it. Time is really of the essence in a situation like this, so I sent the girls over here and got to work getting the musty smelling, soaked pad out of the house. The last of the wet areas is drying tonight, and I'm hoping to have things put back together by tomorrow afternoon, but I hadn't been able to see my girls all day between taking care of the flood, going to the dentist, and my endocrinology visit.
The dentist appointment, by way of a brief explanation, was to fix a tooth that broke during the big Arctic Blast. I'd already had a root canal done on it, so there was no exposed nerve or anything excruciatingly painful like that - just some mild discomfort. I got in and out today with some temporary stuff filling in the nooks and crannies and a date to come back and get a new foundation built up in preparation for a crown.
The endocrinologist visit was helpful. I had suspected that I needed to raise my basal (long-lasting) dose by at least one unit, and that is, in fact, exactly what the doctor suggested. Further than that, though, he suggested that I begin to take this once-a-day dose in the evening instead of in the morning. To transition without overlapping, I'll split the daily dose tomorrow between morning and evening, moving the entire dose to the evening the following day. It makes sense and I won't bore you with the details as to why that is. What's more exciting to say is that the endocrinologist also thought that one of my medications was redundant and told me to stop taking it! I've thought this medication, which I take twice daily now, was unnecessary since I started taking insulin, but the first endocrinologist I saw wanted me to keep taking it anyway. Of course, the doctor today really wanted me to add in a baby aspirin every day so it's only a net-loss of one pill a day. Still, one less prescription to worry about is a good thing. Lastly, and let me offer a warning to the squeamish before I go on, I had him look at an ingrown toenail on one of my feet. Actually, having your feet checked is a part of any doctor visit as a diabetic, but this one was more exciting than most since I'm in the middle of one of the 2 or 3 ingrown toenails I get every year. I keep a close eye on them when they happen and they usually run their course in a matter of a few days. This one, however, looks to have a mild infection that was spreading to another part of the toe, which I realize sounds more alarming than it really is at this point. I'll be on antibiotics for a week-and-a-half, but the infection will most likely clear up within a day or two.
So that's my quick and dirty update. I'm off to help Evelyn get to bed before heading back home to get ready for tomorrow's work on the family room.
For Now,
Andrew
Thanks to an atypical December storm, we are buried in snow. At all (or most) of 40 feet above sea level, we have over a foot of snow on the ground for the first time in my lifetime. OK, so "buried in snow" was a bit of an exaggeration - it is nonetheless a wild start to Winter. Under the top 6 inches or so of snow is a nice hard layer of ice about a half of an inch thick that only adds to the general misery of people trying to move around as usual (via automobile). On foot it can be pretty interesting, too, but it's definitely a lot more manageable. I just got back from walking with a neighbor to the Safeway across the street for a few more supplies before night falls. We lost power for several hours yesterday morning and have had a few brief interruptions so far today. Accordingly, our candles and matches are laid out where we can easily get to them, and we are stocked up on batteries for the one flashlight I can find. The real problem isn't light, of course, it's heat. If our power goes out like it did Sunday morning, it only takes a matter of a few hours for the interior of the house to dramatically cool off to near see-your-breath cold. This is what led us to take up my dad on his offer to ferry us to their house yesterday, where we ended up staying overnight even though the power was back on here at our place by the late afternoon, according to a neighbor.
Hey, it's the latest craze! Tagging friends and family to cough up a few quirky tidbits about themselves, and now it's my turn! I suppose it's only fair, given that I've read up on most everyone else who keeps a blog. Problem is, as I mentioned to Brigetta the other night, I don't really draw a line between "normal" blogging and "quirky" blogging. I, for better or worse, don't seem to have that filter when writing. Read my previous entry for proof. So here's my attempt at coming up with 7 more quirky fun facts about myself (in no particular order):
-I hate shower drains. I will make every effort to stay away from them myself and I cringe when I see someone else (like Evelyn) touch ours.
-While down-climbing Mt. Hood in 2005, I was convinced that I was sweating blood. Literally. It was getting a little warmer and I was utterly exhausted (14 hours of climbing will do that to a person). I opened my outer layer to cool off a bit and noticed a rust-colored stain on the left side of my white polypro layer, on my abdomen. I actually said to a few members of my climbing party "I think I might be sweating blood." Not alarmed, mind you, but just matter-of-fact. It seemed like an appropriate thing to say, but they quickly reminded me that sweating blood would be extraordinarily bad, and that I almost certainly wouldn't still be ambulatory if that were the case. Good point. Besides, as it turns out, it was just a leaky, cola-flavored energy gel packet that I had stashed in my jacket's inner pocket. Exhaustion does funny things to a person...
-I once threw an egg from the roof of a friend's house towards a road about 50 yards away...and actually hit a moving car (speed limit on that road is probably 35). Aside from the both of us, junior highers at the time, nearly falling off the roof while laughing, no real harm was done.
-And speaking of eggs - my go-to most embarrassing moment as a child: Approximately 2 weeks after my oldest brother, Scott, had shown me that, if you hold an egg the right way, you can squeeze it as hard as you want and it won't break, we happened to be making ornaments in my 5th grade class that involved...wait for it...eggs. I've never been much of a showoff (Ha!), but I decided to pass on this wonderful discovery to a few of my closest neighbors in class. If you guessed that it went off without a hitch...you're wrong! No - instead, in a show of nigh-on-Herculean strength, I managed to crush the egg and forcefully expel it's contents on to myself (it exploded). Face, hair, clothing...pretty much everything. Fortunately, the whole event left no lasting psychic or emotional scars.
-To show my undying love and devotion to Crystal, my major second-grade crush, I threw her coat in a mud puddle. Ms. Stoner (serious, that's her name) had the audacity to give me a "conduct" (short for misconduct) for my actions.
-I, more than just about any other substance on earth, including second-hand smoke and nuclear waste, despise peanut butter. My brothers used to torture me by forcing me to smell it.
-The secret to my immaculately-coiffed hair? Herbal Essences hairspray. There may not be much to hold, but what's there is on Maximum Hold! With a hint of orange flower.
So there it is. I'm not sure there's anyone left to tag, but I would like to see Scott and Mr. Cory hijack their spouse's blogs to join in the fun.
I have a confession to make.
I like foofy hand soap. Call it a weakness, call it slightly bent - it's alright, I'm secure in my self-image (as far as you know), but I've got a thing with my hands. A texture thing. I generally hate the feel of denim (Brigetta likes to scratch her jeans just to cause me pain), I don't like the way liquid hand soap makes my hands feel after washing, and just overall disapprove of textures that are half way between rough and smooth. I abhor having long fingernails and will frequently (seriously - watch me play guitar at church some time) use a hard edge or corner to apply slight pressure underneath them, because...well, I have no clue. Brigetta used to be convinced that I was autistic somehow - "on the spectrum," as she would say - I just figured that it was perfectly normal to walk on the balls of my feet over linoleum because I didn't like the way it felt on the rest of my feet. That is normal, isn't it?
But back to hand soap. Today is the second "Daddy Day" in a row for Evelyn and I, and we celebrated by getting a chocolate donut at the "donut store" (Albertson's) after dropping mommy off at work, then went to the mall this afternoon for our official "Daddy Date." This morning, as I was resting on the balls of my feet in the kitchen and washing my hands, I noticed that our last container of foofy hand soap (it foams!) was getting low. The multitask alarm went off in my head, and so, as part of our Daddy Date, we hit up Bath & Body Works for some new, exotic (foofy) scents. The picture above is not, as it may seem, Evelyn shoving the soap nozzle up her nose. Close, but she had enough self-restraint to avoid actual insertion. A friendly associate at the store made her way over to explain that the sale on soaps was a "mix 'n' match" sale (it always is), and proceeded to point out several options that we hadn't yet put to the sniff test. "Yeah, listen - this ain't exactly my first Bath & Body Works rodeo," I wanted to say. I smiled politely instead: "Thanks." Besides, none of the other soaps foamed. We settled on Enchanted Orchid, Japanese Cherry Blossom, and - get this - Midnight Pomegranate. "Oh, man, I can't sleep, it's midnight, I've got work in the morning...what am I gonna do? Hey, that pomegranate looks good..." You can understand my skepticism as I unfastened the top to get a sniff...but, sure as Al Gore invented the internet, it smelled exactly like midnight!
Midnight. What a great marketing word. Milky Way Midnight, Midnight Madness, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. I could have added it to the first line of this blog and totally changed the tone. Go ahead, read it out loud to yourself and see if you don't blush. At any rate, it makes for a great soap scent because, let's face it, Pomegranate is just not enough.
What do you do for a soap-sniffing encore? Go see the goldfish, the Mickey store, and find a way to make mac 'n' cheese sound new and exciting, of course! "We're going to go pick up super yummy mac 'n' cheese from a mac 'n' cheese store, Evelyn!" Again the eyes widen - score one for daddy. "OK! We go pick up mac 'n' CHEEEESE!" I am wholly convinced that I could say anything in this tone of voice and garner the same reaction. "Hey Evelyn, we're going to go run over a whole kit of baby rabbits in our van! How's that sound?" You get the picture.
And now she is once again slumbering away to the soothing pitter-patter of rain on the roof while I type up the days adventures. Because of the different schedule this week - parents being out of town and such - there is still a little left to get done for Sunday, and I would be thrilled to get a small nap in myself once that's finished. So for now I wish you, the patient reader, a good day, warmth, shelter, food, and good textures.
Instead of reading a book or taking a nap (which I could really use) right now, I thought I'd take a little time to update this ferociously neglected blog. It's a "Daddy Day" today - Evelyn is mine all mine until mommy gets home. She is snoozing cozily in her recently reinforced bed (see Brigetta's blog for more on that), and I am here in the office (den, family room, man cave, whatever), having just cleared out the remains of our "playhouse." "Fort," apparently, was not as attractive to Evelyn. "Do you wanna help daddy build a fort to play in?," I'd say. "I don't have to," came the reply. "What about a playhouse - should we build one of those to play in?" Behold the eyes widen; "That be OK!!! We make build a PLAAAYHOUSE!" And so on. Down came the futon matress, quickly followed by the vacuum cleaner - it turns out Evelyn wasn't quite as neat with her breakfast this morning as I thought - and then there were blankets to gather, books to weight them down, chairs from the dining room, pillows from every corner of the house, and one light-up penguin wand from the zoo. It took up all the free space in the room, excepting a few feet in front of the door when "we" finally finished it. "We" meaning "me," despite the "help" from both Evelyn and Scout. It's - and any of you fellow fort builders out there can attest - delicate work putting together a masterpiece of this magnitude. When you realize that one big bible isn't enough to hold this blanket on that support and there's no way to walk around to get at it, you must crawl through the unfinished structure to make the repair. My problem - excuse me - my help today decided that they would crawl through with me. "Stay right here while daddy crawls through." Yeah right. "I crawl with you," said Evelyn. Scout agreed by licking me from chin to eyeball. So "we" built it together, took our penguin wand inside and had ourselves a time. It's amazing how the same old toys and activities become fresh and exciting when you're in a "playhouse." We sang the ABC's what had to have been a half dozen times, hammered on the hammer bench, typed on an old keyboard, fixed Daddy's hair, took a "rest" (for all of five seconds), and experimented with falling flat on our faces. OK, that last one was just Evelyn, and even though I do generally enjoy a good face-flop on to a mattress, I had to explain to her when she asked me to try that daddy was too tall to try it in the playhouse. I wish I'd been able to take pictures, but I think Brigetta has the camera with her at work today, and my cell phone camera wasn't able to pick up much in the relative dark of the playhouse interior. Instead, you get my thousand words, give or take a few (thousand).
And that is a slice of my new-and-improved Thursday. In the current absence of a second job, here's where all the time goes: Mondays are family days - zoo, park, swimming, the mall, you name it. We find time to get out of the house as a family and have fun on the only weekday that we all have off. Tuesdays start off with Brigetta out the door early and Evelyn getting to "sleep in" and have breakfast and some play time with me. At around 10am, Miss Julie comes to pick Evelyn up for the afternoon while I set in to work on the coming Sunday services. Brigetta picks up the kiddo after work while I snoop around the kitchen to see what the girls could have for dinner while I'm off climbing with Randy. I get my kisses and hugs when they get home and then it's off to the gym so I can be back for the bedtime routine. Wednesdays start off much the same, except that Brigetta doesn't have to be away quite so early, so she gets Evelyn up and out the door to Julie's on her way to work. I spend that morning and afternoon trying to more or less finish work on any chord charts and other things that need to be done before Sunday so that I can make a brief stop by the office in the evening to make copies and pull any charts I didn't print from home. Thursdays, as you now know, are Daddy Days. I get to be Mr. Mom, and I'll be honest - I love it. Not easy, certainly, but worth it. When Brigetta gets home, I'll head out to practice with the rest of the worship team and try, once again, to be home in time help Evelyn go night-night. Friday is usually the day that Evelyn gets to go to Granny and Papa's (my mom and dad) to play in the late morning and early afternoon, though this week they will both be out of town to a wedding in Virginia, so I get an extra Daddy Day. Woohoo! We might even have a car and a camera for that one, so look out - there may be some pictures coming your way tomorrow.
As if on cue (a really, really early cue), the sounds of Evelyn discontentedly stirring are tickling my ears, so it's time to stop typing and go to take my little short-napper for the walk I promised before rest time!
Addendum:
"Hey Sweets, why such a short nap today?"
"I just wake up. I was jumping."
"Do you feel like you have to go potty?"
(Contemplating with head to one side) "I feel...like I have to go play."
I woke up from an impromptu nap yesterday to the sweetest little voice you've ever heard asking, in the sweetest way you've ever heard, "Can we go get some sand?" Even after Evelyn repeated these words for the seventh time in rapid succession, it was still brain-hemorrhagingly cute. A little groggy yet, I sauntered out to the living room to find Brigetta resting her eyes momentarily in the rocking chair, having successfully convinced Evelyn to come ask me to go get sand. Mustering our energy, we decided that, it being late in the day, getting sand in the morning would be a better way to go. Evelyn did not agree. Evelyn had also failed to take a nap earlier in the day. So with hugs, consolation, and the promise of sand in the morning, the storm eventually passed.
This morning, as promised, we piled in to the van for a trip to Home Depot, or as Evelyn called it, "The Sand Store." After studying each potential bag for carcinogen warnings and other cautionary statements, we settled on two 50-lb. bags of play sand, one of which now fills Evelyn's turtle box (formerly the turtle pool). She immediately and copiously thanked Daddy for the sand, while simultaneously digging in with her sparkly green "scooper." She's back in the house for a bite of lunch as I write this, but we'll be back out in the sandbox soon.
A Diet Mt. Dew and several powdered mini donuts are, as I'm finding out right now, a rather lame attempt at chemically coping with a lack of sleep. You could probably infer from the photo above (Wizard Falls, Metolius River in the background) that we've just been on a vacation. If you are a part of, or know of our family, then you wouldn't even need to infer - you'd just know. Slightly less regularly now than in the days before children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren littered the literal and metaphorical landscape of our familial life, my dad's side of the family - as many as can make it - gather in central Oregon on or around the 4th of July for hijinks, shenanigans, card-playing, and, of course, vast amounts of calories. And let's not forget laughter. Like an effervescent glue (acid free!) that adheres pictures to pages, so this ubiquitous yet unseen substance holds together our renunions, preserving them for years to come with ever evolving inside jokes, pranks, and/or general tom-foolery (gaudy rainbow panoplies notwithstanding). After a year or two hiatus (I can't remember which, and I don't care enough to figure it out), and some "judicious" planning (read "saving money for gas"), we caravanned over to Tollgate - a spacious development of nice homes situated in the Deschutes National Forest just outside of Sisters - with my oldest brother, his family, and our parents for a few days of R & R, only in the case of my little family, the first "R" could well be substituted with "red-eyed" in place of the more conventional "rest." Don't get me wrong - we had a tremendous time being with the rest of the family - but the nights were shorter than planned, thanks mostly to an out-of-sorts 2-year old who, despite stellar and easy-going trips to the beach in the past, decided that she was most unimpressed with the sleeping arrangements at our Tollgate rental house, as well with her perceived lack of proximity to "mama." I'll say no more, lest I begin to sound ungrateful for the rest of the trip, which I most certainly am not.
The Tollgate pool was, with little doubt, the main attraction for the little ones this year. The mere mention of a pool or swimming can wipe away the darkest and most pitiful clouds from Evelyn's face, and I estimate a similar level of interest in my brother's three daughters, based, mostly, on the screams and shouts of delight, as well as the persistent requests for me to display my pool hand-standing abilities. I, in my avuncular magnanimity, could hardly say no to those shining faces (or quivering uvulas if the request was loud and close enough). If, in the picture above, it looks as though Evelyn (far right) couldn't be happier, it's likely because she honestly couldn't be. She got to go to the "cool" (don't know why - "p-p-pool" just doesn't seem to register) every day we stayed! "That be a good idEEa," she would tell you if you were to suggest such a plan again, or just "Yaaaaaaay!" with a definitive nod of assent. On Saturday, all the great-grandkids (to my grandparents, anyway) in attendance got to go - with supervision of course - to the Wizard Falls Fish Hatchery on the banks of the Metolius River to feed the fish and have a picnic. While perhaps not as engaging as getting to be in water themselves, the kids enjoyed themselves thoroughly, throwing bits of foul-smelling "food" to the swarming schools of trout and sturgeon and watching them flail about in a sort of desperate, Darwinian contest to decide which would be fed and which would go hungry. Doesn't that sound fun to you? 
way of saying "playing cards until 10pm or so." Usually. I'll be darned (literally, I will be mended like a sock) if we didn't finish up the last game until almost midnight, when someone (*cough*Jeff*cough*) mercifully let Scott (my oldest brother) shoot the moon to win our first ever game of seven-handed hearts. For those unfamiliar, seven is a slightly ridiculous number of people to play hearts with, but it made for some interesting moments. By interesting, of course, I mean "horrible," but that's only because I lost. And that took us right in to Sunday morning - a time to clean up and prepare to leave, and also a time to gather as a group of like faith to worship God and share in yet another meal together before finally giving our hugs goodbye and going our different ways. For our part, we backtracked in to Sisters to top off the tank (ouch), take a few pictures of the eminently picturesque mountains for which the town was named, and stock up on caffeine-laced products before our three-plus hour ride back home. Even though we arrived feeling something not unlike lethargic, I speak with confidence for all three of us when I say (write) that we are glad we had the chance to go, glad that we are part of a family that makes it such a priority to get together, and above all, glad that Evelyn can now sleep in her own bed.
Congratulations, Mom and Dad! Forty years ago today you made promises to each other that I'm ever so grateful you kept! Brigetta and I have just been watching episodes of a mini-series on the Discovery channel called "When We Left Earth." It chronicles the NASA missions, including the Apollo launches which, of course, led to mankind's first steps on the moon. Here's a wild thought: you guys were still newlyweds when that happened! I'd ordinarily steer clear of this sort of thing - you know, couching your marriage in historical terms, making you feel old, etc. - but I couldn't help myself on that one. Besides, you've faced, whether you're comfortable with it or not, a lot of history together. No need to recount man-on-the-moon moments. There's Wikipedia for that.
No, I'd rather share a couple of my impressions from what I can recall of your 40 years together, keeping in mind that I didn't exist for the first quarter or so of that time. Perhaps the simplest, most powerful image I have is really a series of images. They are of the welcome home hugs and kisses you were never shy about giving to each other in front of us. It didn't need to be "welcome home from a long hunting trip." It could just as easily have been "welcome home from going to the store," or "welcome home from work." That Dad and Mom loved each other was abundantly clear. The impact this has had on me is inestimable as Brigetta and I enter our 7th year of marriage. It's a priority woven in to the fabric of my being. My child must see and know that I love her mother. At the danger of becoming cliche, love is the foundation on which we hope to build our family's character. We love God, each other, and those around us. You could have told me those things until you were blue in the face, but I do not believe it would have made the difference it has if I hadn't been able to see it in action.
The second thing that comes to mind is a memory I know I've shared with other people in my life, but I'm wondering as I write this if I've ever shared my version of it with you, Dad. I don't remember much in the way of specifics, but it remains to this day my most vivid memory of you being angry at me. I'm sure there were too many moments like this to count - especially in my teenage years - but on this occasion you chose to show it, and strangely enough, I'm glad that you did. All I remember is that I had said something extremely sarcastic and disrespectful to Mom - I think I might have even yelled it at her. You weren't home at the time. Some time after you did get home, you confronted me in the hallway, right outside my room at the time. The look on your face was as close to murder as I've ever seen it. You held me against the wall there and verbally let me have it for disrespecting Mom. You'd think I'd be able to tell you exactly what you said, but I can't. The impression was enough. You were willing to put up with a little sass yourself, but treating my mother like that was. Not. Happening. It was...well, impressive. I was impressed. I still am. In that moment you modeled for me how to passionately defend my family (even from within). It had nothing to do with chest-beating, macho threats, or violence, and everything to do with not being afraid to tell someone when the line had been crossed. Similarly, Mom, I've heard you tell stories of how ticked off you were when people said something unfair about your husband, especially early in his ministry at MCC. Both of you have had the other's back all this time, which is another incalculable gift and legacy that I am compelled to pass on to my child (or children some day, but don't read that as an announcement).
So thank you! Thank you for leading by example - for backing up your words with actions. Thank you for loving each other, and for teaching us how to love our families. Congratulations on your first 40 years of marriage! May there be many, many more full of love and laughter!
Love,
Andrew