Wow. That was something. Too much to take in, to process. I'm unsure of all that is safe and necessary in terms of names when it comes to closed adoptions through a state foster system.
But today we flooded the Dauphin County Courthouse. Bum-rushed the show. With children - I believe there were 23 of them from five families. With a community of family and real, messy-life-with-you friends. With overwhelming joy.
There was a stereotypically snarky, playful attorney who brought doughnuts and drinks. There were cut flowers, fists holding the smell of spring, of new life. There was a call to order and a swearing in. There were questions under oath and tears and testimony from witnesses and a fidgety, sticky faced, petal pulling jury.
There were mouths hung agape and wide smiles, full frontal hugs, bonked heads on turn-stays, and reprimands about free-running in the courtroom. There were horse-play halting reminders of watchful police standing guard at the doors.
There was prayer, well thought words of a pastor that must have echoed straight through every chamber of that government entity. There was a beautiful, even gleeful man behind large sturdy mohagany; a judge who labeled this no small miracle and quoted chapter, number, and verse in his concluding remarks.
Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy.
-Proverbs 31:8
Why was this not plastered all over the news? Why are no mobs marching through the streets of Steelton, carrying full size cardboard cut-outs, repeating chorus cheers of pride and encouragement?
Portions of scripture specifically differentiates worthless Jesus talkers from the truly faithful based on what they do for orphans and widows. And if you don't prefer the works-based inspiration of James, other authors record Jesus talking about the same thing - true and false disciples. I wonder if this marks the line between those who say "Lord, Lord," and those who do the will of God?
Please, this is no guilt push for everyone to adopt. There are plenty of ways to serve orphans and widows. It's just that you don't expect to walk into such an official, historical, and stark setting to experience that depth of community and prayers, laughter and chocolate milk. So much of that hour was unexpected to the extreme. Upside down (this family of 7 willingly bringing on two more). Maybe even heavenly.
Not that any of us entered into that court room to save our own souls or to get face time with Jesus. For sure, T and S are officially family now, already unconditionally loved. This life, with them, is certainly enough.
- - - - -
[I later shook hands and exchanged a few brief comments with the judge. He mentioned that this hearing was significant and quiet emotional for him, for in only a few days will two key players in the PSU child abuse scandal take to the same witness stand. "Stark contrast," are the words he repeated.]
- - - - -
December 02, 2011
October 30, 2011
Happy Entropy
- - - - -
Last week at the Dillsburg Farmers Fair, Luke pointed to a series of dilapidated houses lining Main Street. "Look dad, they made their whole house a Halloween decoration." I flashed a hearty smile and nodded my head in agreement.
Looking down to the porch, their rotten granny faced Jack-o-lantern gave me pause. I felt tangential rays of the sun battle a crisp breeze on my face. Second-hand cigar smoke socked my nose, overwhelmed the appealing smell of decaying leaves.
One way or another, Halloween seems to be all about entropy. About systems winding down to the end of their cycle. It is about dark, rot, rust, cold, death, and decay. Do we deny these things that are not good or bad, but simply are? Should we fear that God is anti-autumn?
I've chosen to see Halloween as a time to recognize, deal with, and even celebrate the reality of entropy. I see the (literal) dark and creepy crawlies as humbling reminders of our brevity, our limitations, and the ultimate fate of our corporeal being. This is reality, not dabbling in the occult. There is too much evil during all season among the living to worry about the October undead.
Must we deconstruct the heebie jeebies? The demons that we think of, you can simply tell that their physical form and function would never work anatomically, at least not in this world. Why should ghosts ever be seen in clothing? Did they take it with them? If they are able to reflect or omit light (and therefore be seen) then they cannot be exempt from the basic laws of action-reaction. If they can switch lights on and knock books off shelves, then they should have to use windows and doors, just like the rest of us.
The cultural side of Halloween? From what I witnessed last Thursday, it's as if Trick-or-Treat is the new Christmas. There's simple family tradition and togetherness without all the pressure and obligation. There's a fraction of the materialism and politically correct controversy. In our small development, neighbors that have their porch light off and drive by our house without so much as a nod all year are suddenly welcoming and generous with their time.
I don't mean to say that evil is a cultural construct to be taken lightly. Or that the pagan holiday in October is more important and prominent than the day we celebrate the coming and birth of Jesus (a day which was, ironically, specifically retrofit over another pagan holiday). Or that scaring the piss out of people doesn't have the potential for some serious pitfalls.
Our ability to sit here and think about mortality and wonder what's next - this I take seriously. A world where entropy eternal, cold, and black is the bottom line - this is hideous and frightening. This I can deconstruct only by asking why and from where the light came.
- - - - -
Last week at the Dillsburg Farmers Fair, Luke pointed to a series of dilapidated houses lining Main Street. "Look dad, they made their whole house a Halloween decoration." I flashed a hearty smile and nodded my head in agreement.
Looking down to the porch, their rotten granny faced Jack-o-lantern gave me pause. I felt tangential rays of the sun battle a crisp breeze on my face. Second-hand cigar smoke socked my nose, overwhelmed the appealing smell of decaying leaves.
One way or another, Halloween seems to be all about entropy. About systems winding down to the end of their cycle. It is about dark, rot, rust, cold, death, and decay. Do we deny these things that are not good or bad, but simply are? Should we fear that God is anti-autumn?
I've chosen to see Halloween as a time to recognize, deal with, and even celebrate the reality of entropy. I see the (literal) dark and creepy crawlies as humbling reminders of our brevity, our limitations, and the ultimate fate of our corporeal being. This is reality, not dabbling in the occult. There is too much evil during all season among the living to worry about the October undead.
Must we deconstruct the heebie jeebies? The demons that we think of, you can simply tell that their physical form and function would never work anatomically, at least not in this world. Why should ghosts ever be seen in clothing? Did they take it with them? If they are able to reflect or omit light (and therefore be seen) then they cannot be exempt from the basic laws of action-reaction. If they can switch lights on and knock books off shelves, then they should have to use windows and doors, just like the rest of us.
The cultural side of Halloween? From what I witnessed last Thursday, it's as if Trick-or-Treat is the new Christmas. There's simple family tradition and togetherness without all the pressure and obligation. There's a fraction of the materialism and politically correct controversy. In our small development, neighbors that have their porch light off and drive by our house without so much as a nod all year are suddenly welcoming and generous with their time.
I don't mean to say that evil is a cultural construct to be taken lightly. Or that the pagan holiday in October is more important and prominent than the day we celebrate the coming and birth of Jesus (a day which was, ironically, specifically retrofit over another pagan holiday). Or that scaring the piss out of people doesn't have the potential for some serious pitfalls.
Our ability to sit here and think about mortality and wonder what's next - this I take seriously. A world where entropy eternal, cold, and black is the bottom line - this is hideous and frightening. This I can deconstruct only by asking why and from where the light came.
- - - - -
October 08, 2011
ice, bait, and kindling
- - - - -
"That's not frugal, it's just nasty," Amy comments as I twist a plastic grocery store bag around my sandwiches. I've been stuffing sandwiches directly into those sturdy, abundant, and free bags for years to no ill effect.
There are certain items that I simply cannot bring myself to buy. Like small garbage bags. I've stepped off the viscous bag cycle where you use a small plastic grocery store bag to carry your box of small garbage bags home, then in the kitchen open the box of garbage bags in order to have a place to discard the grocery bag.
While convenient on-the-go, bottled water is usually unnecessary indoors. No, you couldn't tell the difference in a taste test that controlled for temperature and aeration. And don't get me started on gravy ladles.
I readily admit that the sandwich on raw grocery bag is a bit extreme. My disdain for thoughtlessness and waste comes easy. Even in his late, financially secure years, my grandfather Tom Minick always said that you should never buy ice, bait, or kindling. Why pay for these items when just a little planning and effort would turn them up for free?
Did Pap (pronounced Paaahp) actually say that? I'm not sure it matters because he definitely lived it. Perhaps one of his daughters or sons could clear the air. Pap was more frugal, thoughtful, and slow to speak than I. Despite his midlife struggles, all the family loved him, now practically canonize him a saint.
Pap. Worked. Hard. Yet what I remember most from my comings and goings is Pap sitting in the evenings at his kitchen table or on the front porch for extended periods, leaning forward, head hung, massive forearms propped on knees, staring, staring, staring down.
Pap was neither slow nor quick to engage me with a question or few. He was one of the few people who referred to me as Robert.
"So whattya think, Robert?"
I always thought that Pap must be awfully bored just sitting there for so long. I remember looking over his shoulder at the spot on the kitchen floor, trying to probe the spot for answers, searching with a gaze fit for deep sky. As an adolescent, I got little but floor out of Paps exercise.
For all his intelligence and work ethic, pap never came to Jesus until near the end, after the second or third time he passed out while sitting with his family. Though he was always both frugal and generous, his tired eyes finally shown joy.
I'm thankful to have inherited more than Paps thick head of hair. I see him all over my parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins because I'm watching and reflecting. We are actually all watchful and reflective, in the odd Minick sort of way, to a large extent because of you-know-who.
The Pap in me has a hard time budging when the girls at work request to order specific pens, when the kids want to drink bottled water at home and buy crickets to feed their frogs, and when Amy knows to add a "zip-lock please" when it's my turn to pack the sandwiches. These are my ice, bait, and kindling.
Sometimes at night when I manage to pry myself away from reading and trying to write at this computer, gazing long into this screen, I'm oddly drawn to sit a while more with face to the floor. Something compels me to fit in a good floor session before heading off to bed.
Staring at the floor, doing nothing, nothing doing, bliss.
That spot - I'm starting to see it now.
- - - - -
"That's not frugal, it's just nasty," Amy comments as I twist a plastic grocery store bag around my sandwiches. I've been stuffing sandwiches directly into those sturdy, abundant, and free bags for years to no ill effect.
There are certain items that I simply cannot bring myself to buy. Like small garbage bags. I've stepped off the viscous bag cycle where you use a small plastic grocery store bag to carry your box of small garbage bags home, then in the kitchen open the box of garbage bags in order to have a place to discard the grocery bag.
While convenient on-the-go, bottled water is usually unnecessary indoors. No, you couldn't tell the difference in a taste test that controlled for temperature and aeration. And don't get me started on gravy ladles.
I readily admit that the sandwich on raw grocery bag is a bit extreme. My disdain for thoughtlessness and waste comes easy. Even in his late, financially secure years, my grandfather Tom Minick always said that you should never buy ice, bait, or kindling. Why pay for these items when just a little planning and effort would turn them up for free?
Did Pap (pronounced Paaahp) actually say that? I'm not sure it matters because he definitely lived it. Perhaps one of his daughters or sons could clear the air. Pap was more frugal, thoughtful, and slow to speak than I. Despite his midlife struggles, all the family loved him, now practically canonize him a saint.
Pap. Worked. Hard. Yet what I remember most from my comings and goings is Pap sitting in the evenings at his kitchen table or on the front porch for extended periods, leaning forward, head hung, massive forearms propped on knees, staring, staring, staring down.
Pap was neither slow nor quick to engage me with a question or few. He was one of the few people who referred to me as Robert.
"So whattya think, Robert?"
I always thought that Pap must be awfully bored just sitting there for so long. I remember looking over his shoulder at the spot on the kitchen floor, trying to probe the spot for answers, searching with a gaze fit for deep sky. As an adolescent, I got little but floor out of Paps exercise.
For all his intelligence and work ethic, pap never came to Jesus until near the end, after the second or third time he passed out while sitting with his family. Though he was always both frugal and generous, his tired eyes finally shown joy.
I'm thankful to have inherited more than Paps thick head of hair. I see him all over my parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins because I'm watching and reflecting. We are actually all watchful and reflective, in the odd Minick sort of way, to a large extent because of you-know-who.
The Pap in me has a hard time budging when the girls at work request to order specific pens, when the kids want to drink bottled water at home and buy crickets to feed their frogs, and when Amy knows to add a "zip-lock please" when it's my turn to pack the sandwiches. These are my ice, bait, and kindling.
Sometimes at night when I manage to pry myself away from reading and trying to write at this computer, gazing long into this screen, I'm oddly drawn to sit a while more with face to the floor. Something compels me to fit in a good floor session before heading off to bed.
Staring at the floor, doing nothing, nothing doing, bliss.
That spot - I'm starting to see it now.
- - - - -
September 28, 2011
that socialization thing
The boy loves bikes. Luke constantly rides at home, rides with his brothers and cousins, his dad and uncle Tim. He tucks into bead with miniature flix tricks bikes.
Luke recognizes the uniform. He knows that skinny jeans and skate shoes are functional and not a statement of anti-athletes, as his dad once suspected. He studies bmx videos, imagines that every gangly teenager drooped over a bike spends his days flying around the globe defying physical laws of the universe with pedals and wheels.
Luke has rode skate parks on a few occasions. The unsocialized, home educated boy has managed to find his way among what has the potential to be a pretty rough crowd. He quickly learned why and how to respect the space of both highly skilled and highly unskilled riders. He hasn't been conditioned to feel intimidated and self-conscious around older peers. Compliments roll freely off his tongue. The majority of them have been kind, and any mopey awkward attitudes smooth out when Luke asks them about their skills.
Surely the bmx community offers both positive and negative influences to a starstruck 7-year old. I had some concern about him idolizing these guys and getting caught up in the cultural riff-raff. Until last week.
Luke, his brothers, and I pedaled down a nearly empty boardwalk to meet up with Tim in the September dusk. "Bmxers!", he exclaimed, spotting several young men that appeared to be riding the skate park in Ocean City NJ. We meandered through the gate and past them, Luke with a twinkle in his eye, noting their style and tricked out bikes. We proceeded to ride, our amateur moves on the various ramps and jumps going mostly unnoticed by the bikers.
Ten minutes later Luke paused to catch his breath. "Hey Uncle Tim, did you see those bikers do any awesome tricks? Let's go ask them to do something?"
Leave it to Tim to not mince words.
"Don't think so Luke. I haven't seen them do anything except sit on their bikes, cussing and smoking cigarettes."
Luke sat on his bike stunned, watching the young men proceed to do exactly that. I rode over to him, tempted to cover his ears. Instead I subtly mocked their second-hand smoke, mentioned to Luke how you don't even need a bike or skate park to do that, and shifted his attention to the skill uncle Tim was working on.
"Let's go try some of those with uncle Tim."
Uncle Tim who doesn't act like that; doesn't talk like that, and is generally awesome, right there in front of you.
Luke is going to hear and see a lot of things in this world, much of it outside the presence of his dad. Who, what, and how will he engage? Each ride is an opportunity to show him how we roll. Every adventure out of the front door is a right-of-passage.
I'm thankful for Lukes uncle, cousins, and "big" friends. And for doing stuff...together. Such a worthy excuse for this grown boy to love bikes.
- - - - -
Luke recognizes the uniform. He knows that skinny jeans and skate shoes are functional and not a statement of anti-athletes, as his dad once suspected. He studies bmx videos, imagines that every gangly teenager drooped over a bike spends his days flying around the globe defying physical laws of the universe with pedals and wheels.
Luke has rode skate parks on a few occasions. The unsocialized, home educated boy has managed to find his way among what has the potential to be a pretty rough crowd. He quickly learned why and how to respect the space of both highly skilled and highly unskilled riders. He hasn't been conditioned to feel intimidated and self-conscious around older peers. Compliments roll freely off his tongue. The majority of them have been kind, and any mopey awkward attitudes smooth out when Luke asks them about their skills.
Surely the bmx community offers both positive and negative influences to a starstruck 7-year old. I had some concern about him idolizing these guys and getting caught up in the cultural riff-raff. Until last week.
Luke, his brothers, and I pedaled down a nearly empty boardwalk to meet up with Tim in the September dusk. "Bmxers!", he exclaimed, spotting several young men that appeared to be riding the skate park in Ocean City NJ. We meandered through the gate and past them, Luke with a twinkle in his eye, noting their style and tricked out bikes. We proceeded to ride, our amateur moves on the various ramps and jumps going mostly unnoticed by the bikers.
Ten minutes later Luke paused to catch his breath. "Hey Uncle Tim, did you see those bikers do any awesome tricks? Let's go ask them to do something?"
Leave it to Tim to not mince words.
"Don't think so Luke. I haven't seen them do anything except sit on their bikes, cussing and smoking cigarettes."
Luke sat on his bike stunned, watching the young men proceed to do exactly that. I rode over to him, tempted to cover his ears. Instead I subtly mocked their second-hand smoke, mentioned to Luke how you don't even need a bike or skate park to do that, and shifted his attention to the skill uncle Tim was working on.
"Let's go try some of those with uncle Tim."
Uncle Tim who doesn't act like that; doesn't talk like that, and is generally awesome, right there in front of you.
Luke is going to hear and see a lot of things in this world, much of it outside the presence of his dad. Who, what, and how will he engage? Each ride is an opportunity to show him how we roll. Every adventure out of the front door is a right-of-passage.
I'm thankful for Lukes uncle, cousins, and "big" friends. And for doing stuff...together. Such a worthy excuse for this grown boy to love bikes.
- - - - -
September 09, 2011
the addition
Claire and the other kids are doing great. Amy is tired but feeling so much better after having the 9 months of nausea.
The baby Claire experience, when she's not eating or sleeping:
- - - - -
The baby Claire experience, when she's not eating or sleeping:
- - - - -
September 01, 2011
communion miracles
- - - - -
I sat in Lighthouse Baptist Church, staring down at the small piece of bread in my right hand, somehow oblivious to anything around me.
Where have I came from? What have I done? What am I to do with the days I've been granted? In light of the one who offered sinners grace, called us his friend, laid down his life so that we may live this life to the full?
And we will live again.
When did I ever start buying into this impossible math? How did I begin to comprehend the story where one person offers free rescue to the whole ship of fools?
There was the time when I decided that sitting still for 55 minutes was too much for God to ask of a 10-year old. So I signed up to be an alter boy at our little church in the woods of Chestnut Ridge.
Ah, free to move. For God, of course.
One of my responsibilities was to help smooth out one of the most challenging priestly demands: estimating how many wafers to consecrate during the rite of communion. Too few leaves some parishioners out of luck. Too many leaves the priest with a...substantial problem. You can't just toss the transubstantiated body of Jesus out for the squirrels or hide it in the trash under random donut fragments.
With communion underway, the parishoners filed up to the priest. Another alter boy and I guarded close by to catch any wafers fumbled toward the floor. We maintained the athletic ready position, dreaming of the chance to make a diving save. Sadly, that never happened.
The alter boys and priest were always the last to receive communion. I'd rate the priests aptitude after the congregation, the ushers, the organist, and finally the small choir headed back to their seats. I often received a halved wafer and initially felt slighted when it was a measly quarter.
I once assisted a "substitute" priest who grossly overestimated wafer requirments for the day. It was just the three of us left, looking down on about 25 wafers strewn across the gold plate. He paused, stacked around ten of them up like poker chips, smashed them together ala Dagwood Bumstead, and stashed them into my mouth.
The stack expanded, clung to everything. I worked on that stack for the remainder of mass, chiseling an index finger toward the roof of my mouf. I had just finished my communion by the time dad met me to walk to the car. He said that I should be extra holy, but I mostly felt thirsty.
Those years of up-close communion taught me some things about the math of God. I began to appreciate that it counted the same whether I was called to a quarter wafer or ten. I saw the possibility that it really is best to give and to receive no more or less than your portion. Doing something for God felt good, was good, even when it meant stuffing down communion wafers.
These days I'm slightly better at sitting. Slightly. Instead of trying to determine the right way to do communion and exactly how the body of Jesus is involved, I'm attempting simple thankfulness for my daily quarter and 10-stacks.
Ah, the peace. I'm finding that a miracle certainly does take place by moving in obedience and by being still, remembering in thankfulness.
And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.”
Where have I came from? What have I done? What am I to do with the days I've been granted? In light of the one who offered sinners grace, called us his friend, laid down his life so that we may live this life to the full?
And we will live again.
When did I ever start buying into this impossible math? How did I begin to comprehend the story where one person offers free rescue to the whole ship of fools?
There was the time when I decided that sitting still for 55 minutes was too much for God to ask of a 10-year old. So I signed up to be an alter boy at our little church in the woods of Chestnut Ridge. Ah, free to move. For God, of course.
One of my responsibilities was to help smooth out one of the most challenging priestly demands: estimating how many wafers to consecrate during the rite of communion. Too few leaves some parishioners out of luck. Too many leaves the priest with a...substantial problem. You can't just toss the transubstantiated body of Jesus out for the squirrels or hide it in the trash under random donut fragments.
With communion underway, the parishoners filed up to the priest. Another alter boy and I guarded close by to catch any wafers fumbled toward the floor. We maintained the athletic ready position, dreaming of the chance to make a diving save. Sadly, that never happened.
The alter boys and priest were always the last to receive communion. I'd rate the priests aptitude after the congregation, the ushers, the organist, and finally the small choir headed back to their seats. I often received a halved wafer and initially felt slighted when it was a measly quarter.
I once assisted a "substitute" priest who grossly overestimated wafer requirments for the day. It was just the three of us left, looking down on about 25 wafers strewn across the gold plate. He paused, stacked around ten of them up like poker chips, smashed them together ala Dagwood Bumstead, and stashed them into my mouth.
The stack expanded, clung to everything. I worked on that stack for the remainder of mass, chiseling an index finger toward the roof of my mouf. I had just finished my communion by the time dad met me to walk to the car. He said that I should be extra holy, but I mostly felt thirsty.
Those years of up-close communion taught me some things about the math of God. I began to appreciate that it counted the same whether I was called to a quarter wafer or ten. I saw the possibility that it really is best to give and to receive no more or less than your portion. Doing something for God felt good, was good, even when it meant stuffing down communion wafers.
These days I'm slightly better at sitting. Slightly. Instead of trying to determine the right way to do communion and exactly how the body of Jesus is involved, I'm attempting simple thankfulness for my daily quarter and 10-stacks.
Ah, the peace. I'm finding that a miracle certainly does take place by moving in obedience and by being still, remembering in thankfulness.
August 28, 2011
Pre-Frerunning
After watching a pretty cool vid, this consumed their minds and bodies today.
"Wow that's cool. We HAVE to make a video."
Slow rainy Saturday, waiting on Irene. Yeah, okay.
- - - - -
July 12, 2011
The ANIMAL video
This is their passion right now, what we have to show for our spring and summer labor.
Credit to Luke for putting much of this together while dad helped.
- - - - -
- - - - -
Credit to Luke for putting much of this together while dad helped.
- - - - -
- - - - -
June 14, 2011
Time sensitive material
- - - - -
"Right" priorities balance on some razor thin, probably imaginary edge. It always feels like I'm sliding one way or another.
I'm typically at my physical therapy office from 8 to 7:30 on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. Those are the days when I rush home at about noon for a quick lunch before the afternoon shift.
I pull into my driveway, usually happy and hungry. I see needs. Needs everywhere. There's so much that I could be doing with the fifteen or forty minutes I'm granted to be home.
The kids want to show me the mornings labor. A written story, a drawn picture, a new frog or "bike jump." They are scurrying around land mines the dogs have left lying in the grass. Removing them before disaster strikes a shoe and spreads through the house is a priority.
I notice plants calling for a drink. I walk through our disorganized, sometimes disastrous garage, down wall smudged hallway, make my lunch amongst stacks of folded laundry and dishes piled high. I see my dear wife, patiently waiting to catch up with me. My cell phone rings.
Some parts of me enjoy this pace and others do not. In some ways, I've most certainly asked for it, this family. And work? I could be trying to manage my own business. Sheeyah. I could be at my current office doing paperwork, "marketing," or getting caught up on "developments" in the field.
But I've made choices and have been blessed with the opportunity to work in the community where I live. I've traveled 2.4 miles to my home to receive hugs, instruction, and a bit of spaghetti-Os and bicycle grime on my work clothes.
The garage can be purged and organized, every wall painted, every twig, leaf, and blade in the yard uprooted and replanted, some day. I can research and hustle and pour myself into reinventing my presence in the workplace. All that can be accomplished in a few weeks or months. If need be. That's not so with spouses and children, with mental and physical health. NOT SO. There are important, time sensitive developments and opportunities happening with Amy, with the kids, and within me, that demand regular attention.
It may not happen during a lunch break on long work days. Seasons come and go with shifting priorities, but nobody can afford to regularly neglect the health of their family and their body.
I take my work seriously, honestly, and usually enjoy it. Yet sometimes I can't see the line between being a responsible provider and being caught up in the rat race. Where there are decisions to be made in the face of uncertainty, events and consequences that push one way or another, you know which way I'll be leaning.
- - - - -
"Right" priorities balance on some razor thin, probably imaginary edge. It always feels like I'm sliding one way or another.
I'm typically at my physical therapy office from 8 to 7:30 on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. Those are the days when I rush home at about noon for a quick lunch before the afternoon shift.
I pull into my driveway, usually happy and hungry. I see needs. Needs everywhere. There's so much that I could be doing with the fifteen or forty minutes I'm granted to be home.
The kids want to show me the mornings labor. A written story, a drawn picture, a new frog or "bike jump." They are scurrying around land mines the dogs have left lying in the grass. Removing them before disaster strikes a shoe and spreads through the house is a priority.
I notice plants calling for a drink. I walk through our disorganized, sometimes disastrous garage, down wall smudged hallway, make my lunch amongst stacks of folded laundry and dishes piled high. I see my dear wife, patiently waiting to catch up with me. My cell phone rings.
Some parts of me enjoy this pace and others do not. In some ways, I've most certainly asked for it, this family. And work? I could be trying to manage my own business. Sheeyah. I could be at my current office doing paperwork, "marketing," or getting caught up on "developments" in the field.
But I've made choices and have been blessed with the opportunity to work in the community where I live. I've traveled 2.4 miles to my home to receive hugs, instruction, and a bit of spaghetti-Os and bicycle grime on my work clothes.
The garage can be purged and organized, every wall painted, every twig, leaf, and blade in the yard uprooted and replanted, some day. I can research and hustle and pour myself into reinventing my presence in the workplace. All that can be accomplished in a few weeks or months. If need be. That's not so with spouses and children, with mental and physical health. NOT SO. There are important, time sensitive developments and opportunities happening with Amy, with the kids, and within me, that demand regular attention.
It may not happen during a lunch break on long work days. Seasons come and go with shifting priorities, but nobody can afford to regularly neglect the health of their family and their body.
I take my work seriously, honestly, and usually enjoy it. Yet sometimes I can't see the line between being a responsible provider and being caught up in the rat race. Where there are decisions to be made in the face of uncertainty, events and consequences that push one way or another, you know which way I'll be leaning.
- - - - -
June 04, 2011
love your neighbor
- - - - -
In the dark is where the really big huge monster bull frogs appear. So they waited all day for night to fall, the three brothers, the dad, and the neighbor girl. We began our third hunt in as many weeks, eager to see what kind of Nessies may be found croaking in the deep.
We approached the (now) legendary Grantham pond, each of us armed with net and flashlight. The sliver moon hung low, reflecting off water, moss, and muck. We were sneaking, excited but whispering to each other going into turn one of the pond, when from the corner of the pond we heard a...
A voice. Of a person. With a pretty alarmist tone for four kids and a dad quietly hunting frogs.
"'S"cuse me, the park is closed at 9:00."
Oh. My. Frog. Of COURSE. Of course someone would have a problem with this, four kids and a dad hunting critters together on a Friday night and letting them go a day or two later in their backyard one mile up-stream.
I pulled out my phone.
"Yeah look at that, it's 9:20. Were we bothering you?"
"Well the neighborhood around here keeps watch of the park at night and the park closes at 9:00."
I stood there silent, staring at the shadowy figure, a middle aged woman trying to catch her breath.
"I thought that meant the pavilion and the playground. So we're not allowed to be here, even for catching frogs with nets?"
"No your not. And we like having some frogs around, ya know?"
I thought of the hundreds if not thousands of frogs and tadpoles that we've seen or caught at the pond over the last few years, many of which probably find their way back when we release them.
I looked over at the small campfire she had going about halfway between her town home and the pond, wondering if it was placed on park property. Upper Allen Township prohibits campfires without a permit from the fire warden, recalled the one with a small ring of stones in the far reaches of his own back yard.
"Okay guys, lets head back toward the car."
We made our way back along waters edge. I caught a glimpse and paused to point out an almost wholly submerged monster bully. Seeing that we weren't moving out at a pace suited to her liking, the woman pretended to call the police. This had the effect of me wanting to go ape shit, especially since I had plenty of leverage with the illegitimate camp fire likely on park grounds.
I'm just a concerned citizen. And rules are rules.
And so I moved more slowly toward the car. Pausing here, listening there, not attempting to net anything. Rounding up four kids takes a while, you know? I somehow managed to keep my mouth completely shut. Not a word about the frogs. Or the rules on campfires. Or my disappointed children.
Is it wrong for me to smile at the thought that tomorrow, Lord willing, we will be there an hour earlier?
- - - - -
In the dark is where the really big huge monster bull frogs appear. So they waited all day for night to fall, the three brothers, the dad, and the neighbor girl. We began our third hunt in as many weeks, eager to see what kind of Nessies may be found croaking in the deep.
We approached the (now) legendary Grantham pond, each of us armed with net and flashlight. The sliver moon hung low, reflecting off water, moss, and muck. We were sneaking, excited but whispering to each other going into turn one of the pond, when from the corner of the pond we heard a...
A voice. Of a person. With a pretty alarmist tone for four kids and a dad quietly hunting frogs.
"'S"cuse me, the park is closed at 9:00."
Oh. My. Frog. Of COURSE. Of course someone would have a problem with this, four kids and a dad hunting critters together on a Friday night and letting them go a day or two later in their backyard one mile up-stream.
I pulled out my phone.
"Yeah look at that, it's 9:20. Were we bothering you?"
"Well the neighborhood around here keeps watch of the park at night and the park closes at 9:00."
I stood there silent, staring at the shadowy figure, a middle aged woman trying to catch her breath.
"I thought that meant the pavilion and the playground. So we're not allowed to be here, even for catching frogs with nets?"
"No your not. And we like having some frogs around, ya know?"
I thought of the hundreds if not thousands of frogs and tadpoles that we've seen or caught at the pond over the last few years, many of which probably find their way back when we release them.
I looked over at the small campfire she had going about halfway between her town home and the pond, wondering if it was placed on park property. Upper Allen Township prohibits campfires without a permit from the fire warden, recalled the one with a small ring of stones in the far reaches of his own back yard.
"Okay guys, lets head back toward the car."
We made our way back along waters edge. I caught a glimpse and paused to point out an almost wholly submerged monster bully. Seeing that we weren't moving out at a pace suited to her liking, the woman pretended to call the police. This had the effect of me wanting to go ape shit, especially since I had plenty of leverage with the illegitimate camp fire likely on park grounds.
I'm just a concerned citizen. And rules are rules.
And so I moved more slowly toward the car. Pausing here, listening there, not attempting to net anything. Rounding up four kids takes a while, you know? I somehow managed to keep my mouth completely shut. Not a word about the frogs. Or the rules on campfires. Or my disappointed children.
Is it wrong for me to smile at the thought that tomorrow, Lord willing, we will be there an hour earlier?
- - - - -
May 26, 2011
Depressed/Under Stress
[I'm not qualified to diagnose or treat depression. Well, at least not directly; not as a health care professional. These are simply the thoughts of a guy who signed up for a free blog.]
The most common condition in my physical therapy clinic, by a long shot, is depression. Those two little boxes on our health history questionnaire are almost always checked off. "Who's not under stress or depressed?" said the patient with low back pain as she completed her paperwork today.
On one hand, clinical depression is a mystery to me. I haven't studied it formally, and I've never been particularly depressed or anxious. Some of us just don't have that bend to us. No, some of us are too arrogant, stubborn, prideful, or dishonest with ourselves to be depressed. We fall, for sure, just not in the direction of depression. I do question if any minister, mental health specialist (or anyone else who does deal directly with depression) is very well qualified to understand or treat depression if they haven't experienced it themselves.
On the other hand, I do claim to know at least something about depression. Anyone who pays a lick of attention should know something, because it's everywhere.
I know that bringing up perspective and poor decisions and God's sovereignty is not exactly therapeutic when someone is stuck under a crushing cloud.
I know that there is a significant genetic predisposition to depression. Or is it environmental. Does it matter which it is, if we recognize that depressed people have absolutely not always brought it on themselves?
I know that three days of gnawing back pain and lost sleep will make anyone quite emotional if not substantially depressed. Stress and anxiety and depression absolutely effects pain perception, cycles the misery, ups the ante.
I know that a lot of beautiful, intelligent, genuine Christians suffer from depression. They bare witness to the fact that faith or lack of faith is not the bottom line here.
I ask why. Why so much depression so often affecting so many different types of people? Is there anything we can do about it? How may I actually help someone suffering depression, or at least not further hinder them? How, where, what can we do to save our children from this thing where they grow up and the vast majority of them are checking the "stress/depressed" box on their health history questionnaire?
In 50 or 500 years, will our ancestors remember our age as the second great depression? Do you imagine there's some element(s) of modern living that are highly damaging to the human psyche? What's really going on here? Is it our expectations, our knowledge base? Are there choices we're all making, seemingly sane and good choices, that bite us in the butt 10 months or years later?
I just can't imagine that it's only due to improved diagnoses and social acceptance of depression. In the old days, people may have been hungry or persecuted or oppressed or dead at a young age. But I can't imagine that so many suffered from depression.
There have been times when I've been able to help friends. A little movement, a little less arthritic pain, a little lighthearted laughter. There have been more times when I've struggled to do nothing more than be present, listening. There are times when I pray for less understanding and more gentleness and compassion.
"Some people feel guilty about their anxieties and regard them as a defect of faith. But they are afflictions, not sins. Like all afflictions, they are, if we can take them, our share in the passion of Christ." -CS Lewis
The most common condition in my physical therapy clinic, by a long shot, is depression. Those two little boxes on our health history questionnaire are almost always checked off. "Who's not under stress or depressed?" said the patient with low back pain as she completed her paperwork today.
On one hand, clinical depression is a mystery to me. I haven't studied it formally, and I've never been particularly depressed or anxious. Some of us just don't have that bend to us. No, some of us are too arrogant, stubborn, prideful, or dishonest with ourselves to be depressed. We fall, for sure, just not in the direction of depression. I do question if any minister, mental health specialist (or anyone else who does deal directly with depression) is very well qualified to understand or treat depression if they haven't experienced it themselves.
On the other hand, I do claim to know at least something about depression. Anyone who pays a lick of attention should know something, because it's everywhere.
I know that bringing up perspective and poor decisions and God's sovereignty is not exactly therapeutic when someone is stuck under a crushing cloud.
I know that there is a significant genetic predisposition to depression. Or is it environmental. Does it matter which it is, if we recognize that depressed people have absolutely not always brought it on themselves?
I know that three days of gnawing back pain and lost sleep will make anyone quite emotional if not substantially depressed. Stress and anxiety and depression absolutely effects pain perception, cycles the misery, ups the ante.
I know that a lot of beautiful, intelligent, genuine Christians suffer from depression. They bare witness to the fact that faith or lack of faith is not the bottom line here.
I ask why. Why so much depression so often affecting so many different types of people? Is there anything we can do about it? How may I actually help someone suffering depression, or at least not further hinder them? How, where, what can we do to save our children from this thing where they grow up and the vast majority of them are checking the "stress/depressed" box on their health history questionnaire?
In 50 or 500 years, will our ancestors remember our age as the second great depression? Do you imagine there's some element(s) of modern living that are highly damaging to the human psyche? What's really going on here? Is it our expectations, our knowledge base? Are there choices we're all making, seemingly sane and good choices, that bite us in the butt 10 months or years later?
I just can't imagine that it's only due to improved diagnoses and social acceptance of depression. In the old days, people may have been hungry or persecuted or oppressed or dead at a young age. But I can't imagine that so many suffered from depression.
There have been times when I've been able to help friends. A little movement, a little less arthritic pain, a little lighthearted laughter. There have been more times when I've struggled to do nothing more than be present, listening. There are times when I pray for less understanding and more gentleness and compassion.
"Some people feel guilty about their anxieties and regard them as a defect of faith. But they are afflictions, not sins. Like all afflictions, they are, if we can take them, our share in the passion of Christ." -CS Lewis
May 15, 2011
May 03, 2011
the life cycle of frogs
It's a warm spring day with nothing scheduled. The dad has worked hard to give his children the gift of a free morning.
I ask them what they'd like to do today. Play ball, go to the park, anything at all? Of course they want to catch frogs and other creatures. They've repeatedly asked for nothing more or less since the last time we came home with two bucket loads of tadpoles.
Off we drive with nets and buckets, to one of the many local watering holes; swamps and ditches and vernal ponds. Along the way we spot daffodils and tulips marking a season of new life, celebrating them with the excitement of Christmas lights in December.
For the next 50 minutes we scoop and slosh, collecting frogs, small fish, a turtle, and most of all, mud. Maggie never learns that thing about slimy frog eggs being gross. Ben nets his first tadpole; a moment that I never want to forget. You would have thought he netted Moby Dick.
Owen catches a frog and Maggie releases it. Luke turns up a small catfish. The excitement almost makes me forget about the organic smell that will linger in the car and the hours Amy and I will spend cleaning kids and shoes and laundry.
I know it's worth it - the time, the smelly car, the inspection for tics. I remember countless hours spent in the woods behind my parents home making new "old shoes," learning lessons in a small, mucky sanctuary of life known as "the swamp." The swamp was my favorite place to go until about the age of 13.
Then I had other things to do. I recall, a little later, riding my bike during college years at Slippery Rock. I was off to important places, and never had the courage to actually go poke around in the bogs and small ponds in and around campus. But I stared at cat tails with deep longing. The call of spring peepers was an instant reminder of the simple, joyful wonder of youth.
I've fished for trout, like dad did when he took me all over creation with net in hand. But that's just goofing around. I'm so thankful for the four tadpoles with me. I almost forgot how spectacular frogs are. For a minute there I thought there was something better to do than muck around in a swamp.
- - - - -
Legacy
- - - - -
This past Sunday at LBC, Pastor Fedor spoke to us about leaving a lasting legacy, structured from a quote by Dr. Crawford Loritts Jr.
"Out of struggle comes strength."
Comfort and wealth have the potential to turn us into the walking dead.
"Out of strength comes discipline."
Discipline starts when we realize, in humility, that we have no strength of our own. Truly blessed are the meek.
"Out of discipline comes integrity."
Consistency establishes trust. There are no short cuts because we instill values primarily by example - how we live.
"Out of integrity comes your inheritance."
What will be left on the day you die; on the day the last memory of you winks out of existence? Hopefully much more than a certain "standard of living."
Do you "buy" this order of things? Hearing the story of Fedor's past, and considering how he lives now - it makes me want to pay attention, and gain understanding.
- - - - -
This past Sunday at LBC, Pastor Fedor spoke to us about leaving a lasting legacy, structured from a quote by Dr. Crawford Loritts Jr.
"Out of struggle comes strength."
Comfort and wealth have the potential to turn us into the walking dead.
"Out of strength comes discipline."
Discipline starts when we realize, in humility, that we have no strength of our own. Truly blessed are the meek.
"Out of discipline comes integrity."
Consistency establishes trust. There are no short cuts because we instill values primarily by example - how we live.
"Out of integrity comes your inheritance."
What will be left on the day you die; on the day the last memory of you winks out of existence? Hopefully much more than a certain "standard of living."
Do you "buy" this order of things? Hearing the story of Fedor's past, and considering how he lives now - it makes me want to pay attention, and gain understanding.
- - - - -
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