simple small

The wear pattern in the tread of a shoe tells a story. Deciphering soles is part of my job as a physical therapist, but the truth is that I've marveled at them for fun, for quite a while. Amy rolls her eyes, "There he goes shoe gazing again."

I think she knows of the place barely above the corner of her mouth. It speaks volumes about her condition, so I study it while listening. I've tried reading that place on casual acquaintances and clients at work, but it doesn't seem to say much about those you don't love.

These are but a few small places that are good to notice. There are many others, like the cow licks in my children's hair, the blemishes all over our kitchen table, and the areas in my back yard where grass slopes gently into crystal stream.

I've been noticing these things for a long time. It always seemed that some people have an eye for it, or just care to notice more than others.  I didn't know that the simple, the small, the commonplace hold special revelation of God. I didn't know it was cool.

Some of my favorite writers, like Ann and Gordan and Billy, to name just a few, are constantly reminding me that it's good to notice the simple and small. They are relaying ancient wisdom from prophets and mystics.

And it's true. God is in the small things. Noticing it is good for you. Appreciating the meaning and beauty and complexity is like a magical formula for gratitude and goodness. Really. Try it.








"Do you find something unique in one leaf, pulled from a tree full of leaves that any reasonable person would say are identical? Or did you want to be a reasonable person?"

every other tuesday

Do you know that thing where Christians are big mouthed, ego driven hypocrites and charlatans who enjoy judging others while doing nothing to give feet to their delusional beliefs?  

I don't actually know anyone who believes all this about Christianity (or is honest enough to express that to me). I'm just going by the internet, where there seems to be a lot of awful talk about Christians.

I'm sure there will always be people who justify their deception, their manipulative use of fear, their hatred and small mindedness and plain stupidity in the name of the Lord. Jesus himself talked about wolves in sheep's clothing. And I'm just not buying all the Anti-Christian Internet Hero talk.

Take every other Tuesday at Lighthouse Church, for instance.

Every other Tuesday, a small army of people from our modest church wake up and put in an 8 hour work day, then drive through hell (route 83 rush hour traffic) to get to the church by about 5:00 p.m. There they prepare dinner for at least 30 kids, many of them too small to feed themselves. So they feed them, clean everything and everyone up, and even put the little ones into their jammies before the parents return from Bible study/kid respite at about 7:30.

What's the pay for the miracle of the feeding and the chasing and the entertaining of 30-some  children who aren't even relatives? With the bonus of leaving the church between 7:40 and 8:00 in order to prepare for work the next day? I'm sure you can guess.

Lighthouse values life. We value families, which are good for parents and for children. Many of us prefer the much harder, quieter, soul saving work of our beliefs to the loud spouting about them.

Lighthouse has given thousands if not hundreds of thousands of dollars to organizations that support and serve children. You want to talk commitment? Members of our church have adopted. Others have provided foster care. Others have regularly, painstakingly supported families who have done these things with none of the glory of being an adoptive parent.

 And by painstakingly, I mean wall poop scrubbing. I just don't see any ego involved with scrubbing poop off walls. That's some of what goes on at our little Lighthouse, just like thousands upon thousands of churches across the face of the earth.

So the next time you read of bad or self serving or stupid Christian behavior, please give a nod to all the stories about small acts of kindness and huge acts of crazy love offered in the name of the Lord, each and every one of them being plain hard.

Writing good and bad things about Christians will always be easier and less rewarding than the kind of stuff that goes on every other Tuesday at Lighthouse. 

"...for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."

- - - - -

Levis craft

 - - - - -
I've been in charge of our chuches Little Lambs class of 4 and 5 year-olds for about five weeks. Todays class began when one of the children found a package of paper lunch bags. He opened the drawer below to reveal a package of cotton fuzz, then proceeded to stuff some fuzz into a bag.

My reactive thought of "Hey, put those back" was transformed, possibly miraculously, to "Hey, my first craft!"

Not knowing why the bags were there or whose they were, I imagined there was no better use than stuffing them with cotton. Neither could I come up with a reason to delay the craft to a later, more traditional craft making point in the hour.

So I instructed everyone to grab a fist full of cotton fuzz and a paper bag. I offered to write their name on it and help them draw anything they wanted. My ladybugs were pretty weak but I could draw a mean T-rex and catfish. They colored the bags. There was glue involved, if for no other reason than to fulfill the Biblical gluey mess in Sunday school mandates.

The children then held their custom bags of cotton as we talked and prayed and read a portion of Genesis chapter 18 about Abraham and Sarah. I immediately quizzed them.

"Who was Sarah? Why do you think she kept saying, 'I didn't laugh...I didn't laugh?"

Then we went outside with our bags for a Neature Walk through the real cathedral. Because nature is neat and, y'know, God created.

We talked about seasons and weather. We saw birds and talked about God providing food for them. Each child picked a small purple lilly, snagged a short stem of blooming ornamental pear tree, collected a pine cone or two, and snapped off a small piece of the bushes that line the church.

No Little Lamb is bound by our useless distinctions between weed and flower. Dandelions were a precious commodity, rare today. I saw Levi literally leap to capture a random piece of tanbark as if it were a $100 bill being blown by the wind.

"Whatcha' got there Levi?"

"It's a piece of wood that I thought was pretty."

"Oh ! Nice find."

He proudly plopped the item into his bag. It was the greatest single piece of tanbark my eyes had ever seen.

We went back inside to sort and applaud the mornings treasures. We discussed some of them until Kevin lightly tossed out the word snack. Kevin, oblivious to clocks, knowing not the minute or the hour, perfectly identified snack time. So we had a snack, and that just about wrapped things up.

I was tempted to make my own bag to help remember some of the treasures I came across that morning. But instead I thought to write them out, put them in this here craft.

 - - - - -

you never know

 - - - - - - - -
Amy and I haven't been talking about our ongoing training and qualifications for foster parenting. This is where we are. I'd like to remember.

Our intention is to foster and hopefully adopt a child through the Bair Foundation. The training and numerous checks and balances are a hassle but certainly understandable. The agency learning about you and you learning about yourself and what you're getting into is a valuable process that cannot be accomplished through a questionnaire or lecture.

Why are we doing this? [I ask myself some times]. Because we have room for another child in our hearts and home. Because there is a need, and our faith calls us to action, and we take it seriously.  

During our final training session today, the social worker told us that about 10% of people who begin the process both qualify and choose to follow through with fostering. They know what they're doing, offering all they can to set your family and the adoptive child up for success.

But they also plainly tell you that "you never know." Some seemingly perfect placements go poorly while others expected to be rocky end up doing quite well.

You never know. So they suggest that you pray. That scares me, quite honestly. They're plainly saying that the deal doesn't make much sense for reasonable people. Maybe it does for a family that faces fertility issues, but even then...

I've had daydreams during training, seeing visions of feces smeared on the walls, living room curtains ablaze, coming home to find Amy struggling to apply a physical restraint. Each of these circumstances were specifically addressed, so maybe I was paying attention for the most part.

Hell yes we are scared. We're scared by him/her, unnamed and without a face, full of every behavioral and psychological issue, bound by miles of red tape and inconvenience. But by Gods grace most children come with a name and a face and without every worst case scenario.

Maybe we are idealistic, naive, and looney - Amy and I rushing to help one child in the name of the Lord. We're not acting out of some kind of obligation or guilt. But in our minds we tried on a relatively secure future, comfortable, trusting in ourselves, looking back and wondering why we didn't try.

I'm wondering if that's the worst case scenario.

So we're praying about it. Because you never know.

 - - - - -

jumping to heaven

- - - - - -


With floor to ceiling trampolines, dodge balls, and foam pits, Bounce Fun Plex is heaven on earth for all kinesthetic types. Time dilates as you float through otherworldly dimensions, gravity redefined. You hardly notice the exhaustion creeping up, jumping like you're dumb, du-du-du-du-dumb.

The first steps off the trampolines are disillusion. Harsh floor boards violate your feet with shocking impact. Flat ground is so...

Meh.

That's why if God chose me to write something like the book of Revelation, my symbolic description of heaven wouldn't include anything like pure precious stones. No, the angel would certainly show me a New Jerusalem with trampoline walls, trampoline streets, dodge balls (the old fashioned red kind), and various chocolate milk slides that launch you between foam pits and ice cream pits.

Is that not a vision to behold?

I'm sure many skeptical intellectual scholar types would eagerly raise questions about various flaws of this symbol in my vision, pointing out that there are some bodily locations where you never want to get hit by a dodge ball, trampolines or no trampolines, for ever. And ever. 

And they would be correct, because my vision of heaven taken in any literal or non-literal sense is quite limited. Aren't all such visions like trying to explain the concepts of art or justice or money to my dog Josie?

"Yeah, sure. That little rectangular paper can get me all the dog treats I want. Thanks, but I'm going to the garbage and look for some dirty diapers."

Because if some identifiable part of us can be with God, where He dwells eternally, shouldn't that place exists beyond the boundaries of space and time? Neither precious stones nor trampolines nor anything you can think of can even come close to describing it.

But those things are all we know.

So for the days I'm given to jump, I'll spend at least a moment of time jumping to heaven.


 - - - - -

why

 - - - - -

It was sunny this morning in central PA, when all of February is usually grey. The light hit my exposed hand and it felt wonderful. It was the feeling of gratitude and hope.

I wondered why it felt so good. Did I simply notice because I haven't felt much sun lately? Hell, why did it happen at all, those few photons traveling 8 minutes and 90-some million miles to land on the back of my hand? Was it because of the massive hydrogen fusion going on in our sun, itself the destructive fall-out of a more ancient star?

Why?

You say, "Why not?"

Really? You're satisfied to walk away with that answer?

Science fascinates me. But it's incomplete. It doesn't tell the why.

So I'm left here, pestering my mentors, asking my friends, hitting the books, sounding almost exactly the same as my three year old daughter. Small people we are, with childlike understanding.

Yet learning. Wondering...

 - - - - -

two front teeth

You'll be hard pressed to find a picture of me with a hearty laugh or toothy grin.

I was in the 4th or 5th grade when the dentist sent me to an orthodontist. The gap between my two front teeth had been obvious for years and did not appear to be changing. The orthodontist took one glance and confirmed that I would need a row of braces across the top for a complete mid-line shift.

This was terrible news. I would be teased by other kids. Adults would constantly ask me about braces. Far worse than the impending negative attention was the plain evidence that I was imperfect and therefore probably a piece of garbage.

I whined until my parents told the orthodontist that we would deal with it later. I thought that maybe there was a chance all those things weren't true after all.

I prayed sincere, childish, bargainer prayers. I pushed those teeth toward each other with my left thumb and index finger so often that it became an unconscious habit, like chewing fingernails. The movement feels familiar to this day.

The outcome, after six or eight years, was a perfectly straight row of top teeth. Did the pushing help? Probably not at all. The prayers? I seriously doubt it. But for reasons that likely have more to do with ossification of facial bones than miracles, I entered into adulthood with no braces and no gap.

And so it was all good. Until the day I cut my arm on broken glass while working in Rolling Rock Brewery. When I fainted, those teeth apparently took the entire impact of my upper body on the cement floor. 

The caps that were placed over my teeth at the age of twenty are still off color and a size too buckey. Cameras still cause me a subconscious shift, bringing out my picture smile which will deprive my kids and grand kids (and myself) of what I really looked like.

There's something sinister behind self absorption. We wear our points of fear and insecurity like giant pimples, focusing on them, prodding, making them worse. While nobody else gives a damn, we render ourselves incapable of extending the grace and gentleness and encouragement that breaks the same twisted spiral in others.

I'm pretty sure my teeth won't be changing anytime soon. And thank goodness, because the prodding and praying that I need to be doing lies much deeper. I won't say God bashed my face off the ground to teach me some lessons. But I think he hears those kind of prayers.

 - - - - -

skittles

It's the stuff of everyday life that reveals character. Tells you what they're made of, what may become.

I'm pretty sure that our 13-year-old neighbor "Anne" is going to do well. And she'll certainly be welcomed to any of our activities that interest her.

Anne is an active girl, interested in soccer and such. Even more, I think, in to frog and snake hunting, riding bikes, and jumping on the trampoline with my crew. Last fall she almost landed a flat ground front flip and biked a 10-step drop like it was no big deal.

This is why we couldn't wait to bring her along to Bounce Fun Plex last month. She regretted to miss it, already having plans for that day. But finally last Friday, after constantly hearing about the Bounce, she would join us in the hour long trip to Selinsgrove. We walked through the doors and signed waivers as the workers slapped on wrist bands. Kids big and small kicked off shoes and socks and sprinted to the trampolines.

But wait, what was that? Anne can't jump? Yes, I have her parents permission. Yes, I would sign her waiver. But you need a parental signature or she can't jump?

Anne and I stood there in disbelief, nearly frozen by the cold faced scowl of the manager, which gave no indication of turning her back on the policy. That moment hung for hours, Anne and I listening to giddy shrieks and laughter, the trampoline side walls revealing silhouettes of people leaping like they're du, du, du, du, du-dumb.

I thought of my three young boys, including one 4-year old, tangled up somewhere in that mess of the near weightless joy. So I told Anne that I was about to go jump a bit, then we could play some video games or get food while we wait.

Would Anne whine around or run outside in tears? Would she do the passive aggressive pout? I mean, she is a teenage girl. Would she take the 100% legitimate frustration out on the manager or the event planner who didn't call ahead or even consider such things?

While we were jumping, Anne went to the food stand and bought three packs of skittles, one for each of her three young friends. She picked up her waiver forms to take home, said she would be ready for next time. Anne knows me to well, eager for an excuse to "take the kids" back to Bounce Plex.

That's why I think that Anne is going to do pretty well for herself and for others in this world. I mean that in the broadest sense possible.

And with the small amount of time and authority that is given me, I say that there will be a next time.

- - - - - -

lying to the kids about santa

The Santa issue can be tough for parents. The dilemma is often presented as two choices: remove some of the fun and magic of childhood or possibly foster confusion and distrust in important spiritual matters. 

I doubt that believing in Santa as a child will automatically result in growing up into a God hater. Kids like to pretend. They mix things up all the time. Two of my boys attend Sunday school every week and still confuse Mary the mother of Jesus with Queen Galadriel from Lord of the Rings. I'm not afraid of them denouncing their faith when they find out that Queen Galadriel is not real.

But I am afraid of a few things:


Blowing the Santa issue out of proportion. I'm cool with Santa. Really, I have no problem with the guy, up to a point where fun turns into fiasco. I'm just not up for the effort of two parents keeping every word and deed straight when being cross examined times four (Claire can't talk yet). Have you tried planning stealth shopping trips and sneaking boxes and bags into the bedroom closet past 10 little eyes?

On the other hand, trying to steer completely clear of Santa or trash talking him for stealing the spotlight from Jesus requires just as much effort and explaining. I'm not up for that either. Kids are perceptive to see that slinging mud at others gets your own hands dirty. Besides, you can't run from Santa. Not in December. Which leads to my second fear.

Distraction

I'm sorry, but I feel that actively promoting the whole Santa thing does come at a cost. Children and adults alike hold great potential for distraction from reflective waiting and celebration of God with us.

There were certainly presents under our tree and wild squeaks of excitement on Christmas morning. But we try to moderate it and steer clear of the big hype Santa focus that moves us toward the fatigued and frantic, perspective lacking cultural event that is opposite of anything remotely related to Jesus. By noon the typically cooperative and content children are suddenly fighting and asking for more, with the parents saying in unison, "I'm glad it's almost over."

Maybe other parents can pull off Santa in a more balanced and meaningful fashion. But this has been our experience. And it sickens us.

A few years back we decided to let it go. When a friend or relative wants to talk to the kids about Santa, they have all dealt just fine. But me? I can't keep track of who believes what at the moment and how they might best be approached. And so I've came up with the perfect solution.


As for me and my house, we will lie about Santa. 

No, really. When the issue arises, I play along fast and direct by speaking big fat lies, my face clearly speaking to each child what they need to hear.

Luke: So when do we open presents from Santa?

Me (With all eyes on, fairly sure that Luke doesn't believe, Owen and Ben probably do not, and Maggie really could care less at this point):

[Inhale deep, push out belly, retract head for double chin effect, put on old face and voice.]

"Well, I'll have to check my list twice, and run it past the chief elf, so that when all the children wake up on Christmas morning...hey, wait a minute, have youuu been a good boy this year?"

Luke: (smiles) Oh yes!

Me: Well then, what do YOU want for Christmas, little boyyyyyy?

And four children proceed to roll with laughter, squirm for their place in line to see Santa. I lift and place Luke across my lap, interview him in exaggerated tones. His visit culminates in getting plopped off the leg and heel shoved in the back, Christmas Story style, with Santa snickering "Ho. Ho....HO!"

The next child takes their place, and the fun continues, on and on squared, until Santa has finally had enough and must declare "Last child of the evening, Santa must catch the Polar Express to get back home for dinner." Each child gets what they need from their dad, along with affirmation on everything they know and need to know regarding Santa.

Speaking big fat lies about Santa keeps the magic and the sanity. Keeps the trust, the focus, and most certainly the fun.










ho     HO      HO 

the question

  - - - - -

Who stands before a 20-year old man, looks him in the eye, fires off the question at point blank range? 

"Do you believe in God?"

With no warning. No caution. No pretense. My curious, mostly innocent 5-year old son can pull that off.

It was just two days ago that Owen and I talked about how not everybody goes to church. Or even believes in God. We talked about how they're not all bad people either, or at least no worse than us. Like some of our family and friends. Whom we love.

I obliged his wide eyed need for names, answering with a string of"yes, no, I don't know." Which apparently did not rest well with the boy. And now he waits. Just stands there. Expecting nothing more or less than an answer. The young man replies.

"I'm really not sure...."

Owen flashes his shy smile, pauses to take in. He sees that this question of his is something important, wants to say more. But he turns away, head stand flops into the couch.

I stand to the side, surprised by it all. Owen stating a sincere question. Cory answering him gently and honestly instead of brushing him off or saying what he thought was right. I tell you that I have greater respect for both of those boys.

It turns out that Cory and I both have a hard time reconciling a God of love, purpose, and design with cold brutality and random suffering. Design? What of suicide and whirlwinds, terrorists and earthquakes? What of the creepy things of the natural world that were apparently designed specifically to inflict pain and death?

The truth is that sometimes, I'm really not sure. I want to avoid the whole issue. But head stand flops onto the couch don't cut it when you're a big boy.

I try to remember that living faithfully and consistently is a more meaningful and difficult thing than making claims about faith. I wait out the skepticism. Cozy up to uncertainty. The truth of the matter simply cannot hinge upon transient feelings and emotions that often seem to appeal to whatever side of the fence we're not on.

And in the mean time I choose to live faithfully.

It may be a glimpse of beauty in a smile, a scenic view, or a song that dislodges the doubt. It may be an obligation or a cry. Sometimes a hunch is all it takes.

I may catch wind from the scientists. They say that our universe had a beginning, a fact which seems to beg for a cause. I just don't have enough faith in nothing to believe that all this something came from nothing. With new understanding of the quantum world, the scientists and philosophers agree that freedom reigns throughout nature, from our collective conscious down through the smallest units of matter. And with true freedom comes the potential for pain and consequences, along with meaning, joy, and love.

Love, serving and unconditional? Where on earth did that come from? What is the agnostics answer to the problem of all - this - beauty? Our ideas of courage, truth, justice, and mercy? Why do we have some transcendent appeal for the way things are supposed to be, and cry tears or "no fair" when they are not so?

This lack of reasonable explanation for so many things, it pushes me back to faith. And I know, without a doubt, how this faith pushes me away from my tendency of a fearful, vanilla, self concerned suckah.

I was nearly moved to tears before going to bed, when Owen asked me to pray for Cory, our not really sure, honest friend. I wasn't exactly certain..., but we did thank God for the chance to experience this life with Cory. We prayed that we would be good friends to Cory, that all of us would have our eyes open to see.

And I can't shake it. Can't contain the meaning of a child's simple faith and care with an appeal to science or reason. Can you see how God is with Owen on this? Jesus did say that his kingdom, the very place where God dwells, belongs to such as these.

 

 - - - - -

pure and faultless

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.]

- - - - - 

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.

 - - - - -

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 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.



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