why not

I spent the spring semester of 2001 at the University of Delaware doing a research clinical. For four months I lived muscle fatigue and function after ACL repair. Most athletes grow weary at the depths of physiology where lab geeks thrive. 


I plopped a suit case and air mattress on the floor of a bare room. The two art-history majors that I hooked up with for a roof over my head weren’t exactly choir boys. Not that they were horrible. They were, well, art history majors. Looking back, I wish I asked them more about their studies; about their lives.


I arrived late Saturday night. The stranger in a strange land decided to take a ride the next morning.

Traveling down an unfamiliar street, I spotted a little church on an elevated piece of land. I forget the exact wording, but the sign read something like Newark Zion Church of Christ. Much later I would discover that Zion was the name designated to a fortified mound at the southern tip of Jerusalem. It sounded sufficiently churchy and, more importantly, the 10:30 service started just 2 minutes ago.
 
Rushing through the unmanned double wide doors, not until 3 steps into the tiny vestibule did I look up. This little old church on a hill was packed wall to wall with black folks, every one of them completely dressed to the nines and about to move. I paused, recalling that I wore my typical jeans and long sleeve T. Oh, and I wasn’t black. 


I mean, not that color is a big deal or anything. Right?


I commenced backwards tiptoeing when a rather large attendant stepped behind me and whispered “Where you going?”

It suddenly seemed rather silly to rush out like that. I thought, with a big open hand on the small of my back, "yeah, maybe I should stay awhile." They apparently had plenty of room for an awkward white kid. Another attended walked me about 10 paces, where after a few shuffles and scoots I landed on the edge of a pew about midway to the front of the church.


“We’re glad you came.” 


Roman Catholics and Baptists don't sing with soul or clap or dance or wear formal suits, at least not the ones that have shaped me. So I stood amazed and uncomfortable for about fifteen or thirty minutes in a sea of soulful Christians. I felt like an obstacle, worse than out of place. I clearly recall the excellent message on faith as well as the appropriate black preacher swagger with which it was delivered. 

Some of the service was familiar, and some I'd never seen. The people didn't ignore me. They didn’t make me squirm under a cumbersome load of attention or expectation. There were no apparent agendas or attempts to appear theologically sophisticated. They simply did what they do, with no apology, making sure I knew they were glad to have me.


After service a few men asked me where I was from and how I got there. They invited me to their light lunch at the church and invited me back next week. 


Something felt right about that church. Surely, the presence of the Lord was in that place. I was quite impressed with the little Zion something church up on that hill. And during my four months at the University of Delaware, I never returned.


 - - - - -

while watching the steelers lose

no flash and no sense of things lurking in the dark.

 - - - - -



with flash

fruit

[One angle at Pastor Appreciation month.]

The very first thing I remember about the pastor is Kevin berries. It was about twenty five years ago, standing somewhere in the woods of southwestern PA, hunting ginseng with my father.

Ginseng. It's not a mystical herb of the orient. You can find the "white" variety right here in PA. All you have to do is hike through the right type of woods at the right time of year, sight the fairly rare plant, dig up the roots, dry the roots out over a period of weeks, then sale them to distributors who supply the supplement companies. Simple as that. 

ginseng roots

The point right is not to examine the various claims and scientific findings on Ginseng. The stuff is in demand. A lot of people apparently would like to do more pirouettes on the beach. But I have no doubt that the most therapeutic thing about Ginseng is the autumn hike through the woods with your dad.

Back in the hills of southwester PA, dad explained the difference between the red berries that help you identify a valuable ginseng plant in the fall versus another fairly toxic plant that also has small red berries. By their fruit you will know them.

Well, dad didn't put it quite like that.

"See here. These are red berries with five-pronged leaves, but they're NOT Ginseng. These are Kevin berries."

"Kevin berries? Like, uncle Kevin, the one from Harrisburg? What's he have to do with it?"

"Oh. Well...he's a clown."

good "fruit"

Kevin Berries!

Dad told the story. My grandfather took his knucklhead son-in-law Kevin into the woods hunting ginseng. Through the woods, Kevin would shout, "Paap. Paap. Found some." Pap managed his way through steep rocky knulls to find Kevin standing by the counterfeit ginseng. There were red berry lessons, but the whole process repeated itself too many times. Kevin breaking the still autumn air with excited yells. Pap hiking the ridge. Kevin proudly pointing at the wrong type of red berries.

 So that's where it started. Your uncle Kevin is a clown, and don't be fooled by the Kevin Berries. And that was dad trying to be nice.

You know when Jesus warned about being able to identify false prophets and scoundrels who appear to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravenous wolves? Well, here you have someone who actually had a bad fruit named in his likeness.

These days, Kevin often speaks about his life before he came to know Jesus. Kevin berries were the least of it. When the Browns packed up and took off for Boston (and then Harrisburg) to be all religious and stuff, I can understand the eye ball rolling that must have ensued.

But do you know what happened over the years? A lot of good fruit fell from that tree.

-Kevin, always the one adult horseplaying with all the kids in Grammas pool, grunting, grasping blindly as the bucket head monster. I was moved to tears this past summer, at the site of the exact same bucket monster defending himself against a new horde of children.

-My gut reaction upon hearing that the Browns were headed "back home" toward Pittsburgh around holidays and vacation times. The "religious" people were not prudish bores. It was kind of the opposite, in fact. It was surely going to be a barrel of monkeys, and I wanted me some of that.

-The reaction of the family; all of the family taking them seriously, at least to their faces. When the Browns came in, uncle Bill (who lived with Gramma then) took down all the girly posters and hid a bunch of movies in his closet.

-The words. I wasn't around a lot of bad language as a child. But I did notice that each person's language was at least 10% tighter.

-Feeling weird and uncomfortable with their "Lord this" and "Jesus that" when they prayed before meals. It sounded like it came from the heart. It was different than the faith community I was raised in. Praying like that felt very odd and very good.

-All the occasions where Kevin made time to simply show interest in me. I can't imagine he gave a lick about my baseball season or remote control cars or Sega Genesis. But I remember him asking about those specific things; whatever I was into, just to have some common ground.

-Playing house and ongoing. I've had the opportunity to simply be present to observe a Christian's response to real life outside of the church. For anyone who tends to be too academic and skeptical toward life offerings toward a God who is unseen, witnessing how the leader lives makes all the difference in the world

Behold good fruit. This is how a person of faith testifies to the glory and honor and power of the Creator. It's how a man who loves Jesus validates his words of worship and admonition. It's how any sinner does the will of the Father, from a place of peace and grace.

I cherish and appreciate these pieces of fruit. Kevin is clearly no clown, no wolf, no false prophet. He's an honest, funny man who owns up to his foibles and mistakes. My earliest impression has been buried under baskets of good fruit. I'm certain the rest of the family is with me on that.

A bad tree cannot bear good fruit. And them ain't no Kevin berries.

Sights of Walnutfest

Walnutfest began in 2006 when I decided that I've had enough raking and throwing walnuts out of my back yard. Why not have a picnic, and make up a few games that involve kids and grown ups goofing off, throwing, kicking, and hitting walnuts out of the yard? We've scaled 'er back quite a bit over the years for a number of reasons, but Walnutfest still came. It came just the same.

We did have a bit of a problem this year. There were very few Walnuts, I guess maybe because of the dry heat and such. Shout out to Becca for the imports.

Stella trapped Rocky.

f

Kissing the silver walnut before the Tim Burtonesque trees.

Thanks folks.

Comfort Food

He caught my eye immediately as I passed through the doorway. By the time the teacher finished "Owen your dad's here" he has launched at me, in mid jump, to be caught. He's holding something, today's craft, and proudly thrusts it to within a millimeter of my eyes.

"Oh, what's this?" I retract my head to focus. "Thanks Owen. Cool!"

And this one was a keeper. Once every month or two, the brothers bring home something from class or church that's worth saving. A lot of the masterpieces find their way into the circular file. Okay, almost all of them. Amy and I just don't attach that kind of sentimental value to every pipe cleaner angel and origami fish that finds it's way through the door. We can't, if we don't want to have our house featured on that TV show where all the junk sentimental, practical mementos are piled to the ceiling. 

This orange string of plastic caught my eye. It was woven through six dry rigatoni, with each piece bearing the name of a person in our family. Three dazzling plastic beads completed the necklace. No instructions came with the craft, but I'm pretty sure the beads were supposed to represent the Holy Trinity. Well, they could have; it seemed rather likely.

Neat idea. Personal. Made by Owen.

Normally I sock something like this away to the "secret" box in my closet for future reference and reflection. Or maybe I'd actually use this one, in prayer, as some sort of rigatoni rosary.

But not that day. I was distracted when we pulled in the driveway, leaving the necklace in the cup holder. The following day, Amy or I spilled a little coffee, effectively putting the necklace on a long, slow simmer.

I saw the results the next day while fetching something from the car. Lifting the necklace, the noodles folded and fell off like meat on an overcooked turkey leg. I was sad that it was ruined. It was kind of tragic. I actually froze with the thought that every single person in this family is going to die. Someday, we will.

I don't hover over my children or my wife. I'm not panic stricken with fear. But for some reason, I do fret possibilities and unthinkable senseless tragedy. Sometimes I do feel the pain of separation, and the reality that one way or another, that day is coming soon.

I looked at the lumps of rigatoni decaying more with each roll through the palm of my hand. How fragile. Then I considered the plastic beads and string, not exactly invincible, but unblemished from the coffee incident. All of existance represented in four cents worth of pasta and plastic.

Perishable things last but only a moment and return to dust. That which is eternal runs through us at the core, fully intact, connected by and through the Alpha and the Omega. There's a part of us that doesn't fall away at all.

The Comforter was there all the while. A current of gratitude and confidence ran through my portion of the orange string. And I tossed the lumpy pasta to the dust.

 - - - - -
0 0 0

The use and making of memories

"Kevin, no wrestling during Sunday school."
"Judah, we're not talking about that right now."
"Owen, not so loud."

Some of the 3 to 5-year olds, mostly those at the "girls table," remain seated, carefully coloring and gluing.  Kevin makes his hands into race cars, in an apparent neck and neck battle toward the finish line at the far edge of his table. He leans across, knocking crayons on the floor and planting his elbow in a pool of glue.

My blood pressure rises.

God laughs.

There was a time when I was just a little older than this crew, probing the limits of a Sunday school teacher's patience and grace. When was that? Like, yesterday?

Back then I could understand that church was important. That was clear. St. Boniface was set apart as something different from the rest of the world. It demanded a unique kind of respect. Like you had to be clean and don't wear a hat or chew gum. You can goof off with your friends in CCD, because that's for kids. Mass reserved a different kind of respect. Above all else, that means being there and being quiet.

I (wrongly) understood that you went to St. Boniface to do a good deed. Staying still and quiet for 60 minutes every Sunday morning; this is what the Lord asks of a boy. So I almost always went, sometimes with a battle, because Mass seemed s  o     l   o   n   g.

When your attention span is maxed out at 5 minutes, coping strategies ensue. You hunt the wood grain of the pews for animal shapes. You imagine the dark knots of wood on the ceiling as distant galaxies diverging from one another in some deep slice of the night sky. You analyze the patterns in the clothing of old ladies. Twelve rows of grey diamonds with eleven rows of blue in between. You try to identify the person who, at the appointed time, would be the first to extend you "a sign of peace." You avoid eye contact with the coughers and nose blowers.

Bathroom breaks are a sweet relief from stillness. You're entitled to one trip per week. Once per week a boy washes his hands with hot soapy water for the entire recommended duration. Play your cards right and you'll be back in time for communion.

These memories are the mother of patience toward Kevin and the boys in Sunday school. They're the medium of grace, created in the beginning, and passed down through generations. My memories of St. Boniface cause me to be more concerned with building relationships and helping them have fun gluing googly eyes onto shoddily cut out fish than with getting them to appreciate the depth of Luke chapter 5.

If God once used the church to teach me to wait and listen and notice the details in everyday minutia, then he can certainly reach these young ones through glitter and scissors and Silly (Veggie Tales) Songs With Larry.  I don't think they're missing anything until the day they have questions. In those days, we'll certainly seek to help them consider where they put their faith and their trust.

For now, we'll be here, every week, singing and wrestling. Not yet like Jacob did with God, but like Kevin trying to throw down with everyone near him. We'll gather together, learning how to pray, eating tootsie rolls from Charlie, and making nightmares for the cleaning committee. 

Allowing space for memories in the making...

 - - - - - -

10

The smell of October. It's death, mostly. Fragments of dead leaves permeating the air. And old men smoking cigars outside of high school football games.

I'm never ready for August to end. Or September. Darkness comes early, suddenly. Time drags me through October by the scruff of the neck. Some of it is pure and preference. Some of it's because I've always had a hard time letting things go. Why move or change when you exist in contentment?

Well, because nothing here stays the same. And what was good for one season may not often be good for two. And there may, even should be, good things to come. And because November smells like a big old iron wood burner and homemade chicken soup.

And it's just time. 

David Wheeler writes, "my neighborhood remained the far reaches of my childhood travels, and everything seemed so natural and obvious. You don’t realize the work it takes for a semblance of stability until you’re the one constructing it. I was always going, and then going away; and, I never really grew to appreciate my home, not fully, I think."

And so the seasons seem so natural and obvious. But how easy it is to miss the blessings along the way.

Lord help me to see and share, looking back with gratitude and forward with hope.

*** Please excuse the ugly date tag on some of the pictures.

Close Call

Grandpap Clarence was one of five children born to John and Agnes Gorinski. John slaved for years in the coke ovens of Mammoth Pennsylvania. Owed his soul to the company store. While Andrew Carengie and Henry Frick are heralded as great philanthropists over southwestern PA and throughout the world, pap John died of black lung at a young age. Nobody wrote about him on Wikipedia.

Clarence watched and learned, apparently. There would be no coke ovens for him. He grew up and served in World War II before resuming his plans of marrying Margaret Sivak (Maggies namesake). Together they headed off to Penn State University where he played football and pursued teaching. When I was about eight years old, I found a sword on the upper shelf of a closet in their attic. Heavy, almost Lord of the Rings style. It may or may not have been used in ground combat. Pap preferred to not say much about it.

The details are sketchy to me, but my father and two uncles retell a story from when the world was at war. A Company of soldiers slept somewhere in the rolling hills of Europe. Waking to the flash of gunfire as the only light, Clarence struggled to take cover. The zipper on his sleeping bag was stuck, leaving him exposed in the open. With the sound of fighter plane engines and machine gun bullets pelting the ground all around him, Clarence rolled under an army Jeep and writhed his way to...freedom and life.

My dad has a few close call stories of his own; better stories than I do. Mine mostly involve near-misses with fireworks and driving, both seperate and together.

The Discovery Channel has a fairly engaging (or distracting) new show called I Shouldn't Be Alive. But given the astronomical improbabilities of any single persons existence, really, who should be alive? Yet here we are. And here I am, reflecting on all the close calls you see while looking down just one branch of my family tree. I'm sure that every branch of every family has it's legendary close calls and auspicious happenstance. All of such stories exist only in hindsight (for you don't read blogs written by the grandchildren of men who were killed in WWII). I believe this is the realm of nothing but Divine Grace.

This does not mean that God specifically intervened to protect my grandfather so that someday I might live to type about it. If that's true, you also have to believe that God chose to withhold miraculous intervention on behalf of Paps fallen comrades. I don't think that's the case. But I'm pretty sure that it's by Gods grace that any of us are here, given the chance to make our own choices and decisions that shape the future. I do believe that sometimes, rarely, you do have to stand up to injustice and make war to make peace. But on a typical, daily basis, we should have little room for bickering and hate and ungratefullness.

Again I should mention that we ARE here. The fact that something has never been created from nothing is part of the reason why I think close calls and family trees and love point to God and not blind physics, whatever the details may be.

What will Amy and I and our own crew look like in 10 or 100 years? There will be joy and fun and sorrow and hardship; hopefully far more of the former than the latter. We're blessed. These are good times. Even so, with a decision, a meeting, a relationship, a step in one direction and not the other, an X or a Y, the look changes drastically. Realizing this without having any idea of what or how is a bit frustrating for a worrier and over-thinker.

I'm compelled to pray, listen, and trust. The closest calls are the most meaningful. And they aren't ours.

from vacation

Wall ride under the moon

- - - - -

"Ridin' tonight? Meet at the bank at 10:30."

And it's on.

Tonight is when nobody has much need of the daddy. Goofing off with friends in the back streets of Harrisburg at midnight interferes with little other than reading and blogging. It's a time to be a kid again. I think the moon really follows you and your band of brothers wherever you go.

And now I sit here studying, gazing deep into this photo that captures Tim doing a wall ride under the moon.

What does it take to stick a wall ride? How does it feel? These things I know. Not saying I'm great at it or anything. But I know.

You can analyze it kinetically, speaking in terms of linear and centrifugal forces, angles and momentum, and the coefficient of friction between rubber and cement.

You can slice it up kinematically, speaking of the torque and power involved with hurling yourself on a bike toward a wall. Too soon and you fall sideways; too late and you plain rode your bike smack into a wall, you fool.

You can speak at length about how healthy or unhealthy it is for a group of grown men to be out on the streets late at night exploring the realities of gravity and man powered wheels.

You can enter in testosterone and the male psyche and debate whether wall rides are ultimately for good or evil. You can marvel at the gifts of the natural world and the precision geometry of our solar system and our bikes and our situation in relation to each other as friends and people of leisure who choose to spend time in this manner.

You can speak about the Hawthorne Effect and the fact that cameras are routinely brought along on the ride. You can conjure up stats and figures on fitness and well being, various costs, and relative risk.

Yet who can explain

...riding a bike

...on the wall

...under the moon?












- - - - -
Hawthorne Effect named originally after Hawthorne Factory workers who improved output and appeared to act differently and try harder, just because they knew that they being watched.

At The High Calling Blogs

Featured post at www.highcallingblogs.com

School Like Cars

If there's any conversation in the public square that's more inflammatory than religion and politics, it's the topic of early childhood education. You'll find no subset of people, even within a church, having unity on the issue.

Except us homeschoolers, we ourselfes.

The topic comes up. A lot. My work environment lends itself to knee deep conversation. Just last week a patient gave me a 5-minute socialization lecture from the treatment table. When another patient brought it up this week, I tried to skirt the issue by telling her what school district we live in.

"Really? My daughter teaches there... Oh, why did you decide to do that?"

So suddenly I'm thrust back into the whole - we wanted to just try it and if the kids turn out weird and backwards it's because of us not the education and we love having the time with our children but that's not implying that regular school parents are crazy and hate their kids - thing.

Maybe I'm just not mature enough to take a deer in the headlights "good... good for you" auto-reply as sincere. Call me "sport" and give me two head taps. Maybe it's confidence. Despite my blogging tone, in real life, Amy and I are not terribly confident people.

At any rate, my final attempts at sidestepping the home school conversation include naming our home school (The Aptitude Academy of Mechanicsburg, a very private, selective institute) and creating new labels for home schooling itself (Domestic Education).

I'll let you know how it goes.

I really try, and even pray, to have neither pride nor shame in our decision. Amy and I continually take it seriously. Things may change. We're going to take it a year at a time, and I'm thankful that Amy wants to take this on for now. There are legitimately good reasons to home school. There are also a few good things the kids will miss out on. You can't have it both ways, right?

With only a year under our belt, we're both extremely satisfied with the decision. A year ago when I was asking respectable parents how they felt about their decision to send their kids to public- or private- or home school, each and every one of them told me the same thing. But then again, you will rarely hear a person go around admitting or even knowing they got a bad deal on a car. I wonder if the school thing is similar.

I'd prefer to not go there. It often seems like a lose-lose. We're homeschoolers. Whatever that says about us is true. I guess.

And then there's Debbie V and Steve A. I've been able to have this conversation with them and laugh about it. We all love our little pupils and want the best for them. We're able to do that without feeling all judgy. I walked away from that conversation without feeling like one of us was punched in the gut.

I know there are Debbie and Steves out there. But at work, I don't have the time or energy to risk it. For now, I'm keeping it nice and shallow at work, and diving deep at the Mechanicsburg Aptitude Academy.

- - - -

We Were There

- - - - -

My kids, parents, and I were seven of the 40,000-some people attending last weekends National Truck Convention in Carlisle. The boys have been fascinated with monster trucks. Somebody gave us a cheesey Truck DVD from the 90's with a theme song full of some fine poetry:

What's scary but fun
and weighs more than one ton
it's a mighty mega monster truck

And I was interested too, for a few reasons.

Apparently for some people, a lot of people, trucks are a way of life. A way of horsepower and chrome, jean shorts and skull tattoos, shook me all night long and bob that head. The cylinders are high and the color most definitely not green. There's nothing about these people or this place that hints of gentleness.

Truck People

We drug ourselves across about three miles of people's precious babies all lined up for ogling, professional looking vendors, and guys sitting behind random hunks of dirty metal laying in the grass. I swear that someone knows what those hunks of metal are for.

Iturned quickly and caught this one in the act

of transforming.

Struggling to be in the present, I wondered what the huge inflatable bottle of Armour All says? The series of mud flaps and running boards with the silhouette of two busty ladies sitting back to back? All the massive and/or tricked-out machines were too much to recon. Some of them, the monster trucks, so terrible and awesome that we shout and pump our fists at the exercise of their mighty tires of destruction, chewing on the multitudes of yester years practical A to B autos.

Are the monsters entertaining monsters? Being that some 92% of people on earth have no vehicle? Considering the large scale compromises we make in order to fuel the machines we do have? There's nothing impressive about a 98 Ford Tempo. Or is there?

I'm sure someone has written about monster trucks and monster truck people and Jesus. I can't. I'm not even trying to figure out what it all means. There are a lot worse hobbies, I think. Of course it's not just the truck people who are maybe a little shy on perspective. While we all live in a house full of malnourishment and illness, Americans are off in our little corner room having eating competitions and academic debates over the merits of chicken versus beef for "ripped" abs.

Creepy interior skull for resting your left

elbow. What does it mean?

I'm pretty sure that Jesus would care about the truck people. No matter what I want to think about them, I can say that they were polite and inclusive each time we had a personal encounter. The guys eating lunch beside us at the picnic tables. The teenagers who moved over and encouraged the brothers to see the Jeeps do their thing on the big boulders. The vendors passing out freebies. The truck people watching four children try and fail at their fathers pleas to not touch the trucks.

The truck people were kind. They allow outsiders in, no nagging or questions asked. My family, from Dad to Maggs, had a nice time doing something together.

- - - - -

How it looks is how it is

The neighbors across the street have sold their home. They were good folks. They allegedly liked it here. But they found their hideaway in the woods that cuts his daily commute in half.

I watched realtors and prospective buyers pull in and out of their driveway for about four months. Who would it be? How will the neighborhood adjust? Of course one can pray about such things.

Lord don't let it be a couple of sloppy cousin Eddies.



And Lord please place around us a hedge of protection from anal don't let your bike tires or basketballs roll into our precious fescue neatnicks.

And Lord, we just ask that any new neighbors have less than two cats. And no Jack Russels. Lord you know that our two JRs are enough around here.

Lord don't let them be rocking the party eight days a week twenty somethings. Not too old and stodgy, dinner at 4:30 then Jeopardy and quiet in bed, either.

Lord let them be a couple of generous with their pick-up truck, kid loving thirty-something, slightly but not too progressive genuine Christians. And the husband enjoys playing sports and mountain biking. Wait, that's my friends.

Didn't Jesus interject the term neighbor when making some of his most difficult points? Do you remember that time when he was put on the spot and shook everything in existence down to commandments 1a and 1b? That was awesome. But do you you think "love your neighbor as yourself," means, like, your neighbor?

Oh Lord, who is my neighbor?

I imagine most new neighbor concerns tend to be nonconcerns. The realtor and potential buyers are most certainly looking back over here, loving or not loving us.

Market value is surely the largest new neighbor filter. It's highly unlikely that someone very socioeconomically above or below will even get the chance to stand and behold the circus that is our home. But for those who have personally seen how it looks around here...well that's how it is.

Does "curb appeal" involve various balls and climby things and toy trucks and a 4-foot high bike jump? Is this a boatload of evidence for noise and nonsense or family friendliness? In addition to our four children, neighborhood kids C, L, and K are here a lot of the time. Some combination of a few highschool guys who train with me, some family young and old, a few friends, and their children are here about two or three days per week.

Then you have the sporadic picnics, Bible studies, and other gatherings culminating in early October:




For better or worse, our family and friends and the amount of junk the kids drag out into the front yard that day does effect the buying and selling next door. Amy and I try to keep some semblance of order. Tending to yard work is like spiritual exercise for me. Well, at least a few hours of it. And we try not to let the sun go down on the flotsam and jetsum of the day. Every dusk has all of us dragging odd combinations of shirts and mismatching sandals, tadpole buckets and bug jars, trucks and shovels and miscellaneous swords and bats back into the garage for their nights respite.

And we love it. We're thankful, tired, and prefer it no other way. Pretending to be all cute and quaint would be terribly hard.

Lord help us to please and build up our neighbors, for their own good and for your glory. Even the poor souls who live across the street.

_------