Getting Loose

Tahnee

   Her name is Tahnee. The Ton-Bon. And I miss her.

   No, she is not dead, but we gave her away. I think she was about 4 or so.

   We got her at the pound in Texarkana, Arkansas. We just fell in love with her at nearly first sight. She was so full of energy, such a live wire, such a good guard dog. She was the best Frisbee dog I personally had ever seen. She could almost effortlessly jump 3 ½ feet into the air and catch it, and she would come back to have you throw it to her again and again and again and . . . But after reading the Dog Whisperer, I realized that we needed to walk her far more than I would ever be able to do. And it wasn’t fair to leave it all the exercising and disciplining up to my wife. So she found a loving family out somewhere in the La Porte area with a bigger house than ours, lots of kids, a bigger yard than ours. They had recently lost their own dog, and from the last I heard they have fallen in love with her. There probably isn’t a kid alive who wouldn’t fall in love with her when they see how she can chase that Frisbee so well.

   My wife said, "We can always go visit if you want . . . " But I don’t want to do that to her. I don’t want to divide her loyalties. She has new masters and mistresses. She is the object of a lot of affection. I am sure the day will come, when my presence to her would only be a faint memory of a day long gone. But I miss her. I know she is being provided for and cared for and loved for. And that gives me solace. And I know I will get over it someday; but right now I miss her. It’s the second time in my life I’ve had to do this.

   The first time was much harder. I was only 9. It killed me to do so. We had to give away our reddish brown Dachshund, Spritzie to my aunt and uncle when we moved from Pennsylvania to Texas. And I did get to see her several more times after that. I think initially she may have remembered me . . . she for sure remembered my dad, but as time moves on, I figure the memories and smells will fade.

    Now Tahnee, you be a good girl for your new family!

A Burning Issue

   This is the second time I have written this. The first version got lost in a black hole somewhere in TypePad, but, oh, well . . .

   Today at Rotary, we were treated to a look at the Shriners Hospital in Galveston. We got to see a video about their work with burned children. It was gut wrenching to put it mildly. Not only are they probably one of the four hospitals IN THE WORLD to be acknowledged experts in children who are burn victims, but the price for treatment is, get this, absolutely F-R-E-E. Nada. Zilch. Zero. If you try to pay them, they won’t take it. But that is not all, they even provide lodging for family members who are with the burned child for absolutely nothing. No money. No abatement of finance charges, because there are NO CHARGES. Need to be air flighted in from the desert sands of Arizona because the physicians there think that that is what is needed? No problemo. They will fly the child to the hospital gratis. I was shocked to put it mildly.

   It used to be 40 years ago, that if a child was burned on more than 40% of their body, they probably would never make it. Today they can bring kids who have been burned over 97% of the body back from the brink . . . and there is NO CHARGE. Zedth. No dinero. Put your Andy Jacksons, and Ben Franklins back into your wallet. Don’t EVEN try to write a check.

   Let me tell you, maybe those Shriners wear funny hats, maybe they drive weird little cars, maybe they are in collusion with the devil, but my respect for what they do and who they endeavor to help, went up 100%. In fact, I’m going to give them a donation.

Linda

   Well, I found Linda today.  She is a member of my church.  She has been on our rolls for years.  I could not tell you the last time she was ever in worship or whether she has even given a penny during that time.  The last thing we knew, our mail to her had been returned.  The name I had on her, I did not know if that were a maiden name or a married name.  I'd tried to find her before, and discovered in the mighty metropolis of Houston that there were two women who had the name I know her as, but for one of them, it was her maiden name.  I could never get either on the line.

   So today I acted on a hunch and looked at some voter records.  I found a Linda, and low and behold I also found a maiden name connected with this voter.  I scoured back through some old directories of the church, and bingo, I found her family of origin.  There was a girl named Linda with that same maiden name, and this woman's voting record matched the same zip code from which we had had our mail returned.  I found her birth date, and then very quickly found her.  She doesn't even live in the Houston area any more.  She lives in a tiny town sort of WNW of here.  I don't have a phone number, but I do have an address.

   Next time her birthday comes around, I'll write her a note.  She'll probably be surprised, and I'll even suggest a church in her area that she ought to get connected with.  It was fun tracking her down.  Now there are only about 4-5 people left that I do not know their birth dates, and will probably never be able to get them.  Their names are just too vanilla for me to ever find them without spending an exorbitant amount of time and money. 

San Jacinto

   I can't remember the last time I went there.   Maybe  it was like 16 years ago.  The driveway that I used to take to get into the park was blocked off, for some reason known only to the DOT, and not even to the park attendants themselves.  And for the first time I realized that the monument itself was built on the very ridge between the Mexicans and the Texians.  Santa Ana was caught somewhere much closer in to Pasadena as there is a bridge not well known that commemorates the spot.  Much of the monument looked the same to me.  But there was a terrific 3 digital projector show that had a Cinerama aspect to it.  I was amazed at the images. 

   Over at the Battleship Texas, I could feel the heavy vibrations from that battleship and some of the fear and anxiety that had been with it.  It was not as romantic as I had thought it to be as a much younger child.  Men were on it because of the threat of war, and not because it was some joy ride. 

Wesley Foundation

   In my denomination, campus ministry is changing.  In some ways that is hard for me to grasp.  It isn't like how I used to experience it at Iowa State.  That Wesley Foundation (we actually had some pretty girls there, not jokers like in that picture) for me was a life saver. 

   In the Conference (like a diocese) to which I belong, we are in the process of defunding more and more Wesley Foundation campus communities for students to meet and make connection and find a safe spiritual shelter.  I assume  that is because the foundations aren't producing "enough fruit."  The secular way of saying it, we are not getting enough ROI, or bang for the buck.

   It's sad in some ways.  I suppose students have changed, or more likely it is the case that the dynamics of college campi differ from one institution to the next, yet what is being asked for is that all Wesley Foundations explode with students (like the uniquely successful ones) or die.  I suppose there is some hymn I ought to quote here, or some Bible verse, but the only thing I can think of is the first 56 seconds of this tune.

Running

   It has been a busy day, and I am tired.  I had three meetings in a row tonight, and did not get to the gymn until about 10:30.  I have 4 exercises I do before I start using the treadmill.  When I got to the treadmill, my mental attitude was about zilch, and at first I thought to myself, I'll just walk tonight.  I don't have the energy to do anything else.  But, no, what do I do?  I dial up the machine to 6.4 mph.  And much to my surprise I kept it there.  I did 3 miles in 28:16.  That's pretty good for me.  Next time I'll see how far I get with 6.5 mph.

   Well, I'm about to fall asleep in my chair.  I need to shower and go to bed.  Nighty-night.

Covenant

   Today was called "Baptism of the Lord."  I suspect that for most United Methodists it is the name of a Sunday they don't fully understand.  I mean before all this liturgical reform that was brought about by Vatican II way back in the 20th century, no less, Methodists did not celebrate it, much less ever hear about it.  I'm sure to some people, the title of the day sounds like some vestige of a "Catholic" thing.

   Oh, well. 

   So how did we celebrate it at my church?  I didn't do much with it at our 11 a.m. service.  That's a non-traditional service anyway.  But at the 9 a.m. "relaxed" traditional (as they like to call it--whatever that means, I have yet to find anyone who can clearly describe it to me) service, we went whole hog and celebrated the Baptism of the Lord by doing as much of the Covenant Renewal Service as I could find in three different worship resource books.  On top of that, we had a congregational renewal of the Baptismal Covenant. 

   The Anglican priest, the Rev'd. John Wesley,M.A.,  that basically started the United Methodist Church very strongly believed that the members of his classes and bands and societies should once a year enter upon a great covenant with God.  We had something like a 14 page bulletin.  One of the pages was for people to sign their intent to keep the covenant.

   It was like a step back in time, yet the language was arresting and sobering.  It's a good service to use once a year to make you think about your relationship to God.   Just where do you stand in that relationship?

Eating

   Friday is normally my day off, but I usually attend the neighborhood Rotary during this day.  I did work out and ran 3 miles in 29:28 minutes.  That's hoofing it for me, to be sure. 

   This evening met up with some old friends at a restaurant that is new to me.  They had superior Borscht soup.  I'm not a huge fan of beets, but this borscht was the best I had ever had.

   But late at night (meaning now) I got hungry again and went to the fridge to see what there was to eat.  My wife, from time to time, has made spare ribs.  I like very much cured pork, but I am not a huge fan of regular pork unless it is cooked very well, and I mean where I can detect no rendering house smells on it.  (I one time got to tour the old Sinclair Wilson packing plant in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.  It was a real eye-opener to see how animals were slaughtered and disassembled in order to make the meat that we eat.  They got everything from the pig except for the squeal.  Needless to say there was an odor that I associated with pork products that made it difficult for me to eat any of it . . . and I won't even talk about what goes into hot dogs.)  Now that is an elaborate preface to say that this last set of spare ribs she made were by far the the best she has ever done.  There is still a big pan of them in the fridge.  So I got some of them out, and was standing by the light of the stove in an unlit kitchen ravenously eating them.  I realized how much I felt like a hungry canine wolfing down those ribs.  Man, they were good.  But I also had a bowl of Grape Nuts with raisins that I had already poured to eat so I put the ribs back.

   I started thinking, there are a lot of things that those people can do when they get to heaven, but they cannot replicate the good utilitarian values that we here on earth get from the act and necessity and pleasure of eating.  They do not have physical bodies, and we do.  They may be able to simulate the experience, but that part of life cannot be there as it is here.  A great meal is something that earthlings should savor and enjoy.  Oh, there will be a lot of good things once we cross over, but eating will never be the same.  Why, there is even some passage in Genesis that when the Lord smelled the aroma of the barbecue that some man was offering him as a sacrifice, even the Lord changed his mind. 

   Maybe I'll have one more rib before I get to bed.

Shining Light

   Pastoring a church is a lot like trying to mow  10 acres of grass.  You never get finished.  There is always far more to do than you can possibly do, and you just come to a stopping point, quit for the day, and pick back up the next.  All sorts of ideas and projects swirl through your head.  I still have not fully moved in to my office.  Lots of stuff is still in boxes.  I look at it and think I've got to get them unpacked, but then there are so many other pressing things that need to be done other than tidying up my junk and stuff.

   I am soooo glad I know Hebrew and Greek . . . let me qualify that . . .  I am sooo glad I can translate them.  I've gotten more ideas from the original languages than I ever got out of some commentary.  Hebrew is a picture language.  It is saturated with images and ideas, even though there are far fewer words in Hebrew than there are in Greek.

   For those of you who are worried about the house next door, the other night I saw a light on inside.  Someone was there.  I'm not sure how you handle a house that has had peligro  posted all over it.  I have met the new neighbor who bought the house.  She seems quiet, a little laid back.  It will be interesting to see how all of this goes.

   Sort of seems like maybe I should quote the Bible here or something, but I'll try to get loose from that temptation.

The Monday after Epiphany

   Yesterday I went to three church services.  One church was the largest one in the USA.  The second one was the largest United Methodist Church in the USA.  The third one was a packed crowd in an artistic community church who has the coolest web site of any church I have ever seen.

   The thing that amazed me was that not one of them mentioned the fact that yesterday was the Epiphany.  That is the third oldest Christian holiday just after Easter and Pentecost.  I was amazed.  All three were "successful" churches in some manner of speaking, but here we are, Christian communities, that increasingly have less and less contact with our Christian heritage and tradition.  I felt a sense of loss.

  Last night after my wife had gone to bed, I went back into our den and turned on the Christmas tree lights one last time.  I just stared at the tree and the lights and realized how much I love the Christmas season.  For so many, "Christmas" is all the helter skelter of activities that commence immediately following the Thanksgiving holidays and goes at a fever pitch right up until and through Christmas Day.  That is certainly what the secular culture  would have you to believe.  But those values are so false.  Most of that is Advent--a time to reflect and think about the God the Son coming not just as a baby, but as our judge as well.

   Christmas time is December 25 - January 6.  The 12 days of Christmas.  As I looked at the tree, I could remember the ghost of Christmases past.  When I was little and how excited I would be.  When our children were little and how excited they got.  The Advent calendar that would be out as a prelude to a wonderful Holiday time.   This was our first empty nester Christmas.