Patriot Day

I hope to see it printed on the calendar that way soon. September 11, 2001 is a memorable day, a life-changing day. America lost it's naivete on that day. Organized baseball suddenly realized they were playing a boy's game, and maybe they should give it up as too trivial in a new-found sense of sobriety. I'm glad they didn't, but I am equally glad they began the new tradition of singing "God Bless America" during the 7th inning stretch as well. And somehow it seems when I am watching a Yankee game, these cynical New Yorkers have grown much taller in patriotism and you can sense it when that 7th inning vocal is belted out. Have you heard the singing cop sing it? You really get the feeling that he means every word. Yes, we lost our innocence, but the new wave of patriotism that has erupted is a healthy response to the ugly attack that has brought war to our own continent.

Here in Lakewood, there was a Patriot Day Concert featuring the 300th Army Band. The appropriate dignitaries were present, and a country western singer belted out typical heartland brand patriotism. It was a great celebration of the American spirit. There was even a prayer offered, but it was offered to a god who apparently is not the God of the bible, nor the God who promises to hear prayers offered in Jesus' name. Political correctness dictates that public prayers be innocuous and generic, but has not yet extinguished the idea of prayer altogether.

Three thousand miles away there is a pastor of a tiny church who has gained international attention by threatening to burn a copy of the Quran. It seems at this juncture, that he has had a sign from God that made him cancel (or postpone) his plan. He doesn't get it. I would hope that his "sign" from God was the simple instructions of our Lord Jesus Christ, who taught us to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute and spitefully use us.

On the other hand, I find it thought provoking that Muslims on the other side of the world took this occasion to burn American flags, beating their clubs on the ground or raising their fists and chanting in cadence, "Death to America". Violence was anticipated all over the world because of this. I was wondering, would nations fear violent retaliation if somewhere there was a Muslim leader who ceremoniously burned a Bible? Would it even gain the media's attention? Can you imagine a crowd of angry Christians chanting, "Death to Turkey!"?

Watermelon

I've never tried to grow watermelon before. It looked invitingly healthy as a tiny plant at the nursery. Although I was there for other things, you might say the purchase of a watermelon seedling was an impulse buy. Now you must realize that our yard is taken up with a cement patio, a gazebo and a few hedges, and consequently there is very little space for the planting of crops. Between the edge of the gazebo and the cement patio, where I had an exotic Mexican weed removed, there seemed a sufficient space to house this tiny plant. I enhanced the soil with "Black Forrest Compost" which seemed so helpful to our happy fig tree and the flourishing tomatoes. There were two stems of the nascent watermelon, which looked promising. But in a couple of days, when I inspected this baby sprout, a disgusting snail had eaten one of the stems with fatal damage. Remedial steps were taken, and the product I had chosen made quick work of the rest of the snail family.

That one stem, however, proved to be quite virile. I had no idea how far one watermelon plant would send its runners. They are under foot. They have invaded the gazebo and the yard to the distance of 20 feet or more! I was impressed. But when we left for a week in Sedona, we asked our friend, Jennifer Kooi with her children, to water our plants while we were away, and Jen's own admitted personal pledge was that nothing was going to die for lack of water on her watch. When we left there were a few tiny melons about the size of a small plum. "How cute" I thought. And while we were away we received a report by way of Face Book that the watermelons were getting large. How large can they get in just a few days? I will be happy on my first attempt if I can grow a watermelon the size of a cantaloupe. But when we returned home we found the melon bigger than two cantaloupe. I went to the store and happened to notice that the watermelon there were all smaller than ours in the garden.

My new problem was simply, when do I know it is time to pick the thing? I went to the Internet and got conflicting advice from the "experts". Jack Harvey, our long time friend in the church, was a Nebraska farm boy. But he was no help. He said that at home they didn't plant watermelon until after barley harvest. Then when the vines began to die and subside, the whole field was populated by melons. As a boy he said they would pick one up, drop it, and then just eat the heart out of it and leave the rest. Then our friend, Fred Alexander, was passing through and he thumped the melon and checked it's belly and told me that it had plenty of water (little wonder after all the exaggerated watering it had received by Jennifer and myself) and that it was ready for harvest. Fred is a bit of a farmer from Paso Robles, so I took him at his word.

It seemed to be the logical progression of events to invite the Koois over for lunch, and ceremoniously open the watermelon for dessert. I hope the pictures tell the story.

Preaching sick

I call it "preaching sickness" but most simply call it nervousness. I've been preaching the gospel for 48 years now, and I must confess I still get preaching sickness. When I am about to enter the pulpit my thoughts wander to "how can I possibly give these dear people a message from God?" Or, "I have nothing to say" or "I just can't do this!" I don't really lose that edgy feeling fully until I begin to actually preach. Then I get lost in the word of God. I am excited about the wonderful news of God's love in Jesus Christ that I find it relatively easy to flow and gush over the pulpit and into the congregation. Then (so help me this is true) I never cease to be amazed that someone is blessed by something that came out of my mouth. I have often prayed, "Lord, you can make something of nothing, therefore bless this sermon." God used a dumb ass to speak to Baalim, and it is just as miraculous that He uses me to speak to people.

But recently my sickness was more literal. On vacation in Sedona, AZ, I was asked to preach at our mission station in Cottonwood, about 25 miles away. Before Sunday dawned, I was bent over the toilet, vomiting. I felt crummy from head to toe, and weak as a kitten. But I had a responsibility to fulfill, so off we went. Barbara had to drive the car while I dozed. I leaned on the pulpit and gasped for breath as I gave it my best effort under the circumstances. When I was finished, and about to administer the Lord's Supper, I had to ask for a chair to finish. Of course I made it a point not to touch the elements for fear of spreading the plague. I sat for a while rather than greet folks at the door, but this being a small group informality was in vogue. After being chauffeured back to the resort, I crashed for the remainder of the day. I didn't have the strength to change my clothes. Strangely, the next morning I was fine, and even a bit hungry.

That reminded me of another sick preacher I witnessed in my early Christian years. Before we were married, both Barbara and I were worshipping in our OPC in Eagle Rock, CA. On certain Sundays, when our pastor was away, we had other men supply. One of our favorites was a man named Paul Lovik. He was faithful to the word, and he was positive and enthusiastic in his manner. But on the given Sunday I have in mind, during the evening service, he had to abandon the pulpit in mid-sermon, to leave the auditorium through a side door, but he barely made it before we could hear the unmistakable gaging and splattering of him puking. When he felt he was finished, he returned to the pulpit and finished the sermon. Frankly I don't remember what he was preaching about.

Aging

Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life for which the first was made.
Our times are in His hand
Who saith, "A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be afraid!"

--Robert Browning

I love those lines from "Rabbi Ben Ezra" but when I quote them to my wife, she gives me a little attitude. We both know that getting old is a bummer in many ways. When we get together with other people around our age we invariably turn our conversation to what we call "the organ recital." Aches and pains dominate so many hours of our lives.

Now there are some strange advantages. When we find ourselves watching a crime drama and realize that we have seen it before, we go ahead and enjoy it a second (third?) time because we can't remember who done it.

When I am sent on an errand to find something in the next room I've learned to say, "I didn't see it." I used to say, "It's not there." but more and more it is the former statement that is true rather than the latter.

Of course when my wife sends me to look in her purse I have to say, "Can you be more specific?" (See my blog post on "The Black Hole".) But that is another problem.

Dr. Joe Garrisi used to say, "I've been thinking a lot more about the hereafter these days. Why just the other day I walked into the kitchen and then said 'Now what am I here after?'"

Zoo trip

For our great granddaughter's birthday we treated the whole family to a visit to the L. A. Zoo. We are members of the Association, and can bring others with special passes etc. I think everyone enjoyed the trip, but as I tried my hand at the shutterbug routine, I discovered that cute animal shots are very difficult to come by. In the first place the animals are so accustomed to the habitat in which they have been placed that they know how best to hide from all those nosey humans who come gawking at them. There are holes, crevasses and blind spots aplenty for these enterprising creatures. When I see all these beautiful photos of God's beasts posted on the web, you'd better believe how much I will appreciate the patience that went into assembling this array.

Then there is the problem of feeding time. And the Howler Monkeys weren't howling. We were there a few years ago when they were yelping up a storm that was heard all over the park. Do they have a howling schedule? Does it require the right combination of aggravating guests, or something in the water that sets them off? I must do my research for that one.

I got one great shot. Well it wasn't really great, but it was a clear photo of Reggie, the alligator. He was the famed inhabitant of the lake in Molloy park here in the South bay region of the Los Angeles basin. Our friend, Donna Littlejohn, a reporter for the Daily Breeze newspaper in Torrance, was given the assignment to follow this human interest story which must have continued for a year or more before he was finally captured. Someone had owned him as a baby, but decided he was a little too big to keep and surreptitiously gave him freedom in this public park.

Now Reggie has his own pavilion and pond with his name boldly engraved above him. Here he is, basking in the sun. Can you see the smile on his face?

About 20 years ago I wrote an article that appeared in our denominational magazine about being a grandparent. Stacy was my first grandchild, and at the moment she was born my brain developed that now notorious mush spot that all grandparents know about. She could do no wrong. She was adorable and clever and I was sure she would distinguish herself with a career as an expert mechanic in some racing crew's pit. At that time--and for several years after--her father was the proud owner of a T-bucket racing machine. This was a high powered hot rod that technically had to have some genuine model T parts in order to qualify as a T-bucket. As a teen, Stacy never forgave her dad for selling that cute street racer.

As a squirt, Stacy was compelled by some inner urge to flip every switch or turn every knob within sight. But this genetic tendency seems to have been passed to the next generation as well. Lillianna, her daughter, is compelled by the same urge. Now it so happens that this same urge accounts for the fact that this young generation has developed such comfort with electronic gadgets and switches. Yes, indeed, it was Stacy who successfully attached all the wires for our entertainment center with an independent VHS/DVD unit and DirectTV box. When we lack understanding of some application for our phone, it is Stacy who can explain it to us.


Now it is her daughter, Lilly, who wants to push every button, turn every knob and pull every switch within her view. Today Lilly's brother, David, (rug rat age) who pulled himself on my leg and reached for the remote control to the TV. I had to inform him (in soft, loving tones of course) that this was a "no, no" and had to hold the instrument with some strength against his effort to wrench it from my hand. He said, as he often does just now, "Oh, oh!" Then he proceeded to chew on his sister's soft soled sandal. I think he is still bringing in another tooth. I think guardian angels protect little ones from the snail guts, dog poop and whatever other disgusting remnants may be on the soles of shoes.

Sedona 2010

It's hard to beat the red rock canyon of Sedona for sheer beautiful landscape. Last time there we enjoyed a brand new apartment in the condo group Diamond Resorts calls "Sedona Summit". Our memories of this week was one of decadent loafing in pristine luxury. The only complaint we can remember was that the new sofa had such a slick surface that we kept slipping off. On the sly, one of the sales crew told us that we needed to jump up and down on the sofa a few times to break it in. I actually tried that, but I guess it must be done several more times before it "breaks in".

So we were scheduled for a different location this time, and it too was wonderful. It is called "Villas at Poco Diablo". I never completed the several courses in Spanish that I took, but I think that translates roughly into "apartments at little devil". Aside from the inauspicious name, the place was great. It was quiet and private. We were next to a shaded courtyard with trees, umbrellas and barbecue grills and brick flooring. Only once did we see someone else use the grills (and I'm sure I saw him grilling lobster tails). Our fare, though much more bourgeois, was delectable. We had planned to save cash by bringing most of our meals. But we brought steak, salmon, Cornish game hen and hamburger. Actually I made chili with the hamburger, but the others were cooked on the grill.

Immediately behind our unit was access to a gurgling creek that feeds Oak Creek. The whole area is known as Oak Creek Canyon, so you get the idea that this is a dominant feature of the waters of Sedona. Our first night there we were greeted by a visitor--a rather large frog who had come up to our back walk. Other wildlife included many nosey squirrels, a few exotic birds (at least they were birds we don't see around our home in Lakewood), and a lizzard who entered our front door and paused upon the tile of our entryway.

One little hitch in our stay was the fact that Sunday I took sick with something like a 24 hour germ--or food poisoning of some sort. Saturday night I grilled the salmon. They were rather thick pieces and perhaps they were not as done as they might have been. Barara didn't eat much so she was safe, but I devoured all of mine, including the sashimi part. The plan was to save the leftover salmon to make salmon salad sandwiches for Sunday. But after I got sick we ended up leaving the salmon salad mix in the refrigerator for the cleaning crew to snack or toss as they pleased.

Our church has a new fledgling chapel in Cottonwood, just 25 miles away, so I was engaged to preach for them and administer the Lord's Supper. I was too weak to drive, so Barbara served as chauffeur. The intern ran the service up to the preaching part at which time I rose to lean on the pulpit and deliver God's message to this small but attentive congregation. I was gasping for breath when I finished, and then admitted that I needed a chair for administering the Lord's Supper. I completed this service without touching the elements and without collapsing on the floor. When we returned to our loft in Poco Diablo, I went to bed without changing out of my clothes. I was too weak. After sleeping all afternoon and then all night, I woke up Monday feeling fine, and the rest of the week was spent with good health.

We are developing a routine when we visit Sedona (3 or 4 times there now) which includes a trip to Flagstaff where we stop at a scenic overlook that has several tables of Indian goods for sale by their creators. This time we bought a vase with hieroglyphs and a paper that explains the story they tell. BL also picked up some Indian jewelry, but she waited until we got back to town for the better price.

Another tradition is to visit the legendary town of Jerome. It is built on the side of a steep hill (mountain?). The whole road (infamous 89a) is a two lane switchback. The town was first a copper mining town, but evolved to a brothel neighborhood and then an artist's village. The artists have not left (I don't frankly know about the others), and it is now an artsy tourist trap. We ate at "Haunted Hamburger" palace with a fantastic view.

Us old folks had prayed for God's hand of blessing on our week, and He was very good to us.