So Whattya Think, Robert?

two front teeth

2012-02-15T01:07:00.084-05:00

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.

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skittles

2012-01-02T15:44:00.005-05:00

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.

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lying to the kids about santa

2011-12-26T09:53:00.001-05:00

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

2011-12-22T00:12:00.007-05:00

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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.

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pure and faultless

2011-12-02T01:26:00.006-05:00

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.

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[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.]

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Happy Entropy

2011-10-30T16:48:00.005-04:00

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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.

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ice, bait, and kindling

2011-10-08T01:02:00.005-04:00

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"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.

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that socialization thing

2011-09-28T00:02:00.006-04:00

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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the addition

2011-09-09T09:35:00.001-04:00

Claire and the other kids are doing great. Amy is tired but feeling so much better after having the 9 months of nausea.

The baby Claire experience, when she's not eating or sleeping:

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communion miracles

2011-09-01T00:57:00.009-04:00

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And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.”

I sat in Lighthouse Baptist Church, staring down at the small piece of bread in my right hand, somehow oblivious to anything around me.

Where have I came from? What have I done? What am I to do with the days I've been granted? In light of the one who offered sinners grace, called us his friend, laid down his life so that we may live this life to the full?

And we will live again.

When did I ever start buying into this impossible math? How did I begin to comprehend the story where one person offers free rescue to the whole ship of fools?

There was the time when I decided that sitting still for 55 minutes was too much for God to ask of a 10-year old. So I signed up to be an alter boy at our little church in the woods of Chestnut Ridge.

Ah, free to move. For God, of course.

One of my responsibilities was to help smooth out one of the most challenging priestly demands: estimating how many wafers to consecrate during the rite of communion. Too few leaves some parishioners out of luck. Too many leaves the priest with a...substantial problem. You can't just toss the transubstantiated body of Jesus out for the squirrels or hide it in the trash under random donut fragments.

With communion underway, the parishoners filed up to the priest. Another alter boy and I guarded close by to catch any wafers fumbled toward the floor. We maintained the athletic ready position, dreaming of the chance to make a diving save. Sadly, that never happened.

The alter boys and priest were always the last to receive communion. I'd rate the priests aptitude after the congregation, the ushers, the organist, and finally the small choir headed back to their seats. I often received a halved wafer and initially felt slighted when it was a measly quarter.

I once assisted a "substitute" priest who grossly overestimated wafer requirments for the day. It was just the three of us left, looking down on about 25 wafers strewn across the gold plate. He paused, stacked around ten of them up like poker chips, smashed them together ala Dagwood Bumstead, and stashed them into my mouth.

The stack expanded, clung to everything. I worked on that stack for the remainder of mass, chiseling an index finger toward the roof of my mouf. I had just finished my communion by the time dad met me to walk to the car. He said that I should be extra holy, but I mostly felt thirsty.

Those years of up-close communion taught me some things about the math of God. I began to appreciate that it counted the same whether I was called to a quarter wafer or ten. I saw the possibility that it really is best to give and to receive no more or less than your portion. Doing something for God felt good, was good, even when it meant stuffing down communion wafers.

These days I'm slightly better at sitting. Slightly. Instead of trying to determine the right way to do communion and exactly how the body of Jesus is involved, I'm attempting simple thankfulness for my daily quarter and 10-stacks.

Ah, the peace. I'm finding that a miracle certainly does take place by moving in obedience and by being still, remembering in thankfulness.

"Eucharisteo—thanksgiving—always precedes the miracle."

-Ann Voskamp

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Pre-Frerunning

2011-08-28T00:18:00.000-04:00

After watching a pretty cool vid, this consumed their minds and bodies today.

"Wow that's cool. We HAVE to make a video."

Slow rainy Saturday, waiting on Irene. Yeah, okay.

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The ANIMAL video

2011-07-12T23:52:00.000-04:00

This is their passion right now, what we have to show for our spring and summer labor.

Credit to Luke for putting much of this together while dad helped.

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Time sensitive material

2011-06-14T01:21:00.003-04:00

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"Right" priorities balance on some razor thin, probably imaginary edge. It always feels like I'm sliding one way or another.

I'm typically at my physical therapy office from 8 to 7:30 on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. Those are the days when I rush home at about noon for a quick lunch before the afternoon shift.

I pull into my driveway, usually happy and hungry. I see needs. Needs everywhere. There's so much that I could be doing with the fifteen or forty minutes I'm granted to be home.

The kids want to show me the mornings labor. A written story, a drawn picture, a new frog or "bike jump." They are scurrying around land mines the dogs have left lying in the grass. Removing them before disaster strikes a shoe and spreads through the house is a priority.

I notice plants calling for a drink. I walk through our disorganized, sometimes disastrous garage, down wall smudged hallway, make my lunch amongst stacks of folded laundry and dishes piled high. I see my dear wife, patiently waiting to catch up with me. My cell phone rings.

Some parts of me enjoy this pace and others do not. In some ways, I've most certainly asked for it, this family. And work? I could be trying to manage my own business. Sheeyah. I could be at my current office doing paperwork, "marketing," or getting caught up on "developments" in the field.

But I've made choices and have been blessed with the opportunity to work in the community where I live. I've traveled 2.4 miles to my home to receive hugs, instruction, and a bit of spaghetti-Os and bicycle grime on my work clothes.

The garage can be purged and organized, every wall painted, every twig, leaf, and blade in the yard uprooted and replanted, some day. I can research and hustle and pour myself into reinventing my presence in the workplace. All that can be accomplished in a few weeks or months. If need be. That's not so with spouses and children, with mental and physical health. NOT SO. There are important, time sensitive developments and opportunities happening with Amy, with the kids, and within me, that demand regular attention.

It may not happen during a lunch break on long work days. Seasons come and go with shifting priorities, but nobody can afford to regularly neglect the health of their family and their body.

I take my work seriously, honestly, and usually enjoy it. Yet sometimes I can't see the line between being a responsible provider and being caught up in the rat race. Where there are decisions to be made in the face of uncertainty, events and consequences that push one way or another, you know which way I'll be leaning.

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love your neighbor

2011-06-04T00:57:00.003-04:00

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In the dark is where the really big huge monster bull frogs appear. So they waited all day for night to fall, the three brothers, the dad, and the neighbor girl. We began our third hunt in as many weeks, eager to see what kind of Nessies may be found croaking in the deep.

We approached the (now) legendary Grantham pond, each of us armed with net and flashlight. The sliver moon hung low, reflecting off water, moss, and muck. We were sneaking, excited but whispering to each other going into turn one of the pond, when from the corner of the pond we heard a...

A voice. Of a person. With a pretty alarmist tone for four kids and a dad quietly hunting frogs.

"'S"cuse me, the park is closed at 9:00."

Oh. My. Frog. Of COURSE. Of course someone would have a problem with this, four kids and a dad hunting critters together on a Friday night and letting them go a day or two later in their backyard one mile up-stream.

I pulled out my phone.

"Yeah look at that, it's 9:20. Were we bothering you?"

"Well the neighborhood around here keeps watch of the park at night and the park closes at 9:00."

I stood there silent, staring at the shadowy figure, a middle aged woman trying to catch her breath.

"I thought that meant the pavilion and the playground. So we're not allowed to be here, even for catching frogs with nets?"

"No your not. And we like having some frogs around, ya know?"

I thought of the hundreds if not thousands of frogs and tadpoles that we've seen or caught at the pond over the last few years, many of which probably find their way back when we release them.

I looked over at the small campfire she had going about halfway between her town home and the pond, wondering if it was placed on park property. Upper Allen Township prohibits campfires without a permit from the fire warden, recalled the one with a small ring of stones in the far reaches of his own back yard.

"Okay guys, lets head back toward the car."

We made our way back along waters edge. I caught a glimpse and paused to point out an almost wholly submerged monster bully. Seeing that we weren't moving out at a pace suited to her liking, the woman pretended to call the police. This had the effect of me wanting to go ape shit, especially since I had plenty of leverage with the illegitimate camp fire likely on park grounds.

I'm just a concerned citizen. And rules are rules.

And so I moved more slowly toward the car. Pausing here, listening there, not attempting to net anything. Rounding up four kids takes a while, you know? I somehow managed to keep my mouth completely shut. Not a word about the frogs. Or the rules on campfires. Or my disappointed children.

Is it wrong for me to smile at the thought that tomorrow, Lord willing, we will be there an hour earlier?

- - - - -

Depressed/Under Stress

2011-05-26T23:46:00.003-04:00

[I'm not qualified to diagnose or treat depression. Well, at least not directly; not as a health care professional. These are simply the thoughts of a guy who signed up for a free blog.]

The most common condition in my physical therapy clinic, by a long shot, is depression. Those two little boxes on our health history questionnaire are almost always checked off. "Who's not under stress or depressed?" said the patient with low back pain as she completed her paperwork today.

On one hand, clinical depression is a mystery to me. I haven't studied it formally, and I've never been particularly depressed or anxious. Some of us just don't have that bend to us. No, some of us are too arrogant, stubborn, prideful, or dishonest with ourselves to be depressed. We fall, for sure, just not in the direction of depression. I do question if any minister, mental health specialist (or anyone else who does deal directly with depression) is very well qualified to understand or treat depression if they haven't experienced it themselves.

On the other hand, I do claim to know at least something about depression. Anyone who pays a lick of attention should know something, because it's everywhere.

I know that bringing up perspective and poor decisions and God's sovereignty is not exactly therapeutic when someone is stuck under a crushing cloud.

I know that there is a significant genetic predisposition to depression. Or is it environmental. Does it matter which it is, if we recognize that depressed people have absolutely not always brought it on themselves?

I know that three days of gnawing back pain and lost sleep will make anyone quite emotional if not substantially depressed. Stress and anxiety and depression absolutely effects pain perception, cycles the misery, ups the ante.

I know that a lot of beautiful, intelligent, genuine Christians suffer from depression. They bare witness to the fact that faith or lack of faith is not the bottom line here.

I ask why. Why so much depression so often affecting so many different types of people? Is there anything we can do about it? How may I actually help someone suffering depression, or at least not further hinder them? How, where, what can we do to save our children from this thing where they grow up and the vast majority of them are checking the "stress/depressed" box on their health history questionnaire?

In 50 or 500 years, will our ancestors remember our age as the second great depression? Do you imagine there's some element(s) of modern living that are highly damaging to the human psyche? What's really going on here? Is it our expectations, our knowledge base? Are there choices we're all making, seemingly sane and good choices, that bite us in the butt 10 months or years later?

I just can't imagine that it's only due to improved diagnoses and social acceptance of depression. In the old days, people may have been hungry or persecuted or oppressed or dead at a young age. But I can't imagine that so many suffered from depression.

There have been times when I've been able to help friends. A little movement, a little less arthritic pain, a little lighthearted laughter. There have been more times when I've struggled to do nothing more than be present, listening. There are times when I pray for less understanding and more gentleness and compassion.

"Some people feel guilty about their anxieties and regard them as a defect of faith. But they are afflictions, not sins. Like all afflictions, they are, if we can take them, our share in the passion of Christ." -CS Lewis

magic

2011-05-15T00:59:00.000-04:00

just another free saturday - what we try to do when not catching frogs.

- - - - -

the life cycle of frogs

2011-05-03T01:03:00.002-04:00

- - - - -

It's a warm spring day with nothing scheduled. The dad has worked hard to give his children the gift of a free morning.

I ask them what they'd like to do today. Play ball, go to the park, anything at all? Of course they want to catch frogs and other creatures. They've repeatedly asked for nothing more or less since the last time we came home with two bucket loads of tadpoles.

Off we drive with nets and buckets, to one of the many local watering holes; swamps and ditches and vernal ponds. Along the way we spot daffodils and tulips marking a season of new life, celebrating them with the excitement of Christmas lights in December.

For the next 50 minutes we scoop and slosh, collecting frogs, small fish, a turtle, and most of all, mud. Maggie never learns that thing about slimy frog eggs being gross. Ben nets his first tadpole; a moment that I never want to forget. You would have thought he netted Moby Dick.

Owen catches a frog and Maggie releases it. Luke turns up a small catfish. The excitement almost makes me forget about the organic smell that will linger in the car and the hours Amy and I will spend cleaning kids and shoes and laundry.

I know it's worth it - the time, the smelly car, the inspection for tics. I remember countless hours spent in the woods behind my parents home making new "old shoes," learning lessons in a small, mucky sanctuary of life known as "the swamp." The swamp was my favorite place to go until about the age of 13.

Then I had other things to do. I recall, a little later, riding my bike during college years at Slippery Rock. I was off to important places, and never had the courage to actually go poke around in the bogs and small ponds in and around campus. But I stared at cat tails with deep longing. The call of spring peepers was an instant reminder of the simple, joyful wonder of youth.

I've fished for trout, like dad did when he took me all over creation with net in hand. But that's just goofing around. I'm so thankful for the four tadpoles with me. I almost forgot how spectacular frogs are. For a minute there I thought there was something better to do than muck around in a swamp.

- - - - -

Legacy

2011-05-03T00:24:00.000-04:00

- - - - -

This past Sunday at LBC, Pastor Fedor spoke to us about leaving a lasting legacy, structured from a quote by Dr. Crawford Loritts Jr.

"Out of struggle comes strength."
Comfort and wealth have the potential to turn us into the walking dead.

"Out of strength comes discipline."
Discipline starts when we realize, in humility, that we have no strength of our own. Truly blessed are the meek.

"Out of discipline comes integrity."
Consistency establishes trust. There are no short cuts because we instill values primarily by example - how we live.

"Out of integrity comes your inheritance."
What will be left on the day you die; on the day the last memory of you winks out of existence? Hopefully much more than a certain "standard of living."

Do you "buy" this order of things? Hearing the story of Fedor's past, and considering how he lives now - it makes me want to pay attention, and gain understanding.

- - - - -

Easter blank

2011-04-26T00:02:00.000-04:00

- - - - -

This past Sunday, pastor Kevin spoke about Easter as a CELEBRATION of the resurrection of Jesus. And you?

Easter is _______.

[I'm not asking you to reply by e-mail or anything, though you can if you like.]

What is Easter to you? Is it hope and peace and renewal and forgiveness? Or is it rules or hypocrisy or just high fives for the American Confectioners Association?

What do you say Easter is? What does your life say?

Easter is life *abundant*.

- - - - -

Forgive

2011-04-20T00:34:00.001-04:00

This past Sunday at Lighthouse, Pastor Kevin delivered the second part of a two-part series entitled Red Letter Day.

Jesus claimed that we should love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us. And he actually did it, as men tortured him on the cross because of his goodness and mercy.

"Father forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing."

During his final painful moments, at the pinnacle of injustice, Jesus prayed. Is that not a miracle in itself? The miracle continues when we choose to have mercy and forgive others as we have been forgiven.

The alternative? As Pastor Kevin mentioned, unforgiveness drags us down and keeps kicking us in the face.

Thanks be to God's grace, which is bigger than all of our offenses, and a lot easier on my face.

- - - - - -

forsaken

2011-04-11T00:32:00.001-04:00

Last Sunday at Lighthouse, Pastor Brown delivered a message about...ugh.

That place. The place of darkness we will all face (or already have faced), where we see poorly and trust is fading. We feel stranded on one tragic, painful moment, and we don't understand.

Jesus himself, King of kings and Lord of lords, felt forsaken by God.

There's good news! The way we live now, how we think and what we do on a daily basis - it all matters on the day(s) when life is not sunshine and lollipops. Have we chosen to live in humility, with a confident trust in the Lord? Have we nurtured our relationship with God, knowing that He is always good, always for us, and always with us?

Last Sundays message helped me drop some of the fear and uncertainty that I was carrying toward the inevitable, temporary darkness.

- - - - -

Know Peace

2011-04-04T00:50:00.002-04:00

[I'm filling in as a sub - the mid-week reflection for our church.]

This past Sunday, Pastor Kevin delivered the final message of a four-part series entitled Joy. This weeks message focused on peace.

In the Lord we find relational peace.
In the Lord we find inward peace.
In the Lord we find circumstantial peace.

Imagine that! How wonderful...

...You go back to business as usual, "real life" outside of Sunday morning. Your grace and gentleness is evident to everyone. Trust has replaced worry, opening the door for genuine selflessness and generosity. You have learned to be content whatever the circumstances, filled with gratitude, noticing the riches of each moment...

[Sigh]

Pastors sermon reminded me that contrary to popular opinion (including mine sometimes), peace is really not so elusive.

Peace is a person.

I am leaving you with a gift - peace of mind and heart.

And the peace I give

is a gift the world cannot give. 

John 14:27

I'm Not Lady Gaga

2011-03-18T22:11:00.010-04:00

For some reason I feel fairly ridiculous when I type the name Gaga, or the word gaga, for that matter. Two or three years ago it made me think of nothing except drooling babies. My parents and grandparents use to call me Goo when I was that age.

By about the age of 3, I HATED being called Goo.

I paused and laughed to myself last week, overhearing Owen and Luke as they wrestled in the living room, each of them volleying, back and forth, "No, YOU'RE Lady Gaga." I dropped what I was doing and dove into the tangle of arms and legs tumbleweeding across the living room floor.

"YOU'RE BOTH Lady Gaga."

Yes. I called my kids Lady Gaga and proceeded to rough them up with flat punches and tickles.

Minutes later, breathing heavy and lying on the floor, I asked them where they heard about Lady Gaga.

"From you and mommy."

Okay, well that's good. I guess.

Amy despises most teenybopper pop, as she calls it. I find some of it catchy and interesting and mostly not, uh...profitable. The boys probably heard Amy and I comment about something on the radio or TV. We have talked about being shocked by Lady-you-know-who's eccentricity, in disagreement with pretty much everything she stands for, and definitely stuck on the hooks in some of the songs we hear.

I'm definitely not Lady Gaga.

Baby, I was born this way. My version would look a little different.

[If you haven't heard the song Born This Way playing a million times a day on the radio, you can easily look up the lyrics.]

Often impatient
Easily distracted
Chronically late
(These being particular manifestations of selfishness.)
Adrenalin and caffeine addicted
Short on confidence
Overly analytical
Seeking truth
Stubborn towards repentance
Wildly hopeful
Blessed beyond belief
Grateful
Wanting respect and acceptance
Desiring justice and mercy
Needing redemption

...to name a few.

I'm definitely not always on the right track. I'm not often proud of the way I was "born." Yes, of course there are regrets. Just today I talked too much when I probably should have listened.

Lady Gaga can and will issue here decrees while shocking and entertaining millions if not billions. Like me, most of them will go on to reflect on her words and deeds. None of us are Lady Gaga. Well, except Lady Gaga of course.

I'm RWG, thinking about keeping my own act together before I worry too much about anyone else. This is me, sharing my thoughts with maybe a handful of friends, denying neither how I was "born" nor my first nick-name.

There's much to be gained by accepting who we are, not so much in the braggart, "I have arrived" sense. Owning up to the whole truth about ourselves, including the fact that sometimes we all suck – it’s not a new idea. Spiritual poverty is a beginning, not an end. A beginning on the way toward the best things, like lasting joy and peace.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Matthew 5

- - - - -

aches and prayers

2011-03-04T00:51:00.077-05:00

"Do you hear it?"

Ryan stands teetering on his left leg as I lower an ear toward his right knee. A group of children slow their way through the church lobby, watching me listen to Ryan bend and straighten, bend and straighten, bend and straighten his knee.

"Seems like your kneecap is slipping over the edge of the femur."

I don't have ears to diagnose a creek from a pop. But I do know what problems are typically exposed when the knee is locked straight with the foot off the ground.

"So what should I do?"

I pause, thinking hard, not about functional anatomy. I'm usually glad, even honored to try and help. But in the past I've assumed too much, ready to talk biomechanics when friends and family are just looking for low pitched "hmmms" and common sense advice.

I'm not sure what's behind the noisy knee. Kneecaps grind unevenly on femurs all the time for various reasons. If I had knowledge of a fool proof technique or set of instruction that would immediately relieve the misery of a dear friend, by all means, I'd eagerly share that.

But getting to the root of any matter takes time. We must prod, strain, and explore what precipitates the problem. We have to check strength and mobility at the foot, ankle, and hip. Then we scrutinize the details of basic activities like walking and squatting. And that's just the evaluation. Correcting the issue usually takes time. It's an investment, never without effort, rarely a simple matter of "in" versus "out," crack, clunk, and you're all fixed.

Oh, right. Ryan is still in front of me, waiting through my though pause with a look of expectation.

"Do you want to take a few minutes to look at the details?"

"Or maybe, hmmm, you should rest and take it easy for a few days."

- - - - -

I don't blame anyone for not wanting to go there - with all the detailed investigation. I'm pretty sure that I've done this in my prayer life. I'd like simple clarity on an issue. Some specific instructions or divine intervention would be nice.

Or would it? It just seems so...improbable...that the full complexity of any life issue can be holistically addressed by a simple, pain free granting. How are we to be reformed by quick answers and miraculous fixes? I'm not saying God can't, or that we shouldn't bring our concerns before him. Who am I to tell anyone how to pray? But it does seem that a shift in emphasis is in order.

Ugh. Who has time for all the self examination, the seeking, the deliberate waiting and watching as things unfold? Who wants all the prodding of sensitive areas when a knee brace and some ibuprofin may do the trick?

Who brings themselves still and quiet before the Lord with no agenda? Who humbly listens and prays for patience and the ability to be at peace while actually engaging the uncertainties, challenges, and pains of real living?

I say that anyone who pulls this off can move mountains.

- - - - - -

Consumer Confessional

2011-02-24T15:44:00.049-05:00

I mumble to myself and corral three young children towards BJs Wholesale warehouse. Reciting the grocery list aloud has proven beneficial for the 40 (or so) minute challenge that's to come. With simultaneous kid management, cart maneuvering, comparative pricing, and shooting down an infinite need for cartooned based fruit snacks, I simply can't afford much aisle backtracking.

Here's a partial account of our ridiculous grocery list, a list created by husband and wife who are both allied health professionals:

"Pretzels, syrup, waffles, bread, butter, dishwasher detergent, fish crackers, diet soda, granola..."

Don't get me wrong. The granola is the fully loaded, sugared-up type. The "wheat" bread is basically delicious white bread with brown dye. If I recall, the only healthy and whole items on the list were blueberries and yogurt. Most yogurts are still good for you, right?

Amy does plan and prepare home cooked meals that include vegetables and all that. But waffles and cheerios are a battle worth fighting only once per day. Okay, Honey Nut cheerios. I throw some fruit in and call it a meal.

This is not a misrepresentation of our typical shopping experience. Nothing on our list is organic or certified anything. Kid friendly finger foods outnumber truly healthy fare by at least 3 to 1. Denials outnumbering requests by 30 to 1. There's anticipation, surprise, laughing, crying, adventurous grocery cart antics, and free cheese. There's friendly and not so friendly gawks from innocent store patrons caught up in our situation through no fault of their own.

Are we careful consumer? Is our lifestyle and the votes we make with our dollars harmful to our health and our neighbors health? There are reasons why we choose not to worry too much about the conditions of the workers and animals that produced our Progresso chicken noodle soup.

Wholesale big boxes are just so convenient. A few weeks ago my "grocery" list included underwear and a new digital camera. I'm plainly unsophisticated and simply don't care too much about the finer details of these items. Going by history, I'll ruin both of them in less than a year, probably while mountain biking.

They're also cheap. We're no "foodies." We simply don't have the desire (or demand) to cook strictly healthy, unprocessed meals three times per day.The six (going on seven) of us are a fairly genetically blessed bunch who tend not to overeat for our activity levels. BMIs and cholesterol counts are well in check. We really try not to buy what we do not need, and try not to waste what we buy.

I'd love to take a few hours every few days to drive up to the Central PA Farmers Market for fresh, locally grown goods. I've never been there, but I'm sure it would be an awesome and meaningful rhythm to the day. We would commune with vendors who know us by name, buying ground meat from a burly guy named Hoss and home made jam from a bonnet-wearing lady who goes by Granny Howard.

I can rarely afford time for that. We've made decisions on our work, leisure, home educating the children, and related areas. Although our income is sufficient, I'm certain that we cannot financially afford to support our large family on organic, fair trade, free range foods AND pay back student loans AND generously share our blessings with those in need both here and abroad.

I'd like to think we're at least moving in the direction of "doing the best we can with what we have." But I'm far from sure that big warehouse shopping can be compatible with good stewardship. There will always be something that we could be doing better.

My coffee. I could probably afford to make a better statement with my coffee...

- - - - -

most pics

2011-02-20T22:22:00.000-05:00

...in the video were taken by Luke, on a cold winter's day.

Our Adoption Paradox

2011-02-12T00:06:00.000-05:00

- - - - -

Amy and I never planned on having a large family, and yet our fifth child is due in August. Sometimes I wake up wondering how this happened.

[Full post over at The High Calling.]

- - - - -

Go Easy On-line

2011-02-05T16:23:00.003-05:00

My friend Sam posted a short but sweet essay here at his blog. It has to do with materialism and misplaced priorities. Sam simply reports some sad but true stats, in good humor. It speaks to a common experience of the middle class American, and definitely speaks to me. All this in a few hundred words.

Reading that post caused me to think. That's sort of the point of the typing and reading of words and such things.

The thought of global perspective came to mind, how easily we seem to forget and how quickly we seem to pile up the junk. I also thought about the whole Super Bowl ceremony and our concern over trivial games.

Happy Super Bowl and go Stillers and all that. Again, it was a good post.

I was thinking that most readers can use a common reminder in these matters. We could use some direct challenging words, like Amy gave me last summer when I mentioned the idea of getting a shed in the back yard. I'm very much super proud to report that the shed never happened. I spent about an hour in the garage and less than that in the basement. Some organizing and giving away and (mostly) tossing and viola, no need for a shed! You can't buy liberation.

Freedom, yeeeeaahhhhhhh!

Anyway, the point is that Sam didn't get all judgey in making his points. He simply reported the numbers and let it hang. That Sam, taking the high road, like so many of the folks over at The High Calling. They're always all "grace this" and "redemption that."

Sometimes we need a kick in the pants, a hard rebuke and direct instruction. But that's not the case on-line, and I have yet to see it pulled off. Relative anonymity makes it so easy to be a jerk with little repercussion. Go visit a typical "Christian" forum and witness the bitterness and flames, the spam, ugliness, and all the sincere but irritating Cliff Claven syndrome.

Really, I don't want me none of that.

I always give people the benefit of the doubt when I'm reading. I'm often eager to explore an issue and simply throw out what's on my mind. But that's hard to communicate in a few sentences. I'm pretty sure that I should be more sensitive in my comments and such.

That's partly why I try to carve time to "hang out" with the people at The High Calling. I'm learning some things. One must tread lightly if anything fruitful can come of electronic "communities." There's something...actually a lot of things that I like about that place. They're gentle. Gentle yet so bold to try something as crazy as fish redeeming qualities from the digital oceans.

- - - - -

cake and ice packs

2011-01-22T23:24:00.001-05:00

- - - - -

The birthday party was scheduled months in advance. But that day arrives when the mamma and CEO of family parties is on the down low due to illness. The show must go on. It's a kid's birthday party - dad style.

Theme? Uh. The theme is bikes and scooters and roller blades at a skate park.

Don't reach too far when you're a one man show in a skate park. Invite kids and "kids" that can help out and hopefully not get too injured. All you have to do is enjoy what the they do, or more accurately, get the kids into something that you enjoy. Win - win.

Pick up a few pizzas on the way home, sing in front of a themed birthday cake, and call it a day.

The following is a set of my very own detailed instructions, in case you're ever in need of a bike/skatepark themed birthday cake:

Step 1) 1 cake
Step 2) 1 toy bike and ramp - apply to top of cake
Step 3) Oh yeah, rinse bike and ramp thoroughly beforehand

Here's a compilation of the shabby amount of pictures and videos on the camera by the end of the night. I truly feel bad that I didn't get a picture of Elijah braving the slopes and Buggies jumping all over the place on his pedal-less Thomas bike and about a dozen other cool images. Please have grace that what was captured was captured:

Goody bags? Don't get me started. Do ice packs count? I sent most of the kids home with an ice pack. They come complimentary with your 2-hour rental of the Underground Skate Park. Really.

I'm going to be sore tomorrow.

- - - - - -

"Can we PLEASE do that again dad?"

- - - - - -

Accountability

2011-01-02T23:49:00.000-05:00

Sermons are by far my favorite part of a church service. They make me laugh and learn and think over the most meaningful things in this life. But sermons are also a bit odd, with the man putting on his prophetic voice, standing up in front, talking as if he knows something.

He does know something. Does he? I've said before that seeing how someone lives tends to make me want to take in or disregard what's being "preached." It's the whole "you will know them by their fruit" thing.

Well today I learned a lot about Pastor Brown. His stake went up in my eyes, and it had little to do with the content of the sermon (which was hilarious, by the way).

Today after some announcements and general greetings, Kevin stood up in front of everyone, made a few fat boy jokes, and shrugged off holiday treats. But then he turned, with a sober face, to ask the roomful of friends to pray for him, for his resolution of getting his life together in the way of physical health.

That's a tremendous thing, coming from the leader. Coming from the guy who really does have so many other areas of life pegged. Ugh, to be vulnerable and risk failure in this way before his own flock. What kind of person does that? The kind I want to listen to.

I even appreciate the way he worded the request.

"Pray for me to get my life together in this way..."

He didn't focus on himself for too long. He didn't ask for miraculous intervention or willpower or suggestions on an effective diet and exercise plan. He just put it out there. And that takes courage.

Maybe courage is one of the things we should pray for ourselves. I believe in the other important virtues, and humility certainly ties into this. I believe that God can intervene miraculously. But I also know that the floodgates of heaven seem to open up on those with the courage to hold their own feet to the fire.

It's still 2010

2010-12-31T15:58:00.003-05:00

And here's a quick report.

Many of you knew that Amy and I are about 2/3rds of the way through the process of doing foster care through the PA Bair Foundation, with the intention to adopt. We were on track to be finished with the administrative end of things in the next three months or so, depending on a few factors. One of such "factors" is this whole seagull situation that, yeah,...more on that later.

Anyway, there's been a change in plans. Amy and I prayed and read and thought and wrestled our way through the process of finding some clarity. Most of the answers and understanding came by way of actually going through the classes and other preparatory steps.

And a process it was. I mean is. We tried to seek and listen. Really hard. There was no audible voice telling us what to do. But we did hear from a handful of people who made a difference. How do merge the nag to push past your comfort zone and use some common sense? Are these mutually exculsive?

Our best course would probably (?) be...the foster kids most in need are the older ones...given a number of guidelines and unwritten recommendations...basically this, that, and the other thing, and we are expecting a new Gorinski in the summer of 2011. We really don't want to lose our fire for following through with foster care. But we did decide to put that on hold for a few years.

Amy is pretty awfully tired and sick. Again. I haven't seen her ill since we had Buggies a few years back. We expected that, and it did pose a challenge in "deciding" all this. Amy's hanging in there, for greater things. Everyone is excited here, the dad down through Maggs.

- - - - -

Clear True

2010-12-26T16:35:00.001-05:00

"They discontinued that line of contacts" said the optometrist, "so we're going to have to find another brand that suits."

There's a lot more to contact lenses than magnification strength. Among other considerations, there's axis, diameter, and the fine balance between how much the "bottom" of the contact is weighted and how the lens floats on the cornea. It can be tricky, especially for an eye with astigmatism.

"Better here, or here? Okay there, or there? Now here, or here."

Doc alternately flips pairs of here's and there's until the two of us are sitting there silently waiting for an answer. He's not up for a debate and I'm just really not sure I see a difference.

"Can I see the last there's again?"

Sometimes the best you can do is arrive by questions and end with questions.

I've worn the new contacts for almost a month now. They're both better and worse than the contacts I've worn for the last ten or twenty years. My vision seems a little sharper than before, and it's like that most of the time. But if my eyes get a little dry, the balance of weight and glide is thrown off and things are hazy.

This transition of contacts has made me a little more in touch with reality. I notice previously unseen structural details. But more than that, I'm highly aware of eye hydration status. At times, the clarity of my vision is an objective barometer of my heart.

It happens during a point of clarity from a message or set of lyrics in church. Suddenly the lights come into sharp focus. The hallelujah chorus comes blaring from my old basement TV. It catches me for a few moments and the image appears high-def. I lay flat on the floor in the dark quiet, staring up into the center of our rag-tag, kid decorated Christmas tree. I see lights and individual pine needles deep in the center.

I notice these small changes now because the world hasn't always appeared that way to me.

It's not a full on cry fest, okay? Uh, not that there would be anything wrong with that. Just. Thinking. Nothing. Don't bother me right now. Why is even "good" emotion so painful for guys?

The new contacts have illustrated the fact that emotion does count for something. Emotion changes how I see the world. It brings perspective and understanding and literal clarity about the finer things in this life. You can't deny emotion or write it off with TLC and Star Magazine. You can't scientifically extract and examine a person's "emotional intelligence" without consideration to the whole person.

I'm not changing the new contacts, mostly because I don't feel like bothering with more fine tuning. I'll carry a picture of my grandparents in case of blurry vision. Or maybe think of Old Yeller. A zip-lock bag of sliced onions would be less painful for sharp vision, but not for clarity.

- - - -

A Strong Loose Grip

2010-12-21T00:17:00.003-05:00

[revised post on adoption/request]

Maggie just turned two. I can hardly remember a time when she wasn't a part of our family. I usually altogether forget that she was adopted.

Back then, I had no idea what was in store, checking our way through forms and questionnaires, eyes fixed on the 23-item list of requirements for adoptive families in the state of Pennsylvania. This is how you have a baby?

Medical and FBI clearance I can understand. Letters of recommendation, proof of education, mortgage summary and property deeds. What did I expect? Make out a check to the commonwealth, and BAM, there you have a life in your hands?

On and on, yet none of the requirements mentioned a thing about loosening your grip. My wife Amy and I made a decision on an open adoption. Despite all the check boxes, adoption is about not having all your ducks in a row.

Adoption is not safe. Forget about legal custody and the age of legal adulthood because children are permanent. No one can fully comprehend this after an adoption, much less figure it all out before hand. The scariest "what ifs" never even surface until you have seriously considerd following through.

I thought about the day when one of our three little boys (who were at the time all 4 years-old and under) would be even slightly neglected because I was occupied or fatigued with their little sister. Well, that day came. And went. And it will come again. I don't think anybody ever claimed that "ideal" was even possible, much less good.

But I do know that we all over rate our own chromosomes.

Don't imagine that you can do something big, anything weighty, even quietly, without learning in the school of hard knocks. Most of those who question your judgment will drag you and your middle class income before king college savings. Some will call you saints and others will drop not so subtle comments about greed and self importance. There is revelation about yourself and about '
every greater and lesser player in your life. Do expect some restructuring of your "line-up."

These are some of the costs of an adoption. These are essential, unwritten elements of the process. For after these, dirty diapers and sleepless nights and an extra set of braces (someday) are even more of a privilege than when you first decided to adopt.

Adoption is worth it. It's giving and receiving that stretches and rewards you, as all children do. It happens one more opening of the juice box, one more buckling of the car seat, and one more tickle torture at at time.

The paper work is long past, yet in our circumstances, Amy and I must still walk by faith. These days we buy five gallons of milk at a time. Of course this is not all for a two year old girl, but Maggs makes certain that she gets hers. I walk out of Turkey Hill carrying three gallons in one hand, two gallons and my car keys in the other. The cashier ladies say I have a strong grip.

Yet I'm still working on loosening that grip, walking by faith. Adoption or not, is that not all we can do anyway?

Magg-dogg. In. The. House.

family tree

2010-12-06T00:10:00.002-05:00

They woke up knowing this day was promised a Christmas tree. I hear the three brothers around 6:30 and come downstairs a half hour later. They're making ornaments with scissors, paper, and tape. Duct tape. After changing two and feeding four and wrestling through the whole winter coat, gloves, shoes, and hat find game, we're rolling to the tree farm.

Feed the dogs, they've been following me around all morning with heads turned. And I forgot my contacts and money. Trips to the tree farm aren't free.

The hill in Dillsburg is 34 degrees and windy. Each of the brothers has a saw, the sharpest one, it turns out, capable of cutting through warm margarine. Maggie wants carried and how can you possibly say no to any request of a two year-old wrapped in purple puff with hands lost in pink mittens?

"What do you think of all those Christmas trees, Buggies?"

"What trees?"

I advise the older two to pick one, any about as high as dads reach. After snobbing past hundreds of fit candidates, Luke decides on a scraggly thin evergreen that allows "lots of room for presents" on the bottom. Dad redirects him on the holiday, and over to an 8-foot spruce.

The saw is going nowhere and everyone wants to help. There's mud all over my coat and Buggs needs a tissue and Maggs is caught on a thorn bush and why didn't we just go buy a tree at the Upper Allen Fire Department like the last few years?

The tree finally succumbs, slowly and gently bending toward the ground in the most anti climactic fashion - to roaring applause. Everyone wants another turn with the saw. Pulling a tree downhill while carrying a two year-old is easier than you would think. But now she's asking to walk, and pulling a tree while a two year old stumbles through cut trees and plowed fields is much more frustrating than you would think.

Everyone is in the car demanding hot chocolate before the tree is tied down to the roof rack. I let out a deep breath and pay the lady and smile Merry Christmas. Watch what you say during the drive home cross examination regarding lights and ornaments and other logistics that are extremely important to 4- and 6 year-olds.

I notice that Winter Wonderland is blasting over the radio and at the age of 34, how many God forsaken times must I hear this song again?

Hot chocolate buys time for pruning, adjusting the stand, rearranging house furniture, dragging a tree into the house, and vacuuming needles.

A real tree is in our house. Which makes it all worth it. I'm wildly hopeful like that.

After lunch it's 12:30 and some of them are napping because dad needs to break this day up into two. After almost fainting from the combination of running hill sprints with (big) Ben and not having eaten anything for six hours, I literally lay motionless in a glucagon stupor on the driveway. Then on the living room floor, waiting for a Gatorade and handful of Honeycomb to kick in. The older two are decorating, cramming almost every ornament within 20 degrees of tree latitude and longitude.

The sound of broken glass gets me up off the floor and babbling. Something about leaving those kind in the box and putting the Steeler black and gold fake candy canes above where Maggs can try to eat them. I move the small Bible ornament that was hung behind the 90's era Shaq dunking a basketball ornament because that just ain't right. I move Shaq behind a paper and duct tape sled or snowman or something.

The decorations are on, er, "on," and now light must go over top because of the sprinting hang over. I find that only one string of last years white lights works, this and a string of multicolor. I go with all we have, both white and multicolor lights that begin flashing in a few minutes. They're flashing multicolored lights.

Unfocused image. Notice the miniature manger scene, half knocked down.

And it is done. The crooked tree, partially covered by decorations and inadequately lit with an odd color-flash scheme. It's up. It's in our home, center stage before the tired and excited six of us. Yes, the mom is home from her day of work. Hallelujah. Surprise her, we did, in a few ways with that tree.

The dad performance for the day: B- for being present and good memories and hustling over the tree but feeding the kids bologna and ketchup for dinner and in many ways taking on far more than he could handle in a spirit of peace.

He could use some quiet time in the dark, sitting and kneeling low on the floor beside that tree.

- - - - - - - -

why not

2010-11-09T23:25:00.003-05:00

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

2010-10-31T23:15:00.006-04:00

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

- - - - -

with flash

October Fearfest

2010-10-31T22:56:00.003-04:00

Zombies. Their slow and methodical movement creeps me out. Ataxic gait with lack of reciprocal arm swing is an orthopedic nightmare. All the decaying flesh may have something to do with it.

Why do Zombies always move in this manner? What do Zombies mean? Is anyone really scared by them?

Zombies are on my mind after reading Ryan Mecum's excellent post about not getting eaten by things that leave us dying, staggering around aimlessly. Well that, and this is Halloween, this is HALLOWEEN.

Trying to remain self-aware and willing to listen is a pretty good defense against the zombies. Not that my time is always productive. There's usually not much room for moaning and droning around. Forget Zombies. I'm afraid of making dumb decisions and looking stupid in front of others and the inevitable progress toward frailty. Tornadoes and Al Qaeda and child predators and the cost of socialized medicine strike fear into my heart.

And I must admit that some part of my faith is fear-driven.

I usually have eyes to see the skies proclaim the work of Gods hands. Beauty and purpose pour out everywhere, straight from the heavens. They do. With all creation I sing, praise to the king of kings.

They're not just leaves. They're God's confetti raining down for nature's final celebration before the off-season.

If it seems like a fairy tale or plain ridiculous to think that a virgin really could give birth to the son of God, then what's that say about the story of everything coming from nothing? Since when did anything, much less everything, come from nothing?

Yet I also understand the skeptic who looks up to the sky and concludes there is no God. While the Psalmist calls that person a fool, I often hesitate to give him or her much more than a shrug. When I don't have the time or energy to care for the person is when I'm most tempted to reply, "I know, I don't blame you."

At that moment (when Jesus died) the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook and the rocks split. The tombs broke open and the bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life. They came out of the tombs, and after Jesus' resurrection they went into the holy city and appeared to many people.

- Matthew 27

Zombies in the Bible? Recorded at the critical moment of Jesus' crucifixion? I've read some commentary about Matthew including this report on what seems (to me) like a zombie story. But the point right now is that people of faith should at the very least respect the person who says, "yeah, right, zombies."

And so maybe I'm afraid of zombies after all. I fear that a bite from Matthew's zombies contaminate the legitimacy of all the Scriptures. I'm scared of those zombies, because most of all...

I

fear

nothing.

My biggest fear, by far, is after death, the nothing. The possibility that all things have come from nothing and are going to nothing; our cold bones obliterated twenty some thousand (or million, what does it matter?) years from now as some neighboring galaxy merges with the Milky Way. Now that's scary. And depressing. So much so, that it shoves me toward faith. I want there to be a God who grants a nice big portion of heaven full of bike jumps and ice cream and water slides to my family and friends.

By a lot of reason and even just a little faith, I believer there is a God. But it's possible there's nothing. To me it seems that God left that conclusion fairly plausible. It does help me to think that God is keenly interested in our choice to seek him, and therefore has set the stage so that we have legitimate options.

I completely understand how those who don't want to be accountable to a higher power or who have a bitter taste in their mouth would choose to see it differently than me. But let's be clear that it's not reason or logic, but personal experience and emotion that are tied into the "no god" conclusion too.

There's no completely coherent worldview, at least by our ways of thinking. And so we arrive back at faith.

The skeptic may, in fact, be a fool. And I may be foolish for doubting. If that's the case, I also doubt that Gods grace is insufficient for my doubts.

Little, silly me, who doesn't even know if he fears Zombies, hopeful that they wouldn't eat me if only I could help them with their gait

- - - - -

fruit

2010-10-28T00:11:00.007-04:00

[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

2010-10-20T00:05:00.002-04:00

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.

Kissing the silver walnut before the Tim Burtonesque trees.

Thanks folks.

Comfort Food

2010-10-19T00:40:00.006-04:00

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

2010-10-15T00:04:00.003-04:00

"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

2010-10-10T23:55:00.002-04:00

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.

Drive-By Guiding

2010-10-08T00:30:00.003-04:00

My current home is about a three hours drive, due east, from the home town of my childhood. Somewhere in those 140 miles of the Pennsylvania Turnpike is where worlds collide.

The Pennsylvania Turnpike, route 76. I was born in '76.

The drive west is often long and grueling. There’s no reflection or meditation here. After attending to what’s happening in the vehicle, I barely have the mental faculties to watch the road much less pay attention to life passing me by.

The dogs have been nervous wrecks ever since the travel bags came out of the closet. There’s lots of yammering, and the kids are restless too. Husbands and wives are on edge from trying to get the hell going already. We manage to avoid the rest stops, with their sanitary bathrooms and so much variety and value at TCBY Yogurt and Starbucks.

Not.

Breezewood. The name always lightens the load a little, enough to consider the possibility of enjoying the ride. Rolling hills and calm farm lands meld with ripples of the earths crust, creeping upon and eventually sweeping right over you in a crescendo of four massive tunnels.

Ah, finally, Amy and I are reminded of why we have fought hard against the tide of entertaining the kids with a DVD player in the car.

There are benefits to living away, but not too far away, from your home town. A manageable drive is all it takes for everyone to roll out the red carpet and slaughter the fatted calf. Roles are re-assumed, for the better and worse. You talk and rest and play among familiar sights, sounds, and smells, introducing new members of the cast to the old way of life.

Sunday evening comes, and the tornado of six people, two dogs, and their gifts and gear is somehow contained and rustled back on 4 wheels.

The drive home is peace. After fielding the few odd questions of a 3-year old, everyone is well down the road of unconsciousness. The dogs lay motionless, exhausted. They may be dead. Has anyone ever left a grandparents home feeling hungry? I can hardly look at the Roy Rogers sign much less stop for fast food.

The session begins. The gentle waves of the huge Somerset turbines bid me farewell. I mentally wave back, appreciating one of the main borders between Steeler Country and Steeler Nation. I throw a quick nod at the Juniata River, wishing I could give her some attention. I laugh to myself, at the country overpass labeled Boozer Lane.

The asphalt is a long black rock to sit upon and reflect. This climb back down from the Appalachian mountains is where I see. It's quiet, I'm alone with my thoughts, and forced to be relatively still. It's a catalyst for insight into where I've come from and where I'm going, for examining the meaning of what took place over the last few days and decades. A bit of enlightenment comes where the road cuts through valleys. The rocks and ledges passing to my right and left peel back the layers off my soul.

Route 76 is one of the best parts of the weekend excursion. I swear that God dwells in the journey down that road; both lanes. It's where I've been able to catch up with Him.

Close Call

2010-09-30T22:33:00.003-04:00

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

2010-09-19T00:06:00.002-04:00

Physical Therapy / Work

2010-09-17T23:19:00.000-04:00

Some work related essays have been in the Harrisburg Patriot newspaper. They're running once per month on Sunday, and a few days later posted at the Patriot online:

http://topics.pennlive.com/tag/bob%20gorinski/index.html

Wall ride under the moon

2010-08-21T23:01:00.004-04:00

- - - - -

"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

2010-08-17T11:36:00.001-04:00

Featured post at www.highcallingblogs.com

School Like Cars

2010-08-12T16:10:00.012-04:00

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

2010-08-10T01:08:00.011-04:00

- - - - -

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.

- - - - -

for our picnic

2010-08-05T23:20:00.003-04:00

video. sneaking Metallica into church...

How it looks is how it is

2010-08-02T00:26:00.008-04:00

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.

_------

Refs

2010-07-17T14:57:00.002-04:00

/ / / / / / / / / / / / /

Winning isn't everything. It's the only thing.

- Vince Lombardi

Referees cause a profound shift in minds of recreational athletes. League organizers pay official officials to bring a sense of fairness and objectivity to the competition. They're an unbiased source of experience paid to run the show and hold the rulebook on the tip of their tongue.

Of course, even the most qualified refs miss calls and make mistakes. Participants acknowledge this up front. All parties agree to submit to the best judgement of the ref. Putting matters of conflict in the hands of the official is in the best interest of everyone. Winners win and losers lose when there's no room for cheating or complaining.

Supposedly. Shhyeah, right. What actually take place due to the presence of a mere man in a striped shirt goes far beyond the rules of the game.

It's not all bad. Intensity of effort is dialed up a notch or three. Heart rates are maxed out and people suffocating under domestic responsibility are suddenly warriors forced to live in the moment. They push hard, as if the welfare of women and children were at stake. Teammates forge bonds and strain their bodies and break their capacities.

With refs comes the awesome opportunity for athletes to really try. Ooh, there it is.

Trying.

To try means to risk failure. That's where things get hairy. If you care to know a man, be courageous enough to compete against him and try. Or better yet, compete with him. Forget the uniforms because the field or court is always where true color is laid bare.

The glory of having refs is also the curse of having refs. Nice guys get serious and sometimes frustrated. Serious guys become angry. Angry guys become jerks. Jerks quit.

Hire a ref and, for some reason, the rec athlete's own responsibility for conduct suddenly becomes the refs obligation. Respectable associates become egomaniacs that can only see it one way. Fit and sturdy youth become spineless weasels, sometimes violent but always testing to see what they can get away with.

Fathers who try to make every missed basket and dropped fly ball into a "learning opportunity" for their child are suddenly ready to go fistacuffs over a lane violation.

Such is the power of refs in rec sports. Yes - recreational. I testify to the truth as an eye witness. The power discriminates against neither race nor gender, socioeconomic status nor sports experience. It's proven effective on construction workers and professors, beginners and former professionals.

I've litteraly seen the refs power over punk gang members at Harrisburg's Reservoir Park and over pastors and other brethren at Messiah College. And yes, it holds sway over physical therapists too.

If winning is the "only thing," then we better seriously consider what winning really means in rec sports. Winners still go home and have to live with themselves.

"Nobody wins" is certainly a realistic possibility. It occurs when participants blame and bitch and moan to save face in the event of a loss. It's where you arrive after leaving a wake of bickering and bitterness, broken bones and burnt rules, on your way to scoring more points. And that's not what anybody came for.

Yet still, refs can be worth it. Absolutely they're worth it, if you remember (ironically) that it's not just a game.

\\\\\\

Ma crew rollin' white and nerdy last winter:

Music Is

2010-07-08T00:21:00.007-04:00

Central Pennsylvania's WNNK 104 played over my dentists radio last week. Sitting motionless, mouth propped open, I forced back a laugh at the soundtrack to my dental exam.

before I leave
brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack

"Harrisburg's work day radio station," apparently deems this to be standard fare for the workplace. From what I'm hearing, many local businesses agree. I picture politicians at the Capital, attorneys in Hershey and neurologists in Camp Hill bopping through their offices.

I'll get him hot
show him what I've got.

I know it gets a lot worse (or better) than this, depending on who you ask. Keep in mind that central PA is somewhat conservative. It's certainly not LA or New York City.

I'm not even the radio police. Much of what's out there is pretty fine by me. You'll catch me subtly playing air drums with my thumb or foot, mostly not understanding or even giving much attention to the lyrics.

I have a hard time tolerating only "positive" Christian radio, not that it's all bad either. I don't imagine a constant loop of Crystal Lewis and Michael W. Smith should be played in a nondenominational workplace. In the same way that I don't prefer a dental dance party, I'm not so sure that interjected sermons and mini sermons on Christian radio are appropriate for a workplace setting.

Yet who can deny that there is at least the potential for some powerful self-destructive forces to be at work? I'm not sure if it's my own filter creeping rightward or that of the greater culture leftward, but something is definitely moving here. Go ahead and listen to pop radio and tell me somethings not moving.

In my mind, there's a difference between

Let me go on
like a blister in the sun

and

Honey got a booty
like pow pow pow

Daytime - workplace - radio.

Sure, back in my day we had our Samantha Fox and Guns-n-Roses and Ice T. But you didn't hear their more obscure references played over mainstream radio. The booty lyrics just aren't fitting when you're trying to do a gait analysis on military personnel and soccer moms.

Music is good for the atmosphere of a PT office. Plus, it's practical for HIPPA privacy regulations. A little background noise keeps people from overhearing the details of other's business. I'd prefer that my mind (and the minds of my patients) not dwell even more on Lil Wayne and Lady Gaga.

Sorry, but country music is no option either. And sometimes, usually on Monday mornings and Thursday afternoons, I'm just not in the mood for the Gwen Stefani WHOO-HOOO guy.

So I made a CD from my home itunes selection. It contains a lot of Switchfoot and Reliant K and Kim Walker Smith alongside O.A.R. and Muse and Dave Matthews. And U2. Can we all at least agree on U2? The CD is simply made of songs that 1) the PT likes and 2) have lyrics appropriate for a professional setting.

I want to be respectful and sensitive. I'm there to do my part in stretching shoulders and strengthening knees. The last thing I want or need to do is preach to and proselytize somebody who already feels like an outsider.
Bad witness - bad for business.

On the other hand, it's pretty much white bred Christian America around here. My honest guess is that for every patient who's turned off by even subtle faith gestures, there will likely be ten who appreciate it and see it as a sign of shared values.

gone
like Frank Sinatra
like Elvis and his mom
like Al Pacino's cash
nothing lasts in this life

If that alternative to the workplace booty call is too Jesus for someone, then maybe I should be okay with the fact that there are plenty of other outpatient PT offices around, some of which are certainly "WNNKing at Work," as they say.

Not everyone has the same values. I get that. Even WITHIN the office lies a good example of the dilemma. Kim is pretty conservative and gets a headache from anything with perceptible Auto-Tune. Debbie is far less conservative and perfectly at peace with the Black Eyed Peas. I think both of them claim to be Christians, and I see their points.

So today I sing to you, as one who beholds the power of the radio dial on an old CD/Radio/Cassette tape player in a small physical therapy office.

What should I play?

Is there an HD radio mix that justifies an upgrade? I think Howard Sterns permanently ruined my perception of Satellite Radio. Even if Satellite Radio is not all breast and fart jokes, it still seems unnecessary.

The whole thing becomes tedious and a little ridiculous when I don't have the time or mental energy to devote to such matters. That's why we mostly end up listening to nothing.

Is this trivial?

First Choice Rehabilitation Specialists is a smallish, independent company with no official music policy or custom mix ala Chic-Fil-A. Which is excellent, by the way. All walks of people go there because they do good work.

Yeah, I want our office to be like the Chic-Fil-A of orthopedic rehab. I could live with people of all worldviews coming because we do good work, the work being a testimony to what we believe. I want my joint manipulations and exercise prescription to be as good as a classic Chic-Fil-A chicken sandwich.

I could use one of those
right
right
right about now

-
-
-
-
-

Summer 15

2010-07-05T01:07:00.004-04:00

Check out those "horse boots."

Trying to be artsy with frames.

Sweethearts

"Hector!"

E can drive.

Artsy - Liddia.

- - - - -

Poured Out

2010-07-04T23:09:00.015-04:00

We moved into this house in September of 2005. Full boxes were strewn about the living room. Pictures and furniture leaned against walls. We had no phone service. Yet the stream in the back yard was the very first order of business.

Tim and I dripped with mud and sweat as we rolled three massive boulders down to the far end of the property to buttress a small line of stones that crossed the stream. Tim was a 330-pound offensive guard then and I thought it was cool that a Steeler assisted in my homemaking.

From that day forward, people young and old have enjoyed the fruits of the dam. Wildlife flourishes. Kids have swam and rafted around. We've been entertained by native trout, ducks, turtles, and countless frogs, minnows, dragonflies, and crayfish. Crowds have roared during Walnutfest as their walnut floated toward the finish line.

Well, the dam came to an end today, converted to what I'd like to term a "trout nook." A resident far upstream claimed the dam was flooding the route 15 underpass and part of his property. Later, Zach Blair from the Department of Environmental Protection paid a visit to investigate the issue and the claims.

The trout nook. A determined trout can climb that now. Definitely.

"Your dam is less than three feet so it's fine, except for the fact that this is a native trout protected waterway. No dams are allowed in these."

Damn.

Hmm. In the effort to harbor trout and other critters, I overlooked the possibility of wildlife wanting to come upstream to visit this area. Taking down the damn for the sake of the trout, in my mind, made the whole thing a lot more palatable. Zach and I talked for a while. I noticed his eyes light up when he saw a few trout dart away from us. He said this stream is a pretty unique and amazing thing, and I agreed.

Earlier today, a small crowd watched me, head hung low, standing waist deep in the water, reluctantly pulling up rocks and tree limbs.

"Do you think the trout can make it through that?"

Thirty minutes later, the frogs had two jumps to hit water. The level was well over a foot less. And guess what? The route 15 underpass is still completely submerged. It's been that way for about two years, ever since the state installed a drain that failed. It was supposed to divert highway runoff from a row of nearby town homes. That had nothing to do with the dam, and I'm pretty sure the little dam is a lot more trout friendly than highway runoff.

The underpass is still flooded. And awesome.

Ben and our neighbor Lianne and I have seen a beaver that resides back there, but lets not get into that. Seriously, I didn't mention the beaver to my complaining upstream neighbor.

Here's a photo of our back yard on the day the drain washed all kinds of rocks and dirt onto the underpass.

The waterway still amazes me. I stare at it, mesmerized when the sun is to my back. Pure water continually rolls through my shadow. It just keeps coming. I get the same feeling looking deep into the night sky.

This birthplace of the great Atlantic is only about a mile upstream, boiling from under two rocks and an old oak. It flows remarkably cool and consistent through summer drought. It never freezes in the winter. The surrounding topography contains no huge mountains or valleys. Where and whence it comes is a mystery.

I - said - mystery.

So please, geology and waterway engineer people, hold your tongue. What good can come from knowing more about this spring, being that I'm already compelled to be gentle? No, this is Gods blessing to my bunch of critters, and trout, ducks, frogs and bugs too. And a beaver. Lets not forget the beaver.

Right here in Mechanicsburg is a fountain of the deep poured directly from the hands of angels.

- - - - -

Freedom Sandwich

2010-06-30T19:39:00.004-04:00

- - - - -

“…in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, ensure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity…”

from the US Constitution

- - - - -

There comes a day when a boy is of age to be granted choices. On that day he has a share in his fate, for more than one road lies before him.

On previous days, out of the blue, only grape jelly would suffice on the sandwich. Not strawberry or even grandma Gorinski's homemade peach. Then there would be no jelly at all, but only honey. Once this had been established, one particular kind of bread was deemed acceptable. Brown without "seeds," but not too brown.

Once these rules had been laid firm, suddenly, the crust was an abomination. While crust issues were understandable in those days, a two-inch crust buffer was not. Though guarding against the frightening possibility of inadvertently contacting crust, such a buffer allows only 2 or 3 good bites per half sandwich.

And when all suitable elements have finally been properly gathered, assembled and dispensed, questions of geometry come to pass. Cut up, "loaf shaped," triangles, rectangles, Iron Man plate, basketball plate, honey on the side, and without doubt, endless permutations into the future.

It has been calculated that one day only brand names will suffice. Then no peanut butter sandwich at all, but something set apart from the rest of our people, especially prepared to the flavor of the king on high. After that it will be that dads fishing pole is too creaky and mom’s old car is humiliation.

Every whim is an expectation, every luxury a necessity, and every comfort “just so.”

Oooh – how me the people despise the mentality of entitlement. It’s the principle, not the sandwich. It’s not like we’re serving fried monkey brains or even meat loaf and brustle sprouts.

Formulating and complying with precise sandwich specifications is not the answer. One Iron Man plate per child is not the answer. Uncrustables ready-made sandwiches and meticulous cutlery skills are not the answer. Saintly patience and perseverance are not even the answer.

The answer appeared as writing on a wall. It was a small sign hanging in the far corner Bret and Coleen Wagner's kitchen. I embraced that truth as good news for our home and for all homes; a fair and just, BS-stopping gospel of freedom.
That's why...

There are two choices for lunch today.

Take it or leave it.

Friends

2010-06-26T15:47:00.009-04:00

I came across this essay a while back at The High Calling. I still often think of that little piece of writing and I've followed the blog of Gordon Atkinson ever since. My wife Amy says I have a man crush. I've lurked around The High Calling website for a while, mostly through reallivepreacher.com.

http://highcallingblogs.com/

A few High Calling-Blogs editors somehow noticed this blog, or I left e-tracks on their site. They nudged me to get a little involved in the discussion. I met up with Culture Editor Sam Van Eman. We spoke and ate, like for real, with our mouths and bellies at Neatto Burrito in Mechanicsburg. The leaders of the network at least know I'm a person.

This idea of a "real" on-line community is new to me. I have a habit of on-line skipping around, loving'em and leaving'em, for the most part. I always thought that's kind of the point of going on-line. If it's like the facebook friend thing, then my skeptical eyebrow is rasied.

It's not, mostly because there is a lot more substance and a lot less image control.

The intersection of faith and everyday life that happens outside of church, which is pretty much the whole point of THC, is something that my mind frequently haggles over. I think that's verified by the tone of many of my own posts. Now imagine getting to interact with and learn from a whole bunch of folks walking similar paths?

Of course it's not to replace personal contact or physical service. And I'm certainly not giving up regular sports related pummelings with the guys. But these people are constantly thinking about things that fascinate me. Things that are important to me. They write well and seem to be honest in their reflections.

I don't imagine dad or the guys will really mind that I'm hanging out with a bunch of artsy types. Yeah, The High Calling people have their photography and poetry, but I'll make due. In all honesty, I could care less about the Steelers first round draft pick.

My hickish idea of poetry is rhyming, like my sporadic lame song parodies done as a joke. It took a tough guy facade of loud drums and guitars for me to open up to the whole idea of real poetry. But I had always been suspicious of something cool going on when I heard people like Chris Cornell singing

...Love's last match struck,
in the pouring down wind...

So the bottom line is that I stand in awe of the photography and even enjoy the poetry, okay? I've called myself a Christian for about 14 years, and it's continually new to me. The High Calling people make it easy to come off the wall, opening the circle to make room for another chair.

"Hello, I'm Bob..."

- - - - -

Gift

2010-06-19T23:32:00.010-04:00

I used nearly an entire role of duct tape that day. Medieval weaponry is what you get when you show them a clip of the movie Troy.

But it was worth it. For over an hour they ran around like mad men shouting "HECTOR," kicking the air, spearing weeds, and throwing small walnuts and blocking them with cardboard shields. I even saw Lidia dive for cover behind a tree trunk when there was nothing that I could see coming at her.

Two of my boys and three of their cousins camped out in our back yard the previous day, after an extended family trip to the pool. We partied hard on into the night. On the itinerary was frog catching, flashlighting, fireworks, and a camp fire. We ate, read, and prayed before finally signing off. We fell asleep, the six of us sardined into a hot tent smelling of gun powder and dead lightening bugs.

All smells aside, I didn't rest so well. I forgot to bring the small soft blanket that I usually use to shield light from my eyes. Amy calls it my "wubby", though I've never called it that. Any hint of sound also awakens me. I hate it, especially with the kind of days a parent of young kids typically has. But this time, I relaxed as brightness trickled into the tent. I listened to the birds in peace. It was the first time in a long while that I did that and thought "it's okay."

That was my fathers day gift.

You can't Paypal getting to goof off with your wife and kids and having quiet solitude. I usually have to pay off the debt later with dizzying fatigue and sometimes grouchiness, which usually isn't such a good thing for the family.

But this was Dad's day. I didn't have to work or follow through with any agenda or "to do" list. Amy is always happy to give some relief from the kids when I need it. Later, I could play with the family or I could rest. Tonight I opened a package of alone time with my thoughts, books, and computer.

What more could a dad ask for, especially one who doesn't enjoy eating out or cooking on a grill, golfing or watching sports on TV? Surely I have my consumerist weak points (like basketball sneaks), but overall I don't look or act much like the dads in the JC Penny flier.

Some would think that's all pretty lame and ask "but what do you do for fun? I can understand that perspective. But I have to add that there's time for other things; a little right now and (Lord willing) a lot later. Much of being a dad is the fun. Besides, what's a dad supposed to say on the day he gets to do what he wants? Say "it's fathers day, seee-ya, suckahz, ha ha" as the base booms and the SUV screeches out of the driveway?

On my day, I want to be with them doing something they enjoy. No doubt. I would also really enjoy a good rest. And more than a ball game or mountain bike ride with my homies, today I think I need time to sit and read and reflect. The blogging is always therapeutic.

"Oh. You shouldn't have."

Thanks Amy, L, O, B, and M. This day and all days.

action

2010-06-19T22:49:00.004-04:00

I go through video moods now and then, where I just feel like a video. I truly don't take it seriously at all. With my crappy click and shoot digital camera and stock "movie maker" that came with my computer, I sit here and fool around when my head is spent.

Why do I need to justify these? It feels like I should. You don't see folks apologizing for watching hours and hours of Lost or playing on-line RPGs or scrapbooking.

So I'm sorry if I should have been watching some reality show or reading more about intelligent design v. evolution or woodworking or reviewing our financial prospectus or cleaning the basement. Okay?

But three recent videos are over

HERE (brand new - us on wheeled devices).

HERE (a requested project for church).

and

HERE (you have never seen T-ball move this fast).

It's fun, so I'll leave it at that.

- - - - - -

Last Minute Gift Ideas for Dad

2010-06-16T23:57:00.006-04:00

Hey, I found one!

- - - - - -

"Kids don't believe in "later." So if you're never around right now so that you can provide a better life for them later, be careful."- Jonathan Acuff
- - - - - -

I'm unsure if it's true that 99% of fatherhood is showing up. What about doing a good job as a father? I'm certain that willingly or unwillingly, dads will have a drastic influence, for better or worse, over the life of their children.

Fatherhood is joy and a heavy weight. It's pride and reluctance and excitement. It's stamina and an entire life's work. Who knows a man who "showed up" better than his son? Strengths, weaknesses, preferences, all of it.

I know RJ Gorinski better than any other man, like, way more than Wikipedia and all of the innernets. That's a pretty powerful thing to lay claim to. As one privileged to such knowledge, what does it mean when I say "it was and is a genuinely good thing to be the son of RJG?"

What do I think of dad, tonight?

He rarely spoke directly on big life lessons. I never had "the talk" on a number of issues, sometimes when we should have. I know how he hates the awkward confrontation. But he also knew the low cost of talk.

I can say this. When the majority of my peers, sports heroes, Axl Rose, and all the rest of the world were screaming lots of things, dad was clearly, unmistakably "saying" the opposite. He respected his parents and his wife and women in general. He was fascinated by the natural world and his place in it. He had a healthy fear of God.

That's what his life told me.

Dad literally kicked my gluteal region over my shoulders, never for him and I don't think one time more or less than I needed it. Speaking of asses, he was usually quite careful with his words. Careful, but real. Many things I heard - we just didn't say those words - me and dad. He offered some comments on ignorance and what some words represented. It takes no words to teach a child the wisdom of sometimes holding your words.

What I can appreciate the most at this point is the delicate balance. Loving means doing your part and letting go. Working at stability and presence and provision for the children, sacrificing so much for them while not holding on too tightly. Not expecting perfection. Giving advice but not pushing it. Allowing lessons to happen when and where they need to.

The role is critical. But one man, one person, can only do so much. Like, how do you get a kid to understand the essential value of hard work without pushing them to rebellion or the foolishness of spending their entire life chasing the golden carrot?

I know there is no formula for this type of thing. But I do have a foundation of what worked for me growing up. I'm extremely thankful to know what a good dad looks like.

...And he saw these things, and they were impressed upon his heart.

- - - - -

BAPTIST back in

2010-06-12T16:04:00.001-04:00

We almost changed our name from Lighthouse Baptist Church to Lighthouse Church. Just Lighthouse. As in, no mean-spirited fundamentalists who go around blabbering about hate and shun pants-wearing women and call every male in the club by “brother." We imagine thousands of seekers thumbing through the yellow pages, systematically skipping everything with a mention of the word Baptist. We tell family and friends about the great things happening at Lighthouse [mumble or subtly clear throat] Bpte Church, because Baptist is code for stodgy, closed mind-controlled, legalistic, old fools.

As if.

I do imagine that many people see our name and write us off; folks who would have found exactly what they’re looking for and need. Others have shown up expecting to find something we’re clearly not. People come as they are and sing contemporary stuff rather than (only) piano hymns. We take a beating from the right hand, too. It’s happened.

A dozen or so church leaders contemplated the potential benefits, time, and costs involved with a name change. When I was all for “Just Lighthouse,” I remember Pastor telling me “these are good points but I’m just not so sure yet.” A voice of wisdom has the patience and grace to say things like that.

About a year later, the issue has kind of fallen to the side. The church has moved on to different (better?) things, including a lot of doing. Problem solved, so it seems. Maybe it was intentional or maybe we just got too busy for changing names. Either way, I think that was divine.

So here we are as Baptists. Lighthouse BAPTIST Church. Yes, that’s our tradition. Baptizing is what we do here. Our family of believers takes to heart the deep symbolism behind being washed and rising again as a new person. We take literally the ideas from the Scriptures themselves; the need for a public pronouncement of faith; that we chose, individually, for ourselves and no other reason.

Owning up to the good and bad of our tradition also happens to save someone a lot of time and effort right now. Someday when our roots, tradition, and ceremony are heavy in style, like community this and crossroads that are right now, we won’t have the trouble of adding Baptist back in.

I think it's a good lesson in letting go. Our lives speak or they don't, and we'll have to accept whoever comes by that. Our church is here and it has a name. Whatever you call it, that's where my family and I will be going for a good long while.

- - - - - -

www.lighthousehbg.com

History Repeats Itself

2010-06-09T23:44:00.004-04:00

Luke is six and eager to lend a hand with yard work. Every time I mow, he drags this crooked old moving dolly out of the garage and traces my tracks at a distance. He day dreams about steering the tractor.

Yesterday while using the weed whacker, I noticed Luke running inside then coming back out with his pair of protective glasses. He followed me all over yard. He said something and I revved the engine, pretending not to hear. I wanted to finish my work and get on with the day. I could see his eager eyes staring pathetically through the huge protective lenses. Forget the summer heat; the eyes were too much to take. They simply wore me down.

"I could use a break. So do you want to give it a shot?"

It was like he won the Heisman Trophy or a "you're going to Hollywood." Before he had a chance to make an acceptance speech, I pressed the weight of the machinery into him. It pulled him forward, but he staggered and recovered with a "bring it" countenance. I restarted the weed whacker and handed it to two arms coming out from a grin.

Yes, my 6-year old ran a weed whacker. He did quite well, as far as endurance goes.

He was careful, sort of. The way the thing functions, I was far more concerned for the safety of his watching brother and our vegetation than for Luke. No sooner had I turned to tell Owen to stay back had I felt a series of stings to my shins. My spastic ninja dance was enough for Luke to drop the weapon.

I hadn't thought about it for some time, but I clearly remember a certain little boy being handed a weed whacker for the first time. Yes, Luke learned how to use one and do a spastic ninja dance all in the same day, just like I did around the age of twelve.

Though Luke didn't learn the vocabulary I heard that day, I learned the spastic ninja dance from my grandfather. Moments later, I took out a few of grandmas flowers. I never heard too much about it, and they "allowed" me to work for them again.

I remember being about Luke's age when I began to get annoyed with my grandfather reaching down and patting me on the head. He did that often, and now I have this uncontrollable urge to do the same thing with my kids. Now I understand that head pats are compulsive demonstrations when words fail to quickly and undramatically say "I love you; I'm proud of you."

I lifted the idling weed whacker up off the grass and handed it to Luke again. Backing away this time, I said nothing of it. He carefully whacked the grass in the center of the yard and proudly scooted it in my direction when his arms gave out.

I don't think the grace having, head patting behavior is genetic. No, not at all. Those things are learned from years of observation of consistent living and the disciplined work of sacrificial love. Security and self esteem aren't handed down to children by feigning talent or telling them to take some kind, any kind of pride in themselves.

While anyone who helps conceive a child can react with a ninja dance, only a dad allows the possibility of getting whacked in the first place. I think everyone has experienced how discipline alone just won't cut it. I wonder if the idea of sacrificial love is even reasonable without a solid moral framework to stand on.

In more ways than one, I find myself standing where Clarence Gorinski stood.

Working on...

2010-06-04T16:42:00.002-04:00

at the other one:

www.bobgpt.blogspot.com

And mostly reading PT stuff as of late.

Nirvana Means...

2010-05-30T00:21:00.011-04:00

My mom picked me up early from basketball practice that day. My eye was gouged pretty severely and there was blood all over my shirt. The news came over the radio of our blue Ford Tempo. Kurt Cobain shot himself in the head.

He was gone. Forever, for all I know.

I remember feeling selfishly mad. In the Hindu tradition, nirvana means rest, stability, and joy. Yeah, exactly Kurt: whatever never mind.

But mostly I obsessed over my own final day in this world. It was no comfort to assume that day probably won't arrive for a little while. A painful bleeding cornea and the first time you care about a suicide will always shock invincible, self absorbed teenage boys.

That was the day that I realized, if nothing else, that my time is coming soon. That's why I still haven't gotten over the death of Kurt Cobain.

I don't kazoo Lithium daily or go to sleep weeping over acoustic Pennyroyal Tea. But when I do think of it, I'm still at a loss. It's not just over Kurt, of course. In any circumstance, the sudden collapse of all that a unique person is and knows is incomprehensible.

I think that the death of a celebrity confirms that there's no Karmic force or mystical mathematical balance in the cosmos. I mean, how many people paid attention to and maybe even loved Kurt Cobain? How much opportunity did he have? How much joy did his talent give to others? And yet these only multiplied misery, like a lot of celebrities.

On the other hand, if everything is lost at death, and you're just dead, then why do we even value life or care when someone dies? Why does one life impress such lasting change in the lives of others? Why is grunge branded on my brain, forever drawn to art gritty and unpolished?

Your great great grandchildren may not know your name someday when they are born, but you're certainly effecting them. When you consider that happiness is contagious; the mood of your friends friend yesterday truly does have a drastic effect on your happiness today, imagine how affect is ingrained over generations?

I still stumble in a grand fashion over exactly what happens when a person dies. The Biblical account of heaven is pretty sketchy, and it even says that what is eternal is unseen.

To be clear, the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord and Saviour. I buy that. I do. Most of the time, I'm pretty much at peace with the revelation that the end is a beginning.

But in context, much of it seems to be concerned with life now. All the talk of mustard seeds and leaven and well-to-do house holders is to explain how heaven is both a promise for the future and present now, in some sense, in the ways and teachings of Jesus. Check Matthew 13 if you like.

Of course not everyone who claims religion is all set right now and unto the ages. Jesus himself warned that many who say "Lord, Lord," are evildoers who he never knew. He also said that the first in this world would be last in heaven, and the last will be first. When you want to get all up in someones face about how you KNOW it will be after death, go ahead and explain exactly what Jesus meant by that.

Whatever the case, is it blasphemous to say that God definitely holds utter, uncompromising condemnation for those tormented with pain and sorrow and mental anguish, famous or not? When blessed are those who mourn? Maybe there's some part(s) of Kurt that God judges to be redeemable. Who am I to say?

So Kurt probably heard of Jesus but didn't know him. His parents likely didn't give a damn. That likely contributed to his mental disorder, which certainly is hell. The root cause of this living hell is something not of God; separate from God.

I'm pretty sure that finding our joy and our value in God, and trying to do His will, are the only things in this life that will save any sinner from living hell and any sane person from despondency.

"I'm so ugly,
that's okay 'cause so are you - broke our mirrors."

- - - - -

What specifically gives you hope for the afterlife? Do share.

- - - - -

Spring Things

2010-05-25T23:05:00.005-04:00

One of the best videos ever.

I May Dance Some Day

2010-05-23T13:05:00.007-04:00

- - - - -
Majesty
Your grace has found me just as I am,
Empty handed, but alive in Your hands

- - - - -

Zaita and Stella were dancing again during church. Last week they danced on my watch, after Sunday School when Amy and I bring the kids into the singing part of "big church."

Were they misbehaving? No. Was their holding hands and twirling about beautiful? Well, it's rather apparent that the kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these. Were they also a distraction? Absolutely.

We're not really the dancing kind of church.

But in a lot of crazy dancing churches where being loud with your body is the norm, my sing-murmur/pew tap combo would be all awkward and judged. Yeah, I probably...definitely wouldn't go back to a crazy dancing church.

At the same time, I'm aware of at least a few families who have moved on from LBC primarily because there's not enough dancing and hand raising going on during service. Our church is likely in trouble if loud "amens" and "thank you Jesus's" displayed before others are indicative of a moving Spirit, even for shy or contemplative types.

But what do I do with Stella and Zaita? Tell them "stand still?" Give them formal lessons in word-mouthing and mechanical, lukewarm singing? Who is the fitting example here?

I try to conceive of all the bickering over the "proper" music and order of service that has occurred throughout church history. Two little girls dancing in our non-dancing church are like the opposite of that.

I had a growing suspicion that God has hidden things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children. Okay, so the "Spirit moved." I sung Majesty a little louder; a little more real. And I certainly didn't interfere with the girls.

Take that, Satan.

Besides, "dance" they will, if not around the church, then other places. In those days we'll be barraging them with Mt. Dew looking activities having long tails of exclamation points, trying to show them that church is cool and safe and real.

I can see Stella and Zaita in 10 or 20 years, leaning back hard as they tug on my arms to get me up and dancing, as some girls have tried to do in the prior 10 or 20 years. If that happens in church, I just may have to join them. Because for once it will be more than a lame, self-conscious white man dance.

It would be an outward-focused, lame white man dance offering unto the Lord.

- - - - -

Family System

2010-05-11T03:37:00.003-04:00

It's very confusing. It completely baffles my mind that our immediate family unit is so many contradictory things. Yes, what is truth?

What I mean is that to one crew of friends and family, Amy and I are practically free spirited yuppies. Amy works part time outside of and full time within the home. We drink very sparingly but often offer alcohol to our guests. We celebrate the culturally light side of Halloween and generally seek an open mind to climb mount perspective. My personal theology on Hell and the afterlife, if you were to really pin me down, leans pretty generous. That sort of thing...

However, to another side of friends and family, Amy and I are practically Amish. One word summarizes the biggest ballsey decisions we've made in a very long time: homeschoolers. We're homeschoolers who told their kids that Santa is not real. We get $10 per month Comcast so we have time to play and read and blog and intentionally not get even more sucked into pop culture. Our "new" car is 6 years old.We pray out loud before meals. We believe in universal rights and wrongs. That sort of thing...

So what is the truth of the matter? What are we? Does it make a difference?

Amy and I try to steer this ship with much thought and deliberation. We don't take it lightly; lives are literally at stake. Major decisions come and you have to choose one thing or another. All families are pioneers in their own life and times; each is an independent experiment with limited variables to tinker with. I truly believe that there are many ways to fail and few ways to stand.

Of course, we don't know what we don't know. And we realize that it's astronomically improbable that we will make the right or best decision every step of the way. That's why we always invite input from those who actually care about us. This is not to say that we will always act on the advice, but we will absolutely consider it and live with the consequences of our decisions.

I ask for Gods wisdom and grace from On High and through you and I.

spring

2010-05-05T23:08:00.007-04:00

"ducks" getting ready to wrestle

checking the catch of the day

buggies "holding" a frog

i later found tadpoles on her neck

caught on tape...

My Own Bad Advice

2010-04-28T22:34:00.007-04:00

Listen, my son, to this instruction. Pay attention, and gain understanding.
...
...

Nah. Not really. A better way to intro this writing is to say that when I was single and interested in finding a "good" girlfriend, I got a lot of bad advice. People told me a lot of bullshit about dating while others made me plain scared of ever even thinking about maybe possibly getting married because that's foolish.

So what makes me think that I'm an expert with nonbullshit advice? Well, first, I don't (see title). There are plenty of good books out there, and I've remained committed to reading at least one good marriage/relationship book per year since I've been married. Do you read?

More importantly, I have had about 12 years of being on this side of the horrendous dating scene, literally thank God. That's 12 years of life experience, watching others while being mostly unconcerned with myself.

First, single girls don't know exactly what they want in a relationship any more than you do. On the whole, the hearts of women seem to ebb and flow in ways that defy any sort of normal human logic. Expect confusion and puzzling. Even if you could figure it out, "it" would change and you'd still be left standing there in the hallway scratching your head.

"Um, okay."

I do that at least once a week.

Second. Girls want what you want; things that transcend gender. They want a rock freakin' solid person. By that I mean things like honesty and humility, respect, integrity, and courage. Men and women carry them out in different roles, but those are what we're all looking for. We will never own any of those things over a lifetime of real effort, and so we all desperately want grace.

Girls want someone who is brave yet gentle; respectful to their parents but not a mamma's boy/girl. That sort of thing.

Be a good listener. Prompt and listen. Prompt and listen. While I seriously doubt the existence of a "good" pick-up line, having a repertoire of "good" sincere prompting questions is probably worth it. If it drains you and feels like work, drop it like it's hott. Yes, two t's.

Third. Notice something about their hair. I don't care what it is.

"Is that new?...That huge white stripe of shaved skin down the center of your head?...That reverse mohawk goes perfectly with your boots and your attitude."

For real though, it works no matter what the age or marital status or haircut. NOTICE THE HAIR, even if it's just because you'd maybe appreciate them bringing another tray of peanutbutter hershey kiss cookies into the office. Just try it.

Mutual physical attraction does count. Golden Anniversaries never happen solely by chemistry, because true love is a decision...that sort of thing. But anybody who says that looks don't matter is lying.

Fourth. Don't really try. Other than the hair thing, just don't. Go about doing what you enjoy doing (unless it's online Dungeons and Dragons) and regularly, frequently extend yourself to serve others. I personally think "singles" events just kind of smother everything in impenetrable layers of weirdness, masks, and awkwardness, even when intentions are good. Nobody makes good friends by trying really hard to make good friends.

Put yourself out there - sure. Your actions and attitudes will tell others that you're interested and available. Be the good time. But that's about it.

Fifth. Take a serious inventory of yourself to identify some area(s) where you generally suck, and seriously pray to God for help and to show you ways to change that. God - yes, 'cause trying ain't gonna cut it. Otherwise you're left with a miserable cycle of singleness and inconfidence and Saturday Night Live. No single should be regularly watching "live" SNL.

I was way inpatient and short tempered and maybe even mad before I met Amy. I had no good reason to be any of those things, and they made me more stand-offish and introverted. Without saying a word, she made me want to change them.

Sixth, confidence. This applies more to the dating scene, but I think that girls are attracted to confidence. Not bigmouth blowhard confidence, but "I really am okay with or without a girl" kind of confidence.

You are okay with or without? Really, you should be. Ugh, I know.

Now who's really confident, not false frontin' confident? I know a few folks who are, but not many. If you already error on the side of being too confident, then this entire writing is definitely not for you. But really and truly, being a big mouth and being a super shy wallflower are both renditions of self absorption. And not attractive.

During high school and college years, when I was interested in dating, I was like a baby food jar full of confidence. Infant sized. Only when I went to grad school, and said "whatever," and swore "I'm devoting the next 3 years only to getting a professional degree," was I unconcerned enough with myself and my dating life to have a genuinely enjoyable date.

That, my brother, is my own bad advice on dating.

- - - - -

Black Holes and Deedo Um

2010-04-20T23:34:00.007-04:00

[Did you notice that I often write about coming home? Sorry, but coming home is absolutely my most favorite thing to do and to remember. So...]

I usually can't pull into the driveway after work. There are bikes, monster trucks, baseball bats, and makeshift bug jars all over the place.

"Deedoo ummm!"

Nosey Parker is excited. Ecstatic. She squeaks for joy, throwing up her arms and extending her torso as in jumping, but her feet don't leave the grass. She does her pigeon toed gallop with arms extended stiffly in my direction, falling forward at the point where she knows I can reach her.

"Daddy home!"

Buggies is also quite pleased with the situation. He hops skippingly in three big circles, then buries his nose in my leg. He wants tickled and thrown around, but not held.

"Hi Daddy!"

Ducks sprints from whatever it is he's doing, usually with Luke. He makes eye contact and smiles the grand canyon. Some have called it "Nix Nucks" and others a "shit eatin' grin." He hunches and creeps toward me in a sneaking fashion, though we both know I see him. He pauses, motionless at my side, cocks back, and rails me in the hip.

"Daddy can you..."

Luke walks over after finishing up whatever it is he's doing. He's good for a hug, but he doesn't drop everything and run anymore. He does often lead with a question or a request to come see something he's done or caught that day.

What he's lost in excitement is gained in depth. Luke's the only one who can keep up on a bike and play real catch. He wonders about the colors of bees and if God could make Tai Lung (villian in Kung Fu Panda) good and why telescopes can't see inside a black hole.

I take in this revelation and try to consider how each child changes while I'm changing and our relationship must change. This is a black hole that I will never get to the bottom of. There was a time when they were not, and suddenly, now there are these four beautiful things with a voice and desires and offerings and will of their own.

Call the present an "event horizon" that you can't see past, but one can make a calculated guess. The hi daddy's will progress to hey dads then to practically nonverbal head nods and then hopefully back to a hi dads again. And of course the mystery of their timeless soul is beyond my comprehension.

Please don't say there is a bottom to the hugs. Hugs may closely resemble an arm lock with a punch to the scapula when they are about fifteen. But call it a hug. Hugs there will be for as long as I'm given days for hugging.

There's no limit for Amy and the kids. Wherever and whatever happens, they can gravitate toward my arms. I'm like a black hole of hugs.

- - - - -

Pitching/Yoga

2010-04-18T23:49:00.001-04:00

Posted part 4 of 5 in the pitching series as well as a reflection on my Yoga experience on the other one.
bobgpt.blogspot.com

They Don't Serve Waffles on Pandora

2010-04-07T21:49:00.008-04:00

Above is an image from the movie Avatar.

The message is clear and more than a little off. The storyline wasn't anything really new and the whole thing progressed into deeper hokeyness. The incorporation of the Na'vi people's spirituality was way cheesy. I'm not calling for some kind of alien Jesus people; just saying that the spiritual stuff could have been meaningful and real instead of just tired and weird.

Having said that, you should see the film. There's a lot done right. There's a reason why Avatar is the highest grossing film of all time. Any movie that really makes you think and wonder (or laugh!) without costing you too much in the morality/vulgarity department is well worth it.

The cinematography is like nothing else, and the movie won tons of artistic type awards. Like, WAY cool. Everything on their planet is fertile and unblemished and steroid bioluminescent. Pandora is like the Hollywood version of the earth as it was 6 to 10 thousand years ago. There really is no reason to envy it.

I mean, don't tell me that given 6 or 8 thousand more years, Pandora won't create its own New Jersey. As if those tall blue cat looking people would pull off living in perpetual harmony with their environment. As if they would continually and perfectly walk the straight and narrow away from greed and lust and envy and pride. Talk about science fiction!

Besides, go ahead and try living on the beautiful unblemished earth that historians call Classical Antiquity, as it was 6 or 8 thousand years ago, about like the life and times of the blue cat people. That would suck. The environment was nicely untoxicated. There was an ice age, then warming, and Al Gore wasn't even there. They were probably not very different from us as far as happiness goes. They just worked a ton harder in crappy "natural" conditions like humidity while living and knowing a lot less.

And the gnats. I imagine the gnats are a freaking nightmare on Pandora.

I would pick modern earth over pre-medieval earth any day. And yes, even over Pandora. And you know what? If the earth was all hyper colorful and lush everywhere all the time, we wouldn't notice the beauty. It would all be business as usual to us, because in reality, the shadow proves the sunshine.

YOU MAKE THE CALL:

Is it Pandora or the earth near my house?

Not my photo, but nearby Earth

If this tree doesn't appear otherwordly, what possibly does?

They're like huge flowers.

Pandoras "Mother Worship" tree, or just Jane's front yard?

The indigenous population seems to form communal bonds with odd life forms having bills and webbed feet.

- - - - - - -

I Don't Know Gorinski

2010-04-05T22:35:00.007-04:00

Sometimes I don't know what to say to them. My natural urge is to give everyone a "who's your best buddy" like coach Rege Sofranko did to me during my first year of T-ball. Rege said that all the time, and by this coined my first nickname ever: I-Don't-Know Gorinski.

Somewhere I have a plaque with that name on it.

It's a lot easier to type about my White Sox T-ball glory days than it is to explain how awkward it is to coach T-ball when you don't really have a natural "coach" personality.

I don't know the kids. I very much don't know their parents. Oh God-here comes the guy with the stroller, his one kid always goes on the field in a Ninja Turtle costume and the littlest boy has a helmet on; he thinks it's his practice. The little girl is horning in too, hovering over by the snacks the whole time.

They are part of the coaching package for now. I don't know. It's my job to lead and instruct and most importantly, help the entire team have fun. That definitely means disciplining other people's unique little snowflakes too. Ugh.

And this is not GoWags. There's a huge variation in interest, expectation, physical and mental development, skill, and need for "mom time-outs" (breaks to go see mom), that each child brings to the table. I really get tired of hearing myself talk, as a coach. "Okay now lets do this/you over there/no she's next/where's your helmet/don't hit the coach.../.../..." Can I get a mom time out?

But yeah. You're right. I love it. The kids are great. If only I can meet them where they are. I am getting to know them.

The way Brian* throws off his right hip. I've never seen someone throw a baseball so much like a bale of hay, and I feel horrible for "correcting" his mechanics. It's like using a beautiful wild dogwood tree to make a dugout.

The way Cindy needs a little extra space in line**.

The look Brett gave me when I told him "that was an awesome jump off the back of those big bleachers."

The way Kyle wraps his bat back behind his opposite ear and wrings out his torso like a washrag before swinging.

The way my oldest now comes home with a sudden zest for baseball, yet still asking if he's going to win a trophy.

And on and on...

If winning in Tball is something like learning the game and not getting a bloody nose, then so far, we are definitely losing to bloody noses. But we're having fun and getting some exercise. We're learning that sometimes you win and sometimes you lose because that's life and that's okay, especially okay if you tried your best. We're getting the snack right. We're like an entire team of Nolan Ryans in the juice box/cookie portion of Tball, thanks to a strong off-season pick up of a team mom who works at Pennsylvania Bakery.

We're (hopefully) learning gratitude by gathering together at the end of practice and naming something we're thankful for. Everything from Jesus to water has gotten a shout out, and yipes, lots of things in between. W'ere getting the sports mandatory "hands in 1, 2, 3-TEAM" thing down too. Except we yell "1, 2, 3-HERF."

Herf Jones is our team sponsor. I don't know what or who Herf Jones is, either.

But now you know what I'm in it for.

*All names changed. Again, I have no idea how much these people appreciate the coaches remarks.

**Grammar police: sometimes incomplete sentences just feel right. Tball thoughts, not a dissertation.

Easter Like Toast

2010-03-28T13:24:00.022-04:00

- - - - - - - - - -

So it says the guy lived a peculiar life. He was killed gruesomely for the claims he made and for what he did. He somehow got out of his grave, despite much effort to ensure that nothing fishy would happen. Nobody knows how he got out, but many saw him up and around, talking about leaving and coming back again.

We Christians justifiably judge other faiths and worldviews with a critical eye. But lets turn our thoughts to the sensational claim that is the center of our faith. Don't forget that the story is pretty ridiculous if you haven't experienced living in the story; if you haven't much of a reason to believe it; and especially if some person or people gave you a good reason to disbelieve.

My problem is that I've never seen a ghost or angel or UFO or piece of toast baring the image of any intelligent life, much less Mother Theresa. Plenty of "no b.s." type people in my life claim to have witnessed those kinds of things. And I'm watching. Constantly. Jesus, a burning bush would be nice for a seeking, trying to be faithful and open person of The Way. Is a well timed butterfly landing gently on my shoulder too much to ask?

I have mountains of faith in ground reaction forces and other invisible aspects of Newtonian physics. I believe, though with raised eyebrow, in gravity, magnetism, radio waves, carbon monoxide gas, the dual nature of light, and many other things I can't sense.

But those are different...?

Sometimes I suspect that my eyes are wide open in the wrong direction. It's just that after 33 years full of nothing supernatural, I doubt that traditional type miracles should be my focus.

Yes, He is risen! And the rest of us, well...

I gasp and hold my breath at the miracles of faithful living demonstrated all around me.

There is the reality of tremendous sacrifice that people offer in secret to a Father who is unseen. Not "I practiced guitar for hours to play that before the church," but genuine acts of sustained, "absolutely nothing to gain from this" service. Like middle class couples who literally go to the ends of the earth (or to their neighborhood) to adopt a child with known disability.

I roll on the floor, babbling in tongues at the words of my (and other) children in my life. My knees buckle under the weight of their pure love and simplicity. I write it down to remember, lest I forget the kind of faith that flings open the gates of heaven, forever wandering the earth searching for what children bring to the table. Now I found it, praise the Lord, hallelujah.

I've listened and watched quietly as friends respect and honor their wives without them knowing; sometimes in actions and other times in words. Sometimes it happens with forethought and intent; other times while in the cross hairs of conflict and challenges hard to miss. It's like the perfect demonstration of whatever is the opposite of this thing we call "instinct." Call that a miracle.

A pastor who lives what he speaks is better than a miracle, especially when he's truly able to keep it real, having experienced what it's like to be hard hearted and full of skepticism, sarcasm, and good old tomfoolery.

I got lost this morning listening to Amy read to our Sunday School class. It became obvious:

"[Jesus said] Father forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing."

Jesus prayed during the biggest, insulting, unjustified "no fair" imaginable. The heathen nonbelievers who had their share of opportunity are over on the side, gambling for free clothes. Just a few days earlier Jesus told a large gathering that instead of loving their neighbor and hating their enemy, we should love our enemy and pray for those who persecute us.

This sliced through my head until Luke snapped me out of it, yelling at Judah to stop hitting him with the miniature Passion of Christ whip.

"Father forgive them for they do not know what they are doing" is a state of mind that continually rattles my perception of everything. It's a challenge to let go the currency of this world. It's a lesson in the love and grace I need to give and to receive.

That prayer under those circumstances is absolutely the stuff of the supernatural. There's really no other reasonable explanation for it. It's the kind of miracle that I can identify with and helps me choose to live faithfully when my faith is tapped out. It's the kind of miracle that I might miss by waiting for God to suspend the physical laws of the universe and serve up some Mother Theresa toast.

- - - - - - - - - -

party X 4

2010-03-22T00:19:00.005-04:00

Party weekend. Everybody's working for the weekend; everybody needs a second chance.

On Saturday we rocked in the spring like it was 1999. For real, I made a huge deal of this, as the passing into the inebriating warmth also allows for going outside without coats and gloves and much more. It's truly a major reason to celebrate in this house.

Saturday was also Lukemike's bday. Then today at MyGym. Wow.

~1000 Kid Words

2010-03-21T22:34:00.004-04:00

So being that Luke and Buggs b-day party was rescheduled all the way back to Ducks birthday, we decided to have everyone in on it. Why leave Maggs out? Yes, there was no snow today! The MyGym people actually put the Happy Birthday song on four times. Gifts? I'm not sure. The date and plan kept changing. People brought between one and four gifts. Yipes. One is clearly enough; my bad.

Pictures are not worth a thousand words. They speak the truth, and you can reckon some things, for sure. But they don't tell you about what Ben recently said after praying with him: "I don't want to be wise, I want to be Batman." They don't tell you about the Ninja Turtle fever contagious in this house. They don't tell you about Maggy's love for blueberries or the bond we see being forged between Luke and Owen.

Here are some words about the kids, on record. Yeah, it's time for that one. I haven't done anything like that in a long time. 250 words for each kid sounds about right.

Now of course all of my children are advanced, with each one being exactly equally advanced as much as all three others. Like, there's advanced, then there's fer-real advanced, like top 10 at Harvard before going pro, all the while maintaining a perfect moral standing between God and their fellow men. As ridiculous as this sounds, why is it still hard for a parent to admit that each of them show clear preferences, strengths, and weaknesses?

So here is my absolutely skewed interpretation of what I see in them.

Trout has my energy. He will get up early and go all night, for as long as you give to him to go. He will be snotty in the middle of the day and not admit it. In him I see his moms gentle, easy going and quiet side, and the side of me that loves nature. Like, he's -literally- way out in left field regarding anything to do with the outdoors. Basketball and video games don't hold a candle to wandering around outside in the cold wind.

How can you be concerned with learning to catch ground balls when there are worms all along the lip of the garage? Did you not see this dad? Why did they do this? Where did they come from? What for? Trout found a deer skull in the woods today and com-puh-letely laid an egg. So far he's been an excellent student when his siblings allow him to concentrate.

Ducks loves to go outside when it's sunny with a high of 75 and the relative humidity is within reason and, most importantly, he's with his friend(s). We often use hot chocolate as a bribe for him to go out with Luke for a while. In Ducks I clearly see his moms sensitivity and his dad (wannabee) artistic side. You rarely, ever, need raise your voice at Ducks. Raising your voice is equal to a pop on the bottom or a trip to the dreaded puppy's room.

Ducks shares in this house like nobody else, including mom and dad. He holds his own food and toys with a very loose grip. If you want to taste or borrow or "borrow" something, ask Ducks. He regularly throws himself from high places like Trout and has the upper body strength to do monkey bars. But he will sit and play "drums" in rhythm for as long as you let him. You can tell he catches melody.

"That's not how it goes...say it right." Ducks is the only one who responds to my purposeful off key, off tune testing. Ducks is an entertainer too, often putting on a show as the others quietly stand by when we're out and crack up at him when we're home.

Buggs is pretty easy going; not at all needy. That's about all you can tell of his personality so far. He's the kind of kid you get out of a crying fit by saying "help me fix the chair." What not to say to Buggs when he's in a crying fit:

"It's okay honey. We'll get you another hot dog."
"Oh. It hurts to cook your head on the table, let me hold you."
"Here, let's play with this other toy instead."

But give him a "hey Buggs help me feed the dogs," and it's suddenly like "oh yes sire right away." No crying. Servants heart! And do not put him in his car seat while he's perfectly capable of climbing up in there like Luke. He will cry until you arrive at your destination and allow him to climb down and back up into his car seat, for third brothers in a family want no patronizing or sympathy.

While all the kids have shown interest in sports, Buggs had definitely taken it up a level. Today when all the others were jumping and playing and eating pizza at MyGym, he was shooting a soccer ball into a kid hoop. He consistently does 3 dribbles before shooting, often with a true form jumper. Later that same night, Buggs spent an hour hitting a blow up baseball off a T, running to fetch it, then hitting it again. His gait and movement are exactly like his grandad, by far the best Gorinski athlete so far. It's kind of like he's built out of denser material.

Maggs is also definitely a helper. She will cry to let you "help" you clean up during a diaper change, and soon there is crap everywhere. It's difficult to tell many personality traits and preferences at her age. I can say that, compared to the brothers, she takes much more notice of Amy's girly things like fashion accessories and hair products. She hates baby dolls and points out every "ball ball, and "birdy," real and fictitous, within five miles from here. She loves to be in the thick of things when it's time to rough house, and has not yet learned to patiently wait her turn to be tossed at the couch.

Maggs has walked and talked more and sooner than all three of her brothers. She looks kind of funny, being so small and motoring around so well on two legs. Every little thing she says in her sweet little mousy voice causes my head to explode and condense back into a steaming puddle of goo.

Now they all sleep, recharging for tomorrow. Which reminds me that it's time to be done.

We'll see...

People Are Strange, When...

2010-03-15T15:48:00.002-04:00

- - - - - -

video effort for LBC [click]

- - - - -

Therapeutic Rap

2010-03-09T11:39:00.003-05:00

Because-

Administratin' punks is what she's all about
Gonna type that note and fax it on out.
No soft sucker; yet no chip on her shoulder
Cuz, she's movin' ever bolder - to the Intradocs folder.

Terrorize the suckers at insurance companies
And if you've got beef - you'll get capped in the knees

If that qualifies as an injury of sorts,
Gonna write it on out with the incident reports.

A most chillin-est b-day - wishing all the best,
To Debbie V, our own girl at front desk.

- - -- -

Snatching co pays - twentys, fives, and tens
She got the money and the honey and the flyest pens.
Bringing daily schedules and monthly reports
And a Tide Stick for the jelly you drop on your shirts.

One for all - and all for one
Chasing out solicitors with a big shotgun
All for one and one for all
Because the Bowmansdale three have gone A.W.O.L.

Mack'n on faxes and the ringing phones.
Droppin' medical codes 'bout them joints and bones.
She got scripts on hips and the laundry put away.
Chills with Lucas and Macey at the end of her day.

A most illinest b-day, wishing all the best
To Debbie V, our own girl at front desk.

- - - - --
K.X. modifier for the MC's,
K.X. modifier for the MC's,
K.X. modifier for the MC's,
KX modifier FOR THE MC'S,

KX MODFIER FOR THE MC'S

KX MODIFIER FOR THE MC'S
...
...
KAY YEK MODIWIEAHHHHHHHHHH
- - --
Fax'n and print'n and addressin' and sealing,
Mailin' dope letters; fix the light in the ceiling.
Yo ho ho and a pint of black cherry,
'Cause when Debbie orders Brusters, it doesn't much vary.

A.R. blazin', Blue Cross chasin', authorizations,
Prerogative against cheesey radio stations.

A most villainous b-day - with all the best,
Out to Debbie V, our own girl at front desk.

- - - - -

Now I been drinking her coffee - in my drug rep cup,
I fell asleep, then I woke up.
With the achy low back, and the knees on the tick
She'll gladly get up from where she sits.

Come snow or shine - and kid kicks to the groin.
Delivers inter-office info to Jeannette at Lemoyne.
Workin' and laughin' in a reliable way.
Still holdin' out for a decent 401K.

- - - -

OH happy day, Debbie. Thanks for the work!

On Second (Chromosome) Thought

2010-03-07T14:13:00.015-05:00

- - - - -

I know God will forgive me if I'm wrong about this. But it sure does appear that the universe and the earth and people are old. Ancient. And it's not just a matter of debate over radiocarbon dating. The "of old" that the Bible speaks of is old beyond my comprehension. I'm not pushing my own view of Genesis, but oh good Jesus do I think hard on it. That's why I'm typing this.

My view of evolution cracked one night last month while reviewing what Frances Collins has to say about your very own second chromosome. Collins has serious street cred as a devout Christian. He's also a molecular biologist and head honcho of the human genome project. Why strain to really understand what the theistic evolutionists (like Collins) and the atheistic evolutionists (like Stephen Hawking) and the Young Earth Creationists (like Ken Ham) have to say on the second chromosome?

Our "closest" living ancestor (by evolutionary thought) is the chimpanzee. Keep in mind that humans and chimps of today supposedly have over 4 million years of divergent evolution since that common ancestor walked or crawled or whatever it did. Anyway, the point is that Chimps and other monkey type things have 24 chromosomes (tightly wound and organized DNA). Humans have 23 of these X looking things (except males have one Y looking thing).

Here's the image of 23 chromosome pairs lined up like we usually see them. Chromosomes of every living thing have many markers that biologists trace and study. The most consistent and obvious of these markers are the centromere at the middle and the telomere, which is kind of a "cap" at the ends of chromosomes.

When you look at the 2nd chromosome of chimps, the telomere caps are placed where they are expected to be, like every other living thing. But when you look at the second human chromosome, there is a pair of these end caps right in the middle of it, like, way out of place.

Being that every other chromosome of chimp and human DNA is a 99% match, how do you make sense of the fact that humans have exactly one less chromosome AND our "missing" chromosome happens to be right beside the only one of either species that has end caps fused into the middle of it?

The obvious answer is that there had to be a huge copying error (genetic mutation) where two separate chromosomes were combined into one bigger one, which we now see as our second chromosome. Rather than being inconsequential or horribly detrimental to the animal, as zillions and zillions of mutations typically are, this one was a major, drastic, advantageous leap out of the trees.

And so we paved a way into the city, car horns, corners, and the gritty. If you buy into that story, that is. I'm still not buying all of it. Minds brighter than mine point out the weak arguments for completely atheistic evolution.

Was that one monumental mutation completely accidental or somehow directed? It still doesn't make sense that a huge mutation for human like pelvic bones would work at all if the rest of the entire system of foot, spinal, and cardiovascular dynamics weren't already in place to support upright locomotion. It gets far more complex when considering something like language. Reading the strictly scientific word circles about how that could, maybe, sorta, possibly happen through processes like genetic recombination sounds a lot like faith to me.

There is no good explanation for the tiny machines that read and process the two-dimensional language of DNA, translating it into infinitely complex three dimensional structures. Evolution without God still has nothing worthwhile to say on such fine-tuning at the sub-cellular level, much less the origin of space and time, the origin of life, why we exist, why we have music, Moral Law, and many other fascinating things that make humanity special.

According to many Bible scholars, Genesis simply does not carry the clear marks of an eyewitness, historical account. But IF the earth, the universe, and our species are indeed ancient, and the book of Genesis is Hebrew poetry describing the why of creation, don't imagine that science is the only way of knowing truth. No single discipline or group has arrived a completely cohesive set of answers.

Where science or philosophy or atheists or Christians can provide a decent set of explanations in one area, they often look kind of silly over elsewhere. It really is a compromise. Ask an atheist why and how altruism has evolved. Try asking a literal creationist what crocodiles ate before the fall of Adam. Are there satisfying answers?

That's why, for right now, I can say this about our second chromosome:

The mutation of our second chromosome seems more probable than vegetarian dinosaurs peacefully coexisting alongside humans. It seems more reasonable than the quirky mathematics (and theology) you have to come up with to explain away starlight that took millions of years to travel to your eye. Why in the world would God have given "the appearance" of vast distances in space?

The evolution of our second chromosome seems more probable than my own ability to conceive geological time. Different scientific disciplines concur that the earth is over 4 billion years old. What person with a lifespan of less than one hundred years can fathom 4 thousand years, much less 4 billion? Isn't the stones crying out "four billion years" the realm of the supernatural?

If oceans swing open like doors and mountains form and vanish like clouds in the sky, my existence is faster and no more material than a spark of static electricity. Woe is me, for I am a man incapable of appreciating the time involved that God may be doing his work.

Yes, creation ongoing, with a built in system that allows for adaptation and survival. According to Collins, our DNA is the very language of God and His imprint on all living things. He has brought us here, now, uniquely human, in His image.

"You have been born again, not of perishable seeds, but of the imperishable, through the living and enduring word of God." -the apostle Paul

Do you now hear the depth of the ring of truth in these words?

At any rate, there is something majestic at work here, well beyond science, older than old, from beginning to end. If our second chromosome gives a pretty clean picture of evolution from some shared ancestor, then fine. I posit God on the front end of evolution, with much of "let there be man" written on my second chromosome.

"To know the mighty works of God, to comprehend his wisdom and majesty and power, to appreciate, in degree, the wonderful working of his ways, surely all this must be a pleasing and acceptable mode of worship to the Most High, to whom ignorance cannot be more grateful than knowledge." - Copernicus

- - - - -

2010-03-06T22:51:00.003-05:00

1. Buggs going 'big'

2. Maggs never liked a binky, so we gave her one before she gets too big.

3. Not my kid, but if you know Judah, you know that this is one of the best kid pics ever.

4. Maggs being a big girl at the table.

5. Cushion and snow sessions...

- - -

To the Patriot

2010-03-06T22:08:00.004-05:00

The posts I've written here have come from only a few reasons:

-Sharing reflections and pictures of our crew that simply have to do with what's happening here.

-Sharing my thoughts on something fascinating (to me, obviously) that I've read or come across. Much of that I do consider like a prayer, not that it's a substitute for (traditional?) quiet prayer and meditation.

-Sharing professional work, some of which has gone into First Choice or GoWags newsletters or even a few PT magazines.

In all instances, beyond the pictures for family and friends to see, I've really, honestly blogged for me. I enjoy it; it's like rejuvenating to me. By the time I've hashed out and typed out a certain subject, I know it a lot better. Not just the facts. I'm actually changed, and that's good for me. It's like I get to sit back and highlight or simply make sense of what's happening.

I'm glad for anyone to read it, for sure. But it's mostly been for me, and I never took it too seriously.

Then came the decision to work on a collection of work related stuff - on a new blog. I've give that more attention as of late, for a reason. After a few exchanges, the Patriot News has asked me to do a 6 to 8 months series of contributions for their Mind and Body section.

The first one is at the other blog right now. You'll see some material recycled and pasted around from this blog. That's kind of the point, again, for me...

over at the other one

2010-03-05T00:04:00.002-05:00

Efforts over at the other blog lately.

Revised my very own sports supplement: STRENGTHOGEN

Real writing attempt on sports supplements. Performance enhancers, if you will.

Something else maybe good in the works...

bobgpt.blogspot.com

- - - - - -

What A Pain

2010-02-21T14:13:00.011-05:00

Buggs fell from his crib yesterday. He's been climbing out for about a month now. A loud thump brought me to consciousness, followed by the inhalation delay, then the moan. Amy and I were concerned enough to get up and go help him, but barely.

Kids fall and get seriously injured all the time. I'm sure you know some story about the kid who fell horribly off something much lower than a crib. I haven't heard that story, but I should consider it. I definitely do not take it lightly.

Buggs has been warned about falling. He has looked as us and laughed as he jumped down from the railing. He regularly leaps from coaches, stairs, and any thing else that proves merit to his brothers. The only other option for Amy and I is to "hover." That's not an option in this house, even if we thought it was beneficial.

I wonder what kind of parenting is responsible for all the launching and tumbling of Olympians at ridiculous heights. What patterns would emerge if we dug into the upbringing of extreme athletes? I bet mom hovered and dad pushed baseball (or any traditional sport) on them. Some chose to altogether get away from athletics while others became Redbull Winter Olympic people.

"No no, little Johnny. You be careful now."

I don't know. I just doubt that mom and dad said "cool, go ahead and go as big as you want." How do you rebel against wow that was awesome?

Nothing taught me not to run with glass jars like a glass jar full of bumblebees slicing into my elbow. At about eight I remember feeling my spine crack as a huge slam wave violently drove my face into the sand. I saw double for ten minutes after Dan White fell on my head while wrestling during recess. I ran my dads Ford Tempo into a split rail fence and 5 months later shot a huge bottle rocket into my left eye at point plank range. I've dropped weight plates on my big toe and repeatedly split my shins open with mountain bike pedals.

This is relatively nothing. We all fall down. And this has nothing to say on the emotional pain inflicted on me and, even worse, what I've suffered by accidentally or intentionally inflicting it on others.

Considering all this on behalf of the kids scares the hell out of me. I fear the merciless, cold, seemingly random physical forces that fracture bones and minds. I simply cannot accept "oh what are you gonna do" resignations.

For some reason it helps me to weigh my worry against the practical gold standard of risk assessment: getting in a car. Plane rides and bike jumps, sharks and the flu; driving a car gives perspective to all the relative risk, probabilities predicted, and statistics crunched every time we make a move. Every day, at least 2 or 3 times per day, we accept a certain amount of risk, and simply get in the car.

So how do I reconcile being both a worrier and a nonhovering parent who really didn't feel too bad when his son fell from the crib?

Is it not good for the children that I get out of the way of their very own best teacher? Yes-pain is possibly the best teacher, in every way. A little pain now goes a long way for saving it later; the possibility of freak accidents are duly noted. Common sense means that we don't allow Ben to toboggan down the stairs holding a steak knife and cup of scolding hot coffee.

The Scriptures say that God has given us a spirit of courage and not of fear. CS Lewis expands on this and points out that God uses pain to arouse our attention. I believe these truths. Yet honestly, it's still a fear that moves me to act. Or, to not act, whichever it takes to allow the kids to fully live.

What about the risks involved in missing out on age appropriate lessons that only pain can teach? It hurts me to think about it, but it's really the only way. Laying around the living room when they're my age, yelling toward their mom to fetch them another sammich - now that's a scary vision. But isn't the comfortable, safe, "appropriate" life also worse than a broken bone?

If we want to encourage and inspire and teach and love, then we must accept some risk. My job is not to protect the kids from everything at all costs. Still I hope they take in the wisdom of those who go before them. I hope they don't take in cycle cross.

Go ahead Ben. Right now, in this instance, go as big as you want.

- - - - -

Laughin or Cryin

2010-02-21T12:41:00.004-05:00

The spaghettis are everywhere. Again. Some even found their way into bellies. Meal times are hairy, especially when doing the mess hall alone. The mom or dad will either be laughin or cryin. Well I don't cry much, but I do get short at times.

Trying to remember perspective. Choosing laughter...

"And in this chair.

Wearing Spiderman shirt, weighing in at 30 lbs...

Having spaghetti and meatballs for dnner.

Iiiiitttssss BUGGIES!!!"

[claps, shouts and chest bumps times 4]

Just posting a few images of long winter days around here. We try to find creative ways to dissipate all the life energy in a way that's good for the kids and doable for the parents. Try...

So we look for fun locally. Like icicles outside are a huge hit. We ordered callepiddars and raised them up to butterflies, culminating in letting them go in the house. Apparently these butterflies know some of the costs of freedom.

Telling them to make a serious crime fighting face. I can't imagine what O is doing under the mask.

Somedays this is how we feel. Put them to bed and breathe and get ready to do it again tomorrow.

work stuff

2010-02-18T23:37:00.003-05:00

recent writings for the series on pitching, and trying to approach the swear word I often have to address around the office. Shhh. "Chiropractor." I mean, choir practor.

bobgpt.blogspot.com

Marriage and You

2010-02-14T23:47:00.007-05:00

No matter how smooth or terrible the relationship, I imagine that every couple would benefit from a Marriage Conference like the one last weekend. It seems that those who probably "need" it least are there and those who could use it most are not there, but that's another matter. Who knows what happens in private.

What goes on at a marriage conference?

You sit around reciting cheesey sentiment you don't mean while getting put into awkward situations in front of strangers. Men learn tricks to make their wives be submissive. Women get ideas on how to fool men into thinking they are in charge, but they're not. And don't forget the guilt trip unless you $upport the ministry.

No?

Okay. Speakers hone in on practical ways to demonstrate "I love you." They give examples and some hard data on priorities. Like how putting your marriage before work and even before the kids is the best thing you can do for your work and especially for the kids.

They challenge you to examine yourself with an eye on renewed commitment and avoiding the inevitable drift that will occur without serious intent. They speak to you about the anatomy of an affair (doesn't have to be with another person), fighting fair, the myth of the 50/50 partnership, sex, and other good stuff.

During the presentation on focused attention and listening skills, I'm noticing how all 600 spouses resemble each other. Age, stature, and especially style, you really can match them up without knowing them. I imagine this applies equally to Amy and I, as well as to dogs and their owners.

Yeah. Listening, in the moment...

Man, check out the big hair to my left diagonal. She's decked out in 80's blue tiger pattern. Wonder if she cares that her mullet husband wore a faded Westbrook T-shirt? She probably nagged him about not wearing that shirt for the entire hour it took her to get that hair up.

How inviting are the large carpeted lobby floors and the rounded edges on the stage? Mmm-mm, some bike session that would be. Bet I could J-hop that stage without bashing my back tire. Yeah, I could do it. I'd definitely try with Ryan here.

...focused attention, good for the marriage. What was the last workbook fill in the blank?

Rather than asking Amy what the speaker said (again), I usually make up words that seem like they would fit the blank. Speakers roll on while I'm contemplating alternative philosophies. Some say that nobody should have the burden of "completing" another. I'm daydreaming about the postural effects of prolonged sitting and the fluid dynamics of mass bodies moving through crowded lobbies. Yeah, welcome to what Amy has to live with.

They schedule purposeful alone time with your spouse. They make it easy to talk about what the two of you should be talking about. They use enlightening videos and movie cuts, the best being an almost perfect but real version of THIS ONE.

Seriously - you gotta click the link.

They speak from a Christian worldview and manage to pull it all off in a pretty nonconfrontational and entertaining manner. They jerk for tears with true stories of union and divorce and life and death.

The theme of the weekend was Love Like You Mean It, I think because Just Quit Being So Damn Selfish and Prideful would probably not move many seats.

I mean, really, that's what they're constantly talking about. They make it palatable, but the whole thing with a marriage conference and especially with marriage itself is that it's one big reality check. You have one imperfect person who allows another imperfect person to know them; to actually be codependent by Gods design.

We all seek the truth about things. In marriage you actually begin to approach the truth about yourself, and that often hurts. Getting closer to the truth is worth it; closer to that person is absolutely worth it. I understand that marriage is not for everyone (at least not right now), but what I'm saying is that it's worth the work.

Special thanks to the Marriage Conference Miracle Crew that made it possible for us to get out of the house for an entire weekend. Mom, Ellen, and Bill. Wow - what a brave and courageous expression of love and support for our marriage. We don't do it alone.

-__

Can We

2010-02-10T21:39:00.003-05:00

"I hereby declare today: Snowday." -Mayor Quimby

snowfights.

From inside the igloo. Hold on internet parenting heroes: they know not to go in there without an adult around.

School is IN: The down side of homeschool.

links

2010-02-09T08:50:00.001-05:00

Mandatory cute kids in snow pics coming.

Opinion on organic food posted on the "work" blog:

bobgpt.blogspot.com

The Break Up

2010-01-31T14:22:00.012-05:00

It's not like you didn't see this coming. It's hard, given our past history together, but now it's time to go public and to make it official. You know too well, Big Sports, how we touched then went our separate ways. Why the break up now? I'll be missing the most sacred of your days. A ski trip planned on Super Bowl Sunday is one huge slap in the face on your most holy of holies.

I just don't feel the same as I use to. I don't care to watch many sports, especially pro sports. I'm not in the know because I'm just not that into you. I'm fascinated by your science, but the rest of the attraction is simply carnal. I don't love you. I hope we can still be friends.

It's a tragedy for me to see the dream is over. And I never will forget the day we met. We were tight from the beginning when momma lay my newborn head in a baseball glove. My spirit was nurtured by dads professional ties, not to mention the immense joy born of Steeler mania that pervaded the entire realm of my formative years. You kept straight the path of my youth. Anybody knew us; knew we were good together. So good together.

Then I left for college. Would our relationship survive? You stood firmly by my side when I had to abruptly break it off with Video Games. But little did either of us realize the less dramatic drift between us. Sure, we had our friends, but we couldn't manage to find time to invest in our relationship. I began to enjoy academics. I saw value in other pursuits and tutoring undergraduates paid the bills better than anything you could offer.

And now what can I say? Please. No. Put the brackets away before you embarrass yourself. I will resist far more subtle advances. I can't afford to flirt with fantasy football or well-informed men talking team records and stats.

Why the hard line? Well I guess this is growing up:

I'm supposed to treat patients and attend to administrative responsibilities over a 40 hour week. Then I'm supposed to review the literate and latest developments to stay on top of my profession. Maybe I'll even reflect on what I learn from the books and especially from patients.

I'm supposed to value and nurture my wife. She wouldn't stand between us if her love language was praise or things, but too bad for you, it's nothing but time. I'm also supposed to give myself away to four children when I sit at home and when I walk along the road, when I go to bed and when I get up.

I'm supposed to be an informed consumer and to vote on election day. I'm supposed to exercise and not just eat cereal all the time. I'm supposed to be a good, below-the-surface friend to a band of brothers. I'm supposed to mow the lawn and help with dishes and put new wiper blades on the car and fix the leaky toilet.

I'm supposed to hide the Word in my heart. I'm supposed to look for opportunities to study the Scriptures and lead in discussion and put my faith into action by serving my neighbor. When that's all said and done, I'm supposed to enjoy long periods of silent prayer and meditation, alone, listening to God. I'm supposed to schedule quiet time when it doesn't happen to happen, which is usually the case. I'm supposed to get 7 to 9 hours of sleep each night.

Do you understand, Big Sports? It's nothing personal. While there's life in my bones to play sports and other recreation activities, you'll find me doing over watching anything, unless there's a personal connection. It's not like I'm going to the movies all the time or out golfing all day or on ski trips. Oh, wait, that's right...

I'm sorry. Don't speak. It's all ending, we gotta stop pretending who we are.

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Mental Reps

2010-01-29T00:12:00.002-05:00

Okay, this is a pretty big deal to me because no matter how I slice it, a professionally oriented blog is me really saying that I know something about something. And I really don't want writing to become a chore. I want to write because I like to, even if it's just for me, but I want to continue to like to. I don't know if that's now going to change.

Check out the new blog and give me some thoughts if you get the chance. I wrote some new things and also posted some from this blog that fit in there.

www.bobgpt.blogspot.com

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Half Year in Review

2010-01-25T23:58:00.002-05:00

So Luke is officially past midterms in home school kindergarten. What have we learned so far? We like it a lot. I'm gradually becoming more at peace with the fact that he's spending a few hours at home learning rather than away for 5 or 6 hours learning and "learning." It's so nice to have him home and he's doing well in pretty much every way, able to do everything and more that the curriculum says he should be able to do.

It's easy, actually. We feed him alpha bits and do water colors on old yellow paper. We watch Sesame Street, but only count to 7 and skip science because that's what's in the Bible. We keep him sheltered from all regular schoolers and don't really get out much in general.

No, but we do often wear our pajamas till noon.

It's a challenge with the other three kids. Sometimes it's hard for the teacher to concentrate, much less for the student. Sometimes everyone else wants in on home school. Sometimes everyone else wants to watch TV or set there crabbing or making the most ordinary old toy look like a blast. Everyone has to poop or needs a drink or a toy, and it kind of gets in the way of Luke sounding out "the man sold Ted a hat," and other literary wonders.

Overall, so far so good. I'm pretty sure that we'll roll with it into first grade.

Hat tip to the amazing mom, organizing all and doing most of the teaching so far. Wow.
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Spring Training

2010-01-24T23:36:00.007-05:00

Family night out for the things that lurk after hours at GoWags. Good times on a rainy Sunday night.

There most definitely IS crying in baseball. I'm not saying nobody got hit with a batted ball in the back of the head.

Plyos for fun.

The Gospel of Not Running

2010-01-21T00:07:00.007-05:00

I just don't get it. Why do so many equate "getting in shape" with jogging? Plodding along for 30 to 60 minutes...thump thump thump, three or more days per week?

Many come into the clinic, having sustained injuries from their most well intentioned health and fitness efforts. They begin jogging or attempt to increase their mileage when a nagging pain pops up. They push through it because no pain no gain, and they gain a significant injury.

I can see this as a problem if you like running. If that's your chosen sport or the one thing that you really enjoy, then yes, you should be disappointed when you can't do what you love. And you should make time and energy to incorporate corrective range of motion and strengthening exercises to get you back on track.

But this article is not for you. This one is dedicated to all those of you who think jogging is a safe way to correct the problem of being overweight; to those who think it's the most effective tool for getting in shape; to those who think it's a great way to increase athletecism...BUT HATE TO JOG...

Have I got news for you!

First, you are sorely mistaken. Second - you don't HAVE to jog. In fact, I would often advise you against it.

With distance running, the body will automatically seek the greatest "running economy" which necessarily translates into the least amount of muscle effort to maintain a given pace. Less muscle effort means lots of plodding along, pounding on the joints, sometimes hours at a time. Anything above "ideal" body weight magnifies ground reaction forces at least ten-fold, which is good for keeping PTs and orthopedic surgeons in business.

Or let's say you're feeling and seeing the effects of getting a little older, sitting at a computer or in the car all the time. Maybe your joints are tight and other areas not so tight. When you take a body with weak muscles and poor range of motion and apply extended periods of repetitive pounding over a small range of motion (as occurs with jogging), the new heights of pain you achieve is definitely not gain.

Distance running can actually be a detriment to peak performance. Which do you imagine correlates well with a 90 mph fastball - an explosive vertical leap or a high aerobic capacity? Has any young prospect ever jogged his or her way to 10 or 20 pounds of lean muscle gain? More evidence is beginning to show that concurrent endurance training mutes the bodies best adaptive response to strength and power training.

Train smart. If you don't believe that you can attain excellent fitness without jogging, I can convince/show you otherwise. I may have you do specefic stretching and resistance exercise, intervals on a bike and maximal sprints if your sport involves sprinting.

Condition your body to jog if you WANT to jog. But you don't have to.

and so it begins

2010-01-19T23:44:00.002-05:00

So I went and registered Luke for Little League last night.

Ugh. I mean, yay. The dad is excited and eagerly anticipates the triumphs and bonding and teachable moments. The dad also takes another step toward selfless middle aged man. He knows what's in store.

Driving. Fund raisers. Concession stand and pushy parents. Some kids hyper competitive, others out on Neptune, all learning the hard way how to protect their face from the ball. Plus, I half-committed to assistant coaching when I can be there.

We didn't sign Luke up last year because I asked him if he wanted to play and he said "no." Okay, good enough. That and the fact that we had another newborn in the mix. But this year he's been asking to play catch and to pitch to him and take him to GoWags. It all seriously cuts into my computer and/or bike jumping over the garbage can sessions.

We did have fun today. I pitched to him like we usually do, then had him run real bases in the yard, much to his enjoyment. Well, his favorite thing was using his spikes to reinforce mud spots beside home plate, then coming around to slide in them.

Skill work for todays lesson included not carrying the bat when running bases and sometimes stopping at, say, second base or so. So far he's well ahead of where I was at six, when nobody could convince me that baseball is not played in jeans. For whatever reason, I remember all of it: my first teammates and coaches and how the White Sox went from worst to first in ALL of Mt. Pleasant T-ball.

It's vivid. Good times. I try to imagine what Luke is going through, and I hope it goes that way for him. Except for the jeans.

At LBC today

2010-01-17T23:20:00.002-05:00

video here

I Survived the Farm Show...

2010-01-14T13:28:00.008-05:00

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The alpaca and the omega, amen.

...and all I got was a car load of tired kids.

And no crap on my shoes. And plenty of good memories: animals and corn to play in, junk food and yes, a few mullets. I observed plenty of kids playing on and men ogling various farm machinery. Not a single women standing, staring with her arms folded. So I doubt that she thinks your tractor is sexy.

We could have spent a half hour at the escalator. Ben was all business; he definitely had his game face on. He wasn't scared. I wouldn't say he was having fun. Until it came time for donuts.

I would never had dreamt it would be so crowded on a Thursday morning. We move pretty slow, as it goes with four kids, holding tight to form a Gorinski island in the river of moving heads. I set my own personal record for bashing people with a stroller, "people" mostly being Amy.

The alpaca people were a city on a hill, grinning ear to ear in all their glory. Notice that they didn't put them in the same hall with cows or chickens or any other real farm animals. Had to give them credit for putting up this sign: