Friday, August 31, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Now, That's the Kind of Leader I Want...
John Edwards says we should get rid of our SUVs, but it's okay for him to keep his 28,000 square foot mansion because "he came from nothing, worked hard all his life, has always supported workers and fought big corporations as a lawyer."
So if you work hard, it's permissible to be lax on fuel efficiency.
So if you work hard, it's permissible to be lax on fuel efficiency.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Learning to Love
Baby D was born Monday night, and my friends got to take him home Wednesday. He is tiny and wonderful and fits just perfectly...and could be a cause for worry if thoughts are allowed to flow that way. His birth parents were quite content without children and subsequently selected my friends from the adoption agency's list.
But now that he's here, there's that window...that horrible "what if" that makes me want to hold him tighter...and makes my arms feel limp simultaneously.
How do you love someone who may not stay in your life? How do you keep time with the Now, and not with the Next?
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Back the Logic Truck Up...
You, uh, have committed a crime which has landed you in jail. Odds are that in committing that crime, you also violated one or more of the doctrines your faith holds dear. And now you're...what? Saying that the penal system is disallowing you to practice tenets of your faith by denying you religiously-approved meals?
Sure, let's do all we can to appease you, because, you know, you have rights...
Sure, let's do all we can to appease you, because, you know, you have rights...
Sunday, August 19, 2007
35W
Temperatures in the upper 50's, rain and drizzle--it seemed appropriate for a visit to the bridge. I found that my morning stopover at a friend's in the northern suburbs could lead to the U of M campus on my way to a reunion with relatives in St. Paul yesterday. It's one of those things. You don't announce that you're going there; you just quietly study a map, drive, get lost, find a road you remember from the map, and take it. You find yourself at a road that's closed, and while waiting at a light, look over to your right. A bridge. The bridge? Bridge-builders don't use that sort of angle. That's got to be the one.
You wonder if you can stop somewhere to look from afar. You try to take the first right turn and note the sign saying the road is closed to thru traffic. Fine. You won't go through. You'll just go a little way in. But the road is blocked at the street, with enough space to park two cars, but not enough to get in at all. You try to merge back onto the now-busy street, but cars whiz along. Suddenly, you notice they're stopping and your light is turning green. So much for being inconspicuous in your idiotic, gawking attempt--you are the only car that triggered the light.
You whiz away, embarrassed, but still have the clarity to note a parking lot on your right. You turn in and follow the lot as it winds behind a building. A stone wall, with no buildings on the other side. Could it be the river over there? You park, conscious of all the windows behind you, and wondering if some helpful person will call the police about another trespasser who's being insensitive to Minnesota's tragedy.
A quick hop out of the car and snap of the flash. No bridge in sight, but then, it's fallen, hasn't it?
Your parking lot is connected to that of the next building, which is a little farther to your west--where you tried to go a few moments earlier. You follow it, find yourself atop a hill, and park. Crime scene tape is to your left. This is close enough; you'll get out and walk.
All of a sudden, you notice another car approaching yours. You're trespassing, and you are, essentially, a tourist. You should not be here. You get back in your car and fiddle with your phone--only a temporary stop, officer--I wasn't going anywhere...
Two men get out and position themselves under a tree near your car. No one else is around. They don't seem threatening...but you don't know them. You don't know anyone near here. Then a young lady exits, and you feel a bit better. More "tourists."
Suddenly, a man's face is at your window. With your multipurpose tool in your right pocket and your cell phone in your left, you open the door.
"Excuse me, but I am wondering--is it okay if we park here? I saw you pull up and thought you would know."
An earnest smile and a delightful Indian accent. You laugh, tell him you're probably illegal, but should be okay if you go quickly.
You walk down the hill, and they each introduce themselves and shake hands with you. Small talk and introductions until you see concrete at angles that look like broken legs on X-rays. A train car that looks like the last man standing at a demolition derby.
You stop as you notice a dark car facing you just opposite the crime scene tape. It seems alive, waiting. Finger to your lips, you realize this is as close as you need to get, anyway.
The Indian family doesn't catch on, and they continue their pace until they're touching the tape.
"Do not come any closer!" comes a sudden voice on a bullhorn. "Step back from the scene!" He sounds tense. You're torn between wanting to help these people with communication and cultural barriers, and wanting the law enforcement officer to know that if they do anything wrong, you're not with them... Thankfully, you're saved, because they step back a few feet and join you.
There's not much to see, but you're there. You picture the chaos from the news reports; you filter out the drizzle and insert the people. You wonder about the ones who missed supper that night...and every other night. You wonder about those who loved them.
And you also remember the stories of the good parts--the paralyzed man stuck in his van. Instead of fleeing, others were going vehicle to vehicle and telling others to get out and get off the bridge. This particular man yelled, "I can't! I can't walk!" Another man jerked open his door, slung the man over his shoulder, and carried him to safety. This is the Midwest. This is why I love my people.
The Indian family is ready to go; sweatshirt hood up, you accompany them through the rain.
You wonder if you can stop somewhere to look from afar. You try to take the first right turn and note the sign saying the road is closed to thru traffic. Fine. You won't go through. You'll just go a little way in. But the road is blocked at the street, with enough space to park two cars, but not enough to get in at all. You try to merge back onto the now-busy street, but cars whiz along. Suddenly, you notice they're stopping and your light is turning green. So much for being inconspicuous in your idiotic, gawking attempt--you are the only car that triggered the light.
You whiz away, embarrassed, but still have the clarity to note a parking lot on your right. You turn in and follow the lot as it winds behind a building. A stone wall, with no buildings on the other side. Could it be the river over there? You park, conscious of all the windows behind you, and wondering if some helpful person will call the police about another trespasser who's being insensitive to Minnesota's tragedy.
A quick hop out of the car and snap of the flash. No bridge in sight, but then, it's fallen, hasn't it?
Your parking lot is connected to that of the next building, which is a little farther to your west--where you tried to go a few moments earlier. You follow it, find yourself atop a hill, and park. Crime scene tape is to your left. This is close enough; you'll get out and walk.
All of a sudden, you notice another car approaching yours. You're trespassing, and you are, essentially, a tourist. You should not be here. You get back in your car and fiddle with your phone--only a temporary stop, officer--I wasn't going anywhere...
Two men get out and position themselves under a tree near your car. No one else is around. They don't seem threatening...but you don't know them. You don't know anyone near here. Then a young lady exits, and you feel a bit better. More "tourists."
Suddenly, a man's face is at your window. With your multipurpose tool in your right pocket and your cell phone in your left, you open the door.
"Excuse me, but I am wondering--is it okay if we park here? I saw you pull up and thought you would know."
An earnest smile and a delightful Indian accent. You laugh, tell him you're probably illegal, but should be okay if you go quickly.
You walk down the hill, and they each introduce themselves and shake hands with you. Small talk and introductions until you see concrete at angles that look like broken legs on X-rays. A train car that looks like the last man standing at a demolition derby.
You stop as you notice a dark car facing you just opposite the crime scene tape. It seems alive, waiting. Finger to your lips, you realize this is as close as you need to get, anyway.
The Indian family doesn't catch on, and they continue their pace until they're touching the tape.
"Do not come any closer!" comes a sudden voice on a bullhorn. "Step back from the scene!" He sounds tense. You're torn between wanting to help these people with communication and cultural barriers, and wanting the law enforcement officer to know that if they do anything wrong, you're not with them... Thankfully, you're saved, because they step back a few feet and join you.
There's not much to see, but you're there. You picture the chaos from the news reports; you filter out the drizzle and insert the people. You wonder about the ones who missed supper that night...and every other night. You wonder about those who loved them.
And you also remember the stories of the good parts--the paralyzed man stuck in his van. Instead of fleeing, others were going vehicle to vehicle and telling others to get out and get off the bridge. This particular man yelled, "I can't! I can't walk!" Another man jerked open his door, slung the man over his shoulder, and carried him to safety. This is the Midwest. This is why I love my people.
The Indian family is ready to go; sweatshirt hood up, you accompany them through the rain.
So, um, hmm.
- I liked the first one because of its harmless action sequences, clear and bright lighting, and banter between alpha and beta males.
- I did not like the first one because of idiotic choices for characters--manhandling a document that they had previously intended to treat with the reverence of the Holy Grail, pausing to admire the Declaration of Independence in a public area with their pursuers rather close to their location, etc.
- Now comes Two. And I'll have to buy it, because this one was partially filmed in my home state. It looks like the no-longer-a-surprise rock reaching scene was filmed at Sylvan Lake, where I worked during part of one summer. (I counseled at a couple of youth camps during college, then had enough money left to either do laundry or buy gas to get home. I got a job at Sylvan Lake and stayed for the rest of the month.)
- So I'll have to buy both One and Two--because I did like One, despite my previously-mentioned disappointments with it. But looking at this trailer, isn't the format pretty much the same? Steal the Declaration; steal the president...
Hmm.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Putting the “Fun” in “Funeral”
I think, no matter what, there are always things to laugh at. Take the whisper of an elderly lady, commenting, “See that lady over there—the rather large one? She’ll be doing the singing.” Keep in mind that an elderly woman’s whisper isn’t necessarily a whisper at all, and the “rather large one” is rather nearby. Now, that’s funny. Or take the heavyset woman who sits on the pew next to you. You hear her labored breathing and frown about her health until you recognize that she sounds like a Shih Tzu…and that’s funny.
But better—and “delightful” more than “fun”—was leaving the funeral with both my 93-year-old friend and the six-day-old daughter of friends. I watched as her dad strapped Miss Mag in—a seatbelt, a base, a carseat, and a carseat strap. That was it. “Shouldn’t she have a helmet?” went through a layer of my brain cells.
I’m still amazed at the paradox—leaving an event that processed death, with a fresh example of life in my arms. Recognizing that the cycle continued—Mrs. J. in the front seat and Miss Mag in the back. Almost a century between them, and I was in their midst. It was a “raining in the sunshine” sort of moment—why am I witnessing this? And then it hits that I am a part of “this”—this “life” thing. Ever have those good “alive” moments—where you’re awake and aware and powerful and eager and open and able to conquer? This was one of them, and I am blessed.
But better—and “delightful” more than “fun”—was leaving the funeral with both my 93-year-old friend and the six-day-old daughter of friends. I watched as her dad strapped Miss Mag in—a seatbelt, a base, a carseat, and a carseat strap. That was it. “Shouldn’t she have a helmet?” went through a layer of my brain cells.
I’m still amazed at the paradox—leaving an event that processed death, with a fresh example of life in my arms. Recognizing that the cycle continued—Mrs. J. in the front seat and Miss Mag in the back. Almost a century between them, and I was in their midst. It was a “raining in the sunshine” sort of moment—why am I witnessing this? And then it hits that I am a part of “this”—this “life” thing. Ever have those good “alive” moments—where you’re awake and aware and powerful and eager and open and able to conquer? This was one of them, and I am blessed.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Paying My Respects
An old friend died yesterday..."old" being 94. She was on my mind for the past week. Some people age for so long that you subconsciously think they'll continue to do that forever. Apparently, they don't.
I visited her at the nursing home last winter while she recuperated from a broken hip. I popped in twice at her assisted living place, promising each time to return for a game of Pente. The elusive "someday..."
And now, gone. If there's Pente in Heaven, I'll look forward to that...but I don't think there is.
"Why didn't I..." thunders through my head and echoes back in a different tone--"Why didn't I?" She was kind-hearted...but wearying and demanding. It was easier to step back than step in. Now there's a last visit to make.
I think that "paying my respects" takes on a different meaning now. I have another friend in her 90's--sweet and gracious. I don't think there's a better way to honor the dead than to honor the living.
If you'll excuse me, I've got a call to make.
I visited her at the nursing home last winter while she recuperated from a broken hip. I popped in twice at her assisted living place, promising each time to return for a game of Pente. The elusive "someday..."
And now, gone. If there's Pente in Heaven, I'll look forward to that...but I don't think there is.
"Why didn't I..." thunders through my head and echoes back in a different tone--"Why didn't I?" She was kind-hearted...but wearying and demanding. It was easier to step back than step in. Now there's a last visit to make.
I think that "paying my respects" takes on a different meaning now. I have another friend in her 90's--sweet and gracious. I don't think there's a better way to honor the dead than to honor the living.
If you'll excuse me, I've got a call to make.
addition
one good friend and his kid brother
plus
two under-inhibited dogs
plus
a handful of wailing coyotes
plus
one old truck
plus
76 meteors
equals
a darn good two and a half hours
divided by 61 degrees
with a few sneezes as the remainder.
plus
two under-inhibited dogs
plus
a handful of wailing coyotes
plus
one old truck
plus
76 meteors
equals
a darn good two and a half hours
divided by 61 degrees
with a few sneezes as the remainder.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
The Wait of Sin
My pastor preached on revenge last week, and loving one's enemies this week (Matthew 5, the "But I tell you..." series). As a part of giving up the anger, we wrote "issues" on black pieces of paper and, during the prayer/response time, were free to nail them to six crosses spread throughout the sanctuary.
I went around cleaning up after the majority of the congregation had left. With a handful of black papers in my left hand, I knelt at the foot of a cross to scoop up more. And they were all over--all these black pieces of paper representing things we harbor, things we're bitter about... Was that what He saw--a black mass of sin--and He picked up each one that was dropped at His cross?
They were suddenly distasteful, these things in my arms.
Hours later, I'm blogging, and the title comes to me. The weight of sin...no, the wait of sin. What does that mean?
How long do I wait before I hand things to Jesus? How much of a toddler am I--"No, I do it!" Perhaps I spend too much time trying to be responsible for things I am not responsible for, that I'm overwhelmed before I begin to take responsibility for those things for which I really am responsible. Maybe that's my biggest flaw.
The wait of the sin of not trusting, not rejoicing, not believing that He is faithful in His love for me.
It's a new thought.
I went around cleaning up after the majority of the congregation had left. With a handful of black papers in my left hand, I knelt at the foot of a cross to scoop up more. And they were all over--all these black pieces of paper representing things we harbor, things we're bitter about... Was that what He saw--a black mass of sin--and He picked up each one that was dropped at His cross?
They were suddenly distasteful, these things in my arms.
Hours later, I'm blogging, and the title comes to me. The weight of sin...no, the wait of sin. What does that mean?
How long do I wait before I hand things to Jesus? How much of a toddler am I--"No, I do it!" Perhaps I spend too much time trying to be responsible for things I am not responsible for, that I'm overwhelmed before I begin to take responsibility for those things for which I really am responsible. Maybe that's my biggest flaw.
The wait of the sin of not trusting, not rejoicing, not believing that He is faithful in His love for me.
It's a new thought.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Murder in a Small Town
Last night, the news carried word of a missing man, evidence of foul play, and the designation of a homicide. Tonight come the names of the suspects. A million dollar bail amount set for a kid whose sister I babysat.
The parents have such generous hearts. What does this do to them? To the kid's younger siblings? And to his child?
Not having details to fill in, my head switches back to one of my reservation students who, with a friend, killed the friend's uncle over the last can of beer in the fridge.
Too drunk? Too high? Were you thinking?
Officials are searching local lakes. I am not going kayaking.
The parents have such generous hearts. What does this do to them? To the kid's younger siblings? And to his child?
Not having details to fill in, my head switches back to one of my reservation students who, with a friend, killed the friend's uncle over the last can of beer in the fridge.
Too drunk? Too high? Were you thinking?
Officials are searching local lakes. I am not going kayaking.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
My New Best Friend
I love Skype. Not a big fan of the extra downloads associated (so I won't experiment with any more), but I just spent almost a half hour talking with my friend who's moved to Beijing for the year. Wow. It's so hard to hang up because voices are lifelines, but the ease of it makes me look forward to the next time we randomly see that each other is on and can reconnect.
Wow. Technology = cool.
Wow. Technology = cool.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
That's Disgusting
So--you've used your little flashlight, and it's had its most disgusting effect--but the guy keeps going. What're you going to do--wrestle him to the ground? Ewww...
A Little Heterophobia?
Just wondering when any of the voluntary parade attendees were required to march in a Hetero Pride parade...and what the backlash would have been for that.
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