Riley

Being stranded in an airport for six hours is not as bad as being stranded for several days, but still the airport is not a place where I want to spend an excessive amount of time.

On Christmas Day my wife and I traveled to be with our son, his wife, and nearly two year old son. We chose Christmas Day on the grounds, or belief, that there would no hassles, everyone was at their Christmas holiday destinations, and the planes would not be full. Additionally, in our part of the country, the weather was good; cold, but good.

What we did not anticipate was that the airline would have to delay the flight. Apparently, our plane had mechanical problems and could not fly. I am glad the problems occurred on the ground and not in the air with us on board. Another aircraft had to be diverted to pick us up and fly us on to our destination. We arrived six hours later than we had planned.

No big deal. What else did we have to do anyway?

So, as we waited an elderly gentleman (I say elderly only because he seemed older than sixty) came to our spot in the waiting area with a child in tow. The child, a cute little girl, had her carry-on luggage in tow and seemed concerned that she would some how lose her grip on the elderly gentleman's hand.

The two sat down across from us. He smiled and gave sort of a greeting. Initially the little girl was shy. She kept messing around with her carry-on, and eventually it tipped in my direction and came close to hitting my right big toe. She looked up and smiled, picked up her carry-on and said, "I'm sorry." I assured her that it did not hit me so everything was all right.

Trouble is, this happened again and again. I began to think, "What in the world? Are we going to have to put up with this for another hour or two?" It turned out to be another six hours, but what seemed like a potential airport irritation turned into a delightful time.

The little girl, who told me her name is Riley, was as precocious as any five year old one could meet. She engaged everyone. She was polite, and responded to her grandfather's directions, and then she learned the names of everyone around her. No one did not want to talk with her. She is as cute as any five year old can be and if she is a view of the future, then we are not without hope.

If you have to be stranded in an airport for six hours, hope that you spend them with Riley.

Ancestors

Now that I am retired I have decided to study my origins and build a family tree. So far, I have found some evidence of family all the way back to the 13th century. Further, I have found people who immigrated from Wales, England, France, and Germany. There are even lords and ladies, knights, and damsels. There's even evidence that my wife and I have a common ancestor. Who would of thought?

However, I can only attest to the validity of five generations. The reason for that is I heard my parents speak of these people and I met some of the older ones. In those generations I learned that a great grandfather immigrated from England in the 19th century. No reason learned. I expect he had an opportunity for a good job. Another great grandfather came from France during the Civil War period. Do not know why, but I suspect he was a fugitive from justice some where. He does not show up in any census list. His headstone has been located and there is evidence of a marriage. After that he just stands in the mist of time.

A grandfather's name was something else than what I knew him as. He was taken in by a childless couple at a very young age.  Well cared for and educated he had his name changed to that of his foster parents. So the line of inquiry stops there. His wife's family, my grandmother, however is a different matter. It can be traced back to England on her father's side and back to pre-revolutionary times on her mother's side. No evidence, however, that any of my grandmother's relatives participated in the War of Revolution. Alas, a sad outcome for some in the family.

My paternal grandfather is totally unknown to me. I know his name, where he was born, the names of his two wives, and the names of all his children. But I do not know anything about him. My paternal grandmother has been idolized in my family ever since I can remember. We do not know much about her. She died of tuberculosis when my father was two years old.

In fact, I do not know much about any of the people past my maternal grandparents. I never met my paternal family. My father left his family at an early age to escape abuse (he reports that and I believe him). Nevertheless, on both sides of the family there is a sweep of history that ranges from the feudal period of Europe, to the colonization of North America, to the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, and all the history since then.

My wife's family tree is well rooted, leafed, and documented. So well documented that academic papers have been written about it. Her family tree also reflects the sweep of European and American history. It is that idea that interests me the most when I search for ancestors.

I cannot take any pride in being related to an earl or a knight, nor am I chagrined because somewhere in the past there was a brigand and a fugitive from justice. It is exciting, nonetheless, to bring them back to life in a family tree. I do not know what most of my fore bearers looked like, what they sounded like, and if we could even communicate, but they are the DNA or gene pool from which I evolved. On that fact alone all those men and women of the past deserve my attention.

Christmas Pageants

This is the best Christmas pageant ever!

When I was a child I think I participated one time in a Christmas pageant. I do not know why it was only one; other than I may have protested a lot after that experience. Nevertheless, I remember it well. I think the year was December 1941; we were living in Annapolis, Maryland, where my father was stationed at the Naval Academy's seaplane squadron. The event took place at the Francis Street Lutheran Church; a congregation my parents selected because a fellow navy man and his family went there. The Francis Street Church, I think, no longer exists. You had to walk to get to it, and you know what that means in the age of the automobile.

At any rate, the pageant took place on an evening before Christmas (it may have been Christmas Eve, but that is a detail I cannot recall). The non-speaking role of shepherd became my assignment. My mother dressed me out in a bathrobe, made me go barefoot, and put a dish towel on my head, held there with a ribbon. I hated it, I hated it a lot. I was embarrassed to be seen in my bathrobe and going barefoot and wearing short pants in December was a dumb thing to do.

Before the night was over, however, the embarrassment was overcome when a little girl, about three years old, came onto the stage to sing a Christmas song. Wearing a pretty satin dress that had a short skirt she stood in the spotlight and looked out at the audience of beaming parents. No song came out, but she smiled and smiled and smiled. From off stage came a whisper, "Sing your song." The little girl just stood there. Everyone felt exasperated; especially me. I wanted that night to come to an end so we could go home and I could take off that bathrobe and the silly thing on my head.

Then, suddenly, the girl lifted her pretty dress and announced to everyone present that she had gotten a new pair of pink panties for Christmas. Her mom came racing up to the stage and the Sunday school teacher raced from the wings and the little girl was quickly escorted out of view. All the shepherds laughed so hard they were useless as adoring extras in the pageant.

Much later, when I was a deacon in a parish in New Mexico, a pageant was staged and took place at the church's altar. All the usual characters were there; shepherds, wise men, angels, and, of course, Mary and Joseph with a baby doll. In addition to the human being parts (less the angels) were stars. Very little children wore stars with cut outs in the middle so we could see their faces. One child, a beautiful little girl of three or four, was the Star of Bethlehem. Her role was to stand on a chair behind the altar (a free standing altar) and beam. As we watched the pageant progress we began to notice that the Star of Bethlehem was fading. She began to sink behind the altar and then catch herself and stand up straight again. This went on for several minutes and finally the Star of Bethlehem disappeared completely. The child had fallen sound asleep and was sitting on the chair with her head held up by the star cut out.

Christmas pageants a long standing tradition and probably can be traced to the middle ages. A child performing in Christmas pageants is likely, however, to be a fairly recent phenomenon and also likely an Anglican based tradition, maybe starting soon after the invention of Sunday school in the mid nineteenth century.

Watching children, especially our children, perform in Christmas pageants is heartwarming and adds to the beauty of the season, but we need to be careful in that these pageants actually teach the salvation story of God.

I have been to Bethlehem and visited the Church of the Nativity. It is an interesting place where devoted pilgrims come to pray prostrating over the supposed place of the manger.  For them the story of the birth of Jesus is not a sentimental tale of a baby and his mother; with Joseph as a silent secondary character. For the devoted pilgrim the story is a miracle of birth and hope. The children in the annual Christmas pageants (and their parents too) need to see and feel that miraculous hope in the story of Jesus' birth.

This does not require us to overlook the comedy of children struggling with standing in front of parents wearing funny costumes, and it certainly does require adults to lecture or preach to children about this miracle of life, but there is need to somehow teach the saving grace of God in Jesus Christ through these little plays.

As the children prepare for Christmas and sing carols and songs, let us tell them that the story is about them. The Nativity Story is about their life as much as it about the birth of Jesus. Remind them that God so loved the world that Jesus was born and given to us so that we may have life in abundance.

White Christmas

Pretty scene, but cold and wet.

I say, "Bah Humbug!" to white Christmases. In fact, I do not like snow at any time.

Instead of being a boy of ten, let's say, when people were fighting in the Pacific island jungles and swamps in World War II I had been one of those soldiers or marines, no doubt a white Christmas would have been great. The fantasy of such a condition at Christmas certainly must have been soothing.

Nevertheless, snow is not something I have or will enjoy. You see, being born in a tropical zone, my first life experiences were being warm and living free of the bondage of heavy winter clothing. Cannot remember the first time I experienced snow. I have a memory of going into the backyard of our home in a snow suit and the next thing I remember was being in the hospital with pneumonia. I think I was five or six years old.

Another was getting a sled for Christmas and on the first snowy day went out to use it. Sledding to the bottom of a moderately sloped hill was fun until I reached the bottom. There I fell  off the sled and landed in a small snow drift. I came out of it covered in snow and snow in my boots, under my mittens, and soon I was freezing cold. No fun.

Sometime around 1949, when the family was in California, I got a job as a newspaper boy for the local evening journal. The route they gave me was big and long (it even included a place called "China Alley".) Well, snow in Southern California is not totally rare, but it is exceptional. The route I had included a busy intersection of U.S. 101A and several streets that led to the heart of town. When I arrived at the intersection on my bicycle and heavy two-sided newspaper delivery bag the snow flakes were as big as half dollars. I could hardly see the traffic. I was wet and cold. So I went home. The next day, as the snow was melting, I returned to deliver the papers. As I took a paper to one of the subscribers, he came from his home and said, "Every time it snows you don't deliver papers, right?" I said, "It has only snowed once here in the past 20 years." I don't know if that was true or not, but I wanted him to know that every 20 years or so, he may not get a paper due to snow.

Snow has been my nemesis for many years. Ate frozen C-rations, fell in the snow in front of a bunch of South Korean soldiers, and shivered constantly until I came down with pneumonia again when in Korea in the mid 1950s, slept in an snow shelter in the High Sierras of California, and lived in Alaska for three years. The snow shelter was not fun; it was home for two weeks when I was in the Marine Corps. Alaska winters were challenging, especially up in the interior. Just last Christmas we had a white one. On Christmas Day my wife and I delivered hot meals to shut-ins. The snow was deep, it was cold, and while it was photographically beautiful, all I wanted was to get home and get cozy again.

Instead of dreaming of a white Christmas I dream of palm trees, warm sunny days, and mild tropical rains.

Cats



Victoria



In fifty years of marriage there have been three cats sharing space with us. Probably, it would be better stated that we shared space with them.

The current cat with whom we share space we call Victoria. However, she does not care what we call her. She responds only to sounds of cat food cans opening, racing to the highest level or farthest corner when the doorbell rings, and avoiding me as much as possible. Nevertheless, she is a good cat. One of her characteristics is that she trills when she really wants the immediate attention of the other big cats in her house. I am certain she thinks of as large and inferior cats.

Victoria, who we believe in a Maine Coon cat,  is connected to my wife mostly. Whenever my wife is comfortable in front of the television or in bed, or even sitting at a desk or table top, Victoria wants to be with her. Early in the morning she jumps up on the bed and snuggles up to my wife and usually stays there until my wife awakes. That use to me my task, but in bed or on the bed Victoria is less demanding.

We found Victoria through an announcement in the newspaper that an abandoned cat that had been nursed back to health after a serious dog attack needed a home. At first I said we did not need to have a cat again. But as most devoted husbands do, I caved in. Victoria has been with us now for nearly five years.

Before Victoria we had a calico. I liked this cat a lot. She would box with me and often won the match. Like all cats that own human slaves she was demanding. When she wanted to box she would not accept a negative response. One morning, after getting out of the shower and returning to the bedroom to dress she jumped on to the bed and began to indicate that it was time to play. Of course, I had duties to attend to and as usual I was running late. I told the cat, who we called Cissy, to take a hike, I was busy. Cissy went to the opposite corner, then by stealth inched across the bed until she got with in inches of by rear end. I was aware that she was there, but did not give it any thought. Suddenly she leaped forward, bit me on the bottom, then ran off saying (I believe), "Got you that time." She did not show up again for about two days.

The first cat we lived with came to us as month old kitten when we lived in Alaska. This cat, a month old grey tabby, had been part of a litter that had been abandoned at St. Mary's Church in Anchorage and left on the vicar's doorstep. The vicar's wife went around the parish hall one Sunday morning trying to find homes for the litter. I was asked and said, "No, we do not need a cat." The the vicar's wife went around to ask our three year daughter if  she would like a cat. Well, you know what happened. We got a cat and it lived with us for almost twenty years.

This cat was unusual in several ways. Early we discovered that it was mean. Talk about cats only tolerating humans, this one tolerated humans only after the human was cowed into a corner. But, the cat had talent. First, I should explain that we were not certain of the cats gender for several weeks so at first we called the cat, "King of the Yukon" after Canadian Mountie Sergeant Preston's dog. We thought that was clever. However, soon after naming the cat King we found out the cat was a queen, but we had already registered the cat with the animal control at Fort Richardson; the name stuck.

King would chase after things we threw across the room. She would grab the object and then come back and drop it at our feet and then stand by ready to retrieve it again. We would make a loop with our arms and tell her to jump through it and she did. Remarkable. Another thing about this cat, which has nothing to do with her innate abilities (other than to survive) is this is one of those rare cats that has traveled from border to border and coast to coast and quickly reestablished her dominance over the new home immediately.

Cats are more intelligent than dogs. Even though king would perform when she wanted to, she actually never did anything useful. In fact, the other two cats that have lived with us in the past fifty years have not done anything useful either. They just are, nothing more. Except King, would chase down and eat bugs. I guess that's useful.

"I am Adored"

Recently I had in my inbox of my email one that advised me that "you are adored." That's interesting. I don't think anyone has ever told me that, but here an unknown person, probably from hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away told me that "you are adored."

Other emails have told me that I was a "dear friend." Some have suggested to me they wanted to be "extra nice to me" and invited me to get to know the emailer better. But, alas, I have failed to respond and have not even opened these emails.

Once I opened an email that said a "friend" was sending me a "postcard." Some friend; it took me about a week to get the Trojan Virus out of my computer and it never did run well again. Had to eventually buy a new one.

Just a note to any and all out there who want to "adore" me and be my "friend," or invite me to get to know you better, have a name I recognize from a place I know about. Otherwise all my adoring friends will end up in the trash bucket unrequited.

An Advent Story



Giotto's Arena Chapel Visitation, 1305-6



     A young woman, still in her teens, has a dream of an angel speaking to her.  The angel she knows to be one of the great legends of Hebrew lore, the archangel Gabriel.  In this vision she learns something that’s troubling and something she is uncertain she should repeat.  Nevertheless, the fact is that she will have a child, a gift, and a very special gift from God.

     Despite the angelic greeting, she is frightened. This young woman leaves her home village in the hills to visit a cousin who lives in another town some distance away.  The encounter with the angel is a secret that is too much for her to keep to her self.  She needs support; she needs someone to talk to.  She cannot talk to anyone in her village about this—she would be accused of a terrible sin.        

     It is late winter, but in her part of the country, the weather is mild.  Mild winters are common in her part of the country.  This makes travel easier, but to assure her safety she joins a group that is traveling in the same direction. 



     Coming down from the hills in the east, she crosses a wide and long valley rich in agriculture.  The valley fields are already showing signs of a good harvest.  All will be well fed this year.


     Later, the heat of the day adds to her exhaustion.  She is feelings insecure.  She is fearful of the future.  But the cool of the night, however, relieves the pain in her head and helps her quiet her mind.  She can sleep and be rested before she greets her cousin the next day.


     Her cousin does not know that the young woman is traveling to visit her.  In those days there’s no way to get a message to her before arrival.  Thus, our young woman has added to her anxiety the fear of being unwelcome if she shows up at her cousin’s home unannounced.  Her encounter with the angel, a trip from the hills, and not knowing how she will be received at her cousin’s home adds to the young woman’s anxiety.



     She asks herself, “What will I tell her? How can I explain all this?” 

     There is no explanation, and all she can do is tell her cousin what happened.  In being forthright, maybe, she will get some help from her beloved kinswoman.


     The young woman arrives at her cousin’s home and to her surprise she finds that her cousin is also expecting a child.

     The greeting from her cousin is a rush of exciting happy words; her joy cannot be restrained.  She is so joyful; in fact, the child in her womb seems to move with joy.  She calls out to her unexpected visitor from the hills, “Blessed is the fruit of your womb.”  The cousin knows without being told what our young woman’s secret is. 

     Between them the joy of expectation is boundless.  They both know of the very special nature of the children conceived in them.  The cousin and her husband were beyond childbearing age.  The young woman who is also carrying a child is almost too young an age.

      There are further complications.

     She is to be married; the young woman has to tell her husband-to-be what has happened to her.  It is going to be difficult, he may not believe her, and further, he may not (no, he will not) want her for a wife. But all of that can be put aside for now.  For the days and weeks ahead she can enjoy the company of her beloved cousin.  In fact, she can use this time to learn about childbirth, and what happens as the child forms in the womb.  She will be there to help her cousin when she gives birth. Both are thankful that the weather is so mild.  They can spend more time in the out of doors; they walk the hills together and ponder what it is that has happened to them.

     The two of them learn to pray together and to talk freely with one another.  In their walking and in their conversation they find support from each other, they laugh together, they sing together and they learn what sisterly love truly is. This is a time only women can understand.  Even in my meager effort to try to capture their emotions, I fall short.  Yet, I can sense that this story is more than a tale of two women (one very young and one quite mature) sharing an event that was and continues to be truly unique.

     Their story is the Advent story.  It is a story of expectation, love, hope, and finally peace.

     After her cousin’s child is delivered, our young woman begins the trip back to her home village.  Again she travels across the valley the hills of her native village.  She notes that the crops are harvested; the weather is beginning to change.  More rain now.  She is returning home to the unknown. 

     Regardless of the possibility that her community and family may ostracize her, the young woman now fearlessly faces the her future, trusting in God and the words of the angelic vision.  To her joy and surprise the young woman was not only accepted and loved by her kinswoman, she is loved, cared for, and blessed by the man who will be her husband. He sees more blessing in being her mate than in worrying about his status in the village or the embarrassment his bride might cause.  Her husband-to-be, by being open to the direction of God’s Holy Spirit, brings to himself honor and ultimately he is the model of married and fatherly love.  She is also a model.  She is the model of hope, faith, and love.  In faith she accepts her role in the mysterious plan of God.

     Now she is home in her village, but now she is clearly pregnant.  If there has been gossip, she has not heard it.  If the men of the synagogue have lectured her husband, he has not spoken of it.  All that has happened in the past several months, however, have only been prelude.  She and her new husband have received word from a tyrannical government that all men must return to their family homes.  So now, she faces another journey.  This next journey is more demanding and will require all the strength that her faith can provide.  Birth is near and walking is difficult.  Even riding on their beast of burden—a humble donkey—is difficult.  They persevere, they make it to the tribal home, and just in time.

     What happens next was more than they had expected.  In fact, it is more than we expected.



Too Much Television

Sometimes I think that my television watching time is too much. The reason I think this is because I find myself commenting on commercials.

The biggest peeve I have with television commercials is that husbands, and I presume boyfriends, are depicted as stupid or inept. The only exception seems to be when the husband or boyfriend is giving his wife or girlfriend an expensive diamond. Watch the commercials for awhile and you will see a stupid husband who can't do anything right. Husbands don't know how to get rid of bugs, wash windows, barbecue hamburgers, and so on. Once, I would like to see the man of the house do something that demonstrates aptitude.

Another commercial that truly bothers me is about some little wheat doodahs that talk. Recently they have been swimming in hot milk. No doubt these layers of wheat doodahs taste delicious and of course by now we all know we need whole wheat fiber (my mother called it roughage). I know at my age roughage is essential. She also complained, often, that cold cereal was no better than the box in came in; in fact, she would often suggest the box was better tasting and probably more nutritious. She made me eat cooked oatmeal. Once, on a snowy Saturday when all my playmates were outside sledding, I refused to eat the stuff (it had a scum of gluten on it I think and the milk had little flex of cream in it) and she declared I would not leave the breakfast table until I ate all the oatmeal in the bowl. I sat there long enough to see it really become scummy and the milk sour; I ate it for lunch.

Anyway, the little buggers in the commercial talk! That's right, they talk! Now, I am not going to eat anything that talks and enjoys swimming in hot milk and then talks about it. Can anyone imagine turning little squares of shredded wheat into talking buddies and then eating them? I can't.

Now you know why I think I am watching too much television. I think I will go to listening to books on CD.