Well, here you go. One of the big fun items on the recent family vacation was kayaking in Santa Rosa Sound. Getting there, we did fairly well with the carpooling thing: twenty of us arrived in five vehicles. Here’s the Rendezvous getting ready for the trip down.
The boat is a Necky Elaho HV, which weighed a little less than the car. It does make a good-looking ensemble, though. And once in the water, it performed to the satisfaction of its operators.
Something happened yesterday that had not happened in a long time: I did not write in my journal. For 935 consecutive days, I wrote in my black Moleskine notebook, filling several along the way. But yesterday, I did not.
What began as an attempt to journal something every day of the year stretched to more than two-and-a-half years. During previous attempts, a calendar year would go by with two or three or just one day unrepresented by something written.
Usually when I have missed a day like that, it happens because of something good distracting me from the pattern of the pen. And I notice it with a small jolt soon after midnight. That’s the way it was on December 25, 2005, the last time I missed. I became aware of the lost entry at 12:12 AM on Dec. 26. And I noticed yesterday’s miss at 12:14 AM today.
So what was the good thing that distracted me from the habit? It was a day full of diverse activity — church work and personal errands. Lunch at home rather than on the road cost me a usual writing moment. During the evening — another time when journaling gets its chance — I decided to watch episode 3 of Lonesome Dove, borrowed from a friend church member who declares it the best western ever made. As I watched, I paused for a phone call from my sister, Jill, and that fun conversation lasted a long while. Later, a little deeper into the movie, Victor called, and we hunkered around our usual subjects of disc golf, computers, non-standard music, and people encounters. All of that still left me plenty of time to write, as I remarked to him that it was 11:00 before saying goodnight. But the movie came back on, and I was back in the dust and spirit of Nebraska, Wyoming, and Montana.
So I missed. And I laughed about it. Because I was full enough to not notice the time.
On Saturday, my brother-in-law received his Doctor of Ministry degree from Gordon-Conwell Seminary. After so much hard work, study, and research across the span of years, it was exciting to see him meet that goal. Here are a couple of after-ceremony shots.
Wonderful children!
Driving home Monday after spending Sunday night with my parents, I came a different way than usual. In downtown Union, SC, these weathered walls revealed layers of advertising from the last century.
If the right paint is used at the beginning, what is added later won’t remove the imprint that is there. I’m grateful for my parents who sacrificed to provide the right paint for their children.
Officiating a wedding is one of the most under-appreciated functions that a pastor can perform. It’s not that way every time, obviously, but parents with money and families of society tend to view the church sanctuary as their private gazebo and the clergy as a noisy part of the chancel furniture. Wedding policies, in their minds, are for people without enough extroverted gumption to circumvent or ignore them. Mention of God is tolerated, just as long as it is clear that the bride is the center of attention and the reason we are all here. The fact that I don’t allow such nonsense to prevail in weddings that I lead keeps me safely away from the gates of society’s plush boundary. And I’m pretty okay with that, except for some sadness for those who can’t realize the loud emptiness of what they call the good life. But even when the pastor doesn’t gently redirect the parents’ misguided wishes, appreciation is low. As soon as the pastor dismisses the congregation to the reception, he or she is then dismissed from further thought by the wedding’s party. There is no intent to develop relationship with the church, but mainly pragmatic recognition that the church is bigger than the clubhouse, prettier than the Moose Lodge, and less expensive than either. (This discussion is primarily true for non-church members; members whose children get married in the church are generally better, and those occasions are great blessings.)
But that’s not what I wanted to write about. (How long has that been brewing?!) I got to attend a wedding this past weekend, and it was fun. A cousin was married at Shiloh United Methodist Church in Antreville, where I was raised, so it was a nice little homecoming for me. I saw people who were my Sunday School teachers when I was a kid and a high school friend I had not seen since high school. Cousins came from Tennessee and Charleston and Hilton Head, and I got to sit in the pew and be one of them.
The wedding accomplished, we stood under the old cedar trees where the men used to smoke between Sunday School and preaching, and caught up with each other. Then we drove to Abbeville. Here’s a photo of some of the gathered cousins, taken inside the Belmont Inn, the site of the reception:
The couple dancing on the porch while wedding party and guests stand around.
To make an odd posting even moreso, let me show you some pictures of bricks. I like bricks, and Abbeville has lots of them.
The Belmont Inn
The Opera House
The Courthouse
The Main Street Square, and old buildings with antique shops
After I drove away and was headed back home toward Lancaster, I remembered that I never spoke to the pastor. He was not the pastor of that church, and I didn’t know him, but I still wanted to say hello. I saw him at the reception, standing with a koozie-wrapped beer bottle and talking to some other guests, but I never broke away from the cousin hilarity to speak. Hmmm. I wonder how he felt about the whole thing. I just hope some folks from the family made him more welcome than I did.
My day off, this week, started a night early at a baseball game! Friends Bryan and Laurie met me at the gate. We found our cold, wet seats and prepared to enjoy opening day. The wind, rain, and cold temperature made it a challenge to get comfortable. It was my first visit to this ballpark, which was built with intentional homage to Fenway Park.
Here’s the first pitch of the season for the Greenville Drive.
The nuggets named in this posting’s title were part of our ballpark menu; other similarly nourishing items kept us busy, too. We had some good conversation and lots of laughter. We also agreed that it’s not a good idea to use baseball as a way to taunt someone who is experiencing sub-zero weather — it might backfire on you!
Ethel Patterson Moore was my great aunt, the sister of my Grandaddy Patterson. She lived beside my grandparents, and we kids spent a lot of time visiting with her when we were there. She was very loving and good to everyone, and visits from her great nephews and nieces made her happy. This loose poem I wrote in the late 1990s recalls some of the interaction with her:
July Returning
The weather is festive
like a feather among dandelions,
and I almost squash a toad
while I roll
seeing sky — grass — sky — grass –
and there’s a cloud that looks like
the rocking chair in
Aunt Ethel’s living room
where I used to visit
like a good boy should
and say thank you when
she offered me candy from the
yellow-red-and-white enamel dish
by the kitchen sink.
Later I would sit on her steps
and laugh as she shouted
at those stupid people
on the afternoon TV shows.
Glad to be too young
for such things,
I crawled under the fence
and fed bright yellow bitterweed
to Cindy the milk cow.
I remember one time when she put together a little afternoon picnic for some cousins and myself, and we all went to a pretty corner of the pasture for the impromptu adventure. Years later, her funeral was one of the first I ever performed after becoming a pastor, and the first of several funerals for family members that I’ve either officiated or assisted. Anyway, beside her house was a clothesline, and beside the cloethesline was a pear tree. The tree seemed to try to outdo itself each year, becoming so heavy with big juicy pears that tall boards were used to prop up the limbs and keep them from breaking off.
One day early in the season, I was there beside the tree, and the pears were still small. I don’t recall how old I was, but I was not young enough that this isn’t embarassing. You might not know this about me, but I like to throw things, and these pears were irresistable. I picked several off the tree and looked around for a target. There, across the yard a little way, was the bathroom window of Aunt Ethel’s house. Something in my upbringing should have stopped me right there, but nothing did. That screened window became my target, and I started throwing, one after the other, hitting the window easily and seeeing how far I could make them bounce.
It wasn’t long before the lone resident of the house came to the window and told me to stop that. Told me I should know better. I think she even made me promise to not do that anymore. She went back to other parts of the house, and a few minutes later, I started throwing those pears again! There’s no need for any of you to write and ask me why, because I have no idea — other than raw sinful nature. When I finished, I left to go do other things, amazingly ignorant as to how my fortunes had changed.
There were no cell phones back then, of course. Aunt Ethel didn’t even have a phone at all. But when Daddy got home from work that evening, he already knew what had happened. I was summoned, made to give an account, made to understand that my spanking would happen by means of two hickories at the same time (unheard of!), and that I should keep my hands out of the way. Since I had obviously lost my mind, the remedy was that I would lose my butt, too. (A parental concept of balance!!) Of course, when hickories (switches, some call them) are used, they get their best result all up and down the backs of the bare legs. That’s the way it was. Later, I went to apologize to Aunt Ethel. And I’ve never thrown another pear, peach, apple, pecan, or grape at anyone’s window again.
