...centric

When I was in St. Louis, MO last week, I was vividly reminded how centric I am. I was driving on I-44 when I came to the junction with I-270. The signs said that my options were Chicago or Memphis. Chicago or Memphis! Neither of those cities are in Missouri (I know because I checked.). Living in California the last 33 years, I've acclimated to the fact that unless you are within 10 miles of the Oregon, Nevada or Arizona border you are not going to see listings for cities outside of California. After all, why would you be leaving California anyway? Plus, we have so many cities to choose from within the state, why would we show you where else the highway goes?

How easily we all narrow our world so that we feel we can better understand and function within it. Yet how wide is our world. I love to think of myself as cosmopolitan rather than provincial, but the reality is that I am, as are you, far more provincial than I care to believe. I know "my people" and "my place" and I like it that way. And I expect others to think and act like me and my people. But if we all did that, think of how much of the glorious tapestry of God's diverse creation would be lost.

I need these periodic reminders that not all roads lead to California. And not all ways of living the Christian life or doing ministry lead to white, Germanic, Evangelical Free middle-aged men.

Sunrise, Sunset

I don't remember the exact date, but I do remember the setting. I was watching "Fiddler on the Roof" for the umpteenth time in our living room in Santa Margarita. For years I had identified with the daughters and wondered why Teyve couldn't see how much they were in love and how he couldn't really control change anyway, so why not give his blessing? Now as I sat watching I thought "How can his girls tear out his heart like that? Don't they understand how much he loves them and wants the best for them?"

I knew I had crossed the Rubicon. There was no going back. I was a parent.

What I didn't know at the time was that my own children would choose, and be chosen by, wonderful adults who love Jesus and love my kids. I didn't know that I would grow to love and appreciate the people my children would marry. I certainly hoped that would be the case, (and I certainly planted those seeds early and often) but I know how uncertain life is and how wonderful and challenging free will is.

Last Friday my son proposed to his girlfriend and we couldn't be happier with his choice. She is everything he needs and he treasures her (and shows it). Turns out your kids don't have to rip your heart out. Sometimes they just break it gently by growing up.

Just Because You Can...

Next weekend, Sharon and I will join a group of friends from Santa Margarita in Solvang to enjoy a PCPA production. These are friends of as many as 16 years and as few as 5 years. We've prayed together, laughed together, questioned together. They are, primarily, the people in our Home Group who meet each week to encourage each other in our journey with Christ.

When these occasions arise that allow us to spend some time our friends from the Central Coast, I begin to feel guilty that I haven't stayed in touch as much as I thought I would when we left. (That is, until I remember that they, too, haven't done much in the way of initiation of contact). I could call or e-mail regularly, but I don't. Sometimes I fear it is "out of sight, out of mind", but that just isn't the case.

What I think is happening (on both sides of the relationship) is a recognition that our primary investment of time in relationship is (and should be) with those who share physical proximity. That is, we need people "with skin on" who can help us through the seasons of life. A phone call is great for reporting information such as "How are the kids?", "Isn't it great that the Celtics lead the series 3 games to 1?", "How is the pastoral search going?" What e-mails and phone calls are not so good at is "What were you thinking?", and "Your words say one thing, your face says another", all the while placing an arm on your shoulder.

Earlier generations wrote occasional letters when someone moved away. But the expectations of how often those letters would arrive were much less than our expectations with today's instant communication. Our current expectations fail to recognize that God created us for relationships in proximity. It doesn't mean I don't love my friends from the Central Coast or that they don't love me. It doesn't mean we won't thoroughly enjoy one another's company next weekend and pick up where we left off, we will. (To paraphrase Humphrey Bogart in "Casablanca", "We'll always have the Central Coast.") What it does mean is that the idea that we will maintain the same level of intimacy over the miles is a mistaken idea. We so appreciate the fact that Paul wrote letters to friends he knew (thus giving us much of the New Testament), but repeatedly he speaks of his desire to be with them. He understood the power and blessing of relationship in proximity.

Hearing from my Fans

How great is this. I have heard from all three people who read my blog. The friend I wrote about in my last post called the night I published it to ask if he had really offended me and didn't I understand he was kidding. I guess my tongue wasn't clearly enough placed in my cheek when I wrote the post. I thought the copyright logo on Kleenex would give it away.

Then another friend wrote me to tell me the guy I referred to probably wouldn't go to a movie with me unless it was Rambo. I laughed out loud (LOL) because I can't imagine the guy whose chain I was yanking would be caught dead (no movie allusion intended) in a Rambo movie. She encouraged me to keep writing, which I promise I will. Especially if I can elicit responses so quickly by being facetious.

My third reader, a friend who also happens to be my wife, just laughed about my being able to punk my I-will-never-go-to-a-movie-with-you friend.

So, to all three of you, thanks for making my day. I'll keep writing and I'll try to insert a winking emoticon when I'm not being serious.

Oh, well...

A friend of mine who reads this blog (there are two of them that I know of, plus my wife who is also my friend, so I guess that makes three) called me the other day after reading my last blog and told me he is never inviting me to a movie. He doesn't go to movies with guys who need Kleenex©. The irony, of course, is that he is one of the people I referred to as "someone on the other end to grab hold of". I guess I was wrong. He just dropped me. Just like that. Because I cry, sometimes. Oh, well...

Tears

(Warning: There are plot spoilers for three films in this blog. If you haven't seen, and don't want to know about some details of, "Young at Heart", "Cranford" or "Lars and the Real Girl", then skip this blog.)

“Tears. You never know what may cause them. The sight of the Atlantic Ocean can do it, or a piece of music, or a face you’ve never seen before. A pair of somebody’s old shoes can do it. Almost any movie made before the great sadness that came over the world after the Second World War, a horse cantering across a meadow, the high school basketball team running out onto the gym floor at the start of a game. You can never be sure. But of this you can be sure. Whenever you find tears in your eyes, especially unexpected tears, it is well to pay the closest attention. They are not only telling you something about the secret of who you are, but more often than not God is speaking to you through them of the mystery of where you have come from and is summoning you to where you should go next.” — Frederick Buechner

Recently Sharon and I found ourselves crying, almost uncontrollably, at movies that are certainly poignant, but in most other seasons would not have touched us the way they did. The first was an independent film entitled, "Young at Heart". (BTW, friends in SLO, we have finally found the "Palm" in Orange County. It doesn't have the same ethos, but it shows the same films.) "Young at Heart" is about a group of seniors who sing together. They started with Broadway tunes and have shifted to rock and roll in their more than 20 years together as a group. The film lets you into their personal lives where you see that while they have nothing much to offer each other, by our culture's standards, they forge a wonderful friendship and community. In the course of the documentary, several of them die, leaving us weeping for the loss of the group.

The second was a five hour Masterpiece Theater entitled "Cranford," based on several books by Elizabeth Gaskell. The small village of Cranford is changing because of the cultural and transportational changes of the late 1800's. The story is inhabited by the usual assortment of colorful characters that reside in every town, but especially in small towns. They all have a role in the community and they all make sacrifices to maintain the community despite the cost to themselves. When several of the key characters die, we again sobbed openly.

The third was a movie entitled, "Lars and the Real Girl" (which we rented but will purchase before the week is out). Lars is a person who carries such deep hurt that he cannot cope with life as it is and therefore resorts to life with a life-size, anatomically correct female doll (I know the premise sounds strange, but in all the places it could have gone wrong, it didn't.) The power in the story is the way in which the family, and the larger community, lives with Lars in an understanding (rather than condescending) way and are able, by their love, to bring healing to a wounded soul. When the doll "dies" near the end of the film we handed each other the kleenex box. (That sounds so unbelievable, but call me after you've seen it.)

Being familiar with Buechner's quote, Sharon and I asked each other, "Where are the tears coming from?" For those of you who know us, the answer is not far from the surface. We value community and we value people. We know the great joy and utter frustration of living with people who are so dear to us because of our shared life over so many years. During the past two years (almost) we have both been putting our heads down and powering through the pain of our transition away from Santa Margarita, both the place and the people. We are, it seems, finally able to allow ourselves to feel the enormity of the loss. This freedom to feel the depth of our loss comes, we believe, in great part from the people and community we are establishing here in Orange County. In order to more completely let go of our past (without letting go of our people), we had to have someone on the other end to grab hold of. That takes time. It isn't that people here were not ready to catch us. It just means that being enfolded into a new community is not an easy process and will not be rushed.

My guess is that we are still not through transitioning. But we are further along and we have our friends, old and new, to thank for walking through this season with us.