Wednesday, July 08, 2009
An evolving relationship with coffee (part 5)
2009 marked the greatest shift in my coffee relationship.
I previously wrote that moving from one child to two did not double the work, but quadrupled it. I know this because of the copious amounts of scientific research available in respected journals (believe what you will). However, parents of 3 children or more say that the jump from 2-3 and beyond is even easier, because regardless of the number after that, parents have to play a zone defense and have a right to enslave the older children. My observation is that one child's path of destruction could always be contained--with two children, their tendrils extend in unpredictable trajectories, creating unforeseen chain reactions (at least quadruple the work).
With thanks to my mother and father for training me in home economics (father with about 20 percent, teaching the ways of grocery prices, and mother with all the rest of the teaching), and when my dear wife and I decided our household was better suited to me staying at home more often, I felt ready to step in. I learned home economics takes a whole different level of stamina. With the aforementioned tendrils of doom from two children, I quickly learned that the work was much harder than anything I had ever done in some respects. I found myself taking naps with the children in the afternoon, then I would be half asleep for an hour or so after the nap, or I wouldn't be able to get to sleep in the evening, and the sleep cycle would continue to spiral into a vortex of grog. Not only was my sleep pattern altered, I was getting less done because at least one kid demanded my attention.
Though I had really never consistently used caffeine, I turned to caffeinated beverages--Diet Coke, Coke Zero, Diet Mountain Dew in order to pull myself out of the vortex of grog. It worked really well for awhile, not only did I charge through nap time with accomplishments galore, but my productivity eclipsed my normal output in general. After about one month of pop consumption I noticed a big shift in the curve. I was drinking somewhere between 75-100 ounces of diet caffeinated soda or more per day. My body felt like it had a metallic residue clinging to my pores, and my thoughts weren't as sharp as they used to be. I hit some mood swings, to which my children absorbed the most. My oldest daughter would sometimes proclaim, "Daddy, you don't have to be so grumpy." To what shall I attribute this shift in wellness? Sleep deprivation? Probably. Caffeine? Possibly. The toxic cocktail of carbonation, artificial sweeteners and colors? I'm not sure what felt worse, the effects of my intake on my body, or the dread of a dearth of daily accomplishment.
My solution wasn't all that revolutionary. I was about as addicted to accomplishment as I was the caffeine, so the caffeine had to stay. I had a prelude to the effectiveness of coffee when I was completely in desperate fatigue survival--when I was serving a congregation and held a paper route. I was up at 230 am to do the Sunday paper route, home at 7:15 to shower and on the road at 7:45 for Sunday worship and Christian education, arriving at home at 1:30 p.m., strung out on caffeine for another 60-90 minutes, only to pass out into a contorted lump of flesh and bones. A few occasions my dear wife made me a mocha with triple chocolate and double espresso. It was an amazing taste of awful and delicious. I remember noting to her, "this coffee stuff works." I couldn't get over that acid dirt taste, so once that work combo from hell was over, I went back to limited amounts of pop, about 36-50 ounces per day.
Once again, I hit the pop threshold, and realized pop wasn't all that inexpensive, and we already had coffee and sugar in the house. Though I hated the taste of it, I didn't feel as awful (outside of my tongue) drinking 3 16-ounce iced coffees each day as with the diet soda consumption. I must admit I feel some self-loathing that I have acquiesced to the Coffistas of the world and the coffee culture. This self-loathing was tempered in that I can join my wife much more easily for a coffee. I'm also a little bit disgusted that my life is out of control that I feel it necessary to detract from my wholeness with a sustaining dose of stimulant. I wouldn't trade many of the joy and fullness of life so that I wouldn't feel the need to consume caffeine. But I can't "control" my children. I give them loving discipline, but they also need to be their own people. I also need to be able to do my own thing--like write. I don't drink coffee everyday, only on the days when the day is so full of contingencies that I need something to survive. I drank coffee on Monday (that would be iced fu-fu coffee) but no caffeine yesterday. Today might be a coffee day. I put the odds at 50-50.
Writing this 5-part reflection on coffee has been attempt to be a little more self-aware about stimulant use. Some healthy people I respect, like Jeff Galloway uses coffee in his training to stimulate thought, creativity and motivation. I also recognize that coffee is a curious part of my religious culture. Though I can understand coffee's social role, I think the beverage's importance is overplayed in and of itself, especially for those who proclaim it as a sacrament. There is a degree of humor implied in this statement, of course, but when a woman cantankerously calls out to me "Are you another one of those young Lutheran pastors who doesn't drink coffee?" reveals something about the social rigidity of congregants. Let's be clear about the ends and flexible about the means. I have invested thousands upon thousands of hours in contributing and building relationships among the people of God. I have gone way outside my own comfort zone in many ways--but in the end, my value is that I uphold and encourage and find joy in the basic dignity of human relationships that communicate the love of God. Coffee can be useful, but it is not essential. Pop could work, as could a cup of water or a wheat grass shot or a beer (my preferences). Or, people could just talk--but I also recognize the terror in that. The more I see coffee as the essential and a point for argument, the more I weep for my culture. I hope there will be someone with whom I can talk about this. I am thankful that my dear wife and I do this. We don't need the coffee--but that kind of blessed conversation has been 15 years in the making.
I previously wrote that moving from one child to two did not double the work, but quadrupled it. I know this because of the copious amounts of scientific research available in respected journals (believe what you will). However, parents of 3 children or more say that the jump from 2-3 and beyond is even easier, because regardless of the number after that, parents have to play a zone defense and have a right to enslave the older children. My observation is that one child's path of destruction could always be contained--with two children, their tendrils extend in unpredictable trajectories, creating unforeseen chain reactions (at least quadruple the work).
With thanks to my mother and father for training me in home economics (father with about 20 percent, teaching the ways of grocery prices, and mother with all the rest of the teaching), and when my dear wife and I decided our household was better suited to me staying at home more often, I felt ready to step in. I learned home economics takes a whole different level of stamina. With the aforementioned tendrils of doom from two children, I quickly learned that the work was much harder than anything I had ever done in some respects. I found myself taking naps with the children in the afternoon, then I would be half asleep for an hour or so after the nap, or I wouldn't be able to get to sleep in the evening, and the sleep cycle would continue to spiral into a vortex of grog. Not only was my sleep pattern altered, I was getting less done because at least one kid demanded my attention.
Though I had really never consistently used caffeine, I turned to caffeinated beverages--Diet Coke, Coke Zero, Diet Mountain Dew in order to pull myself out of the vortex of grog. It worked really well for awhile, not only did I charge through nap time with accomplishments galore, but my productivity eclipsed my normal output in general. After about one month of pop consumption I noticed a big shift in the curve. I was drinking somewhere between 75-100 ounces of diet caffeinated soda or more per day. My body felt like it had a metallic residue clinging to my pores, and my thoughts weren't as sharp as they used to be. I hit some mood swings, to which my children absorbed the most. My oldest daughter would sometimes proclaim, "Daddy, you don't have to be so grumpy." To what shall I attribute this shift in wellness? Sleep deprivation? Probably. Caffeine? Possibly. The toxic cocktail of carbonation, artificial sweeteners and colors? I'm not sure what felt worse, the effects of my intake on my body, or the dread of a dearth of daily accomplishment.
My solution wasn't all that revolutionary. I was about as addicted to accomplishment as I was the caffeine, so the caffeine had to stay. I had a prelude to the effectiveness of coffee when I was completely in desperate fatigue survival--when I was serving a congregation and held a paper route. I was up at 230 am to do the Sunday paper route, home at 7:15 to shower and on the road at 7:45 for Sunday worship and Christian education, arriving at home at 1:30 p.m., strung out on caffeine for another 60-90 minutes, only to pass out into a contorted lump of flesh and bones. A few occasions my dear wife made me a mocha with triple chocolate and double espresso. It was an amazing taste of awful and delicious. I remember noting to her, "this coffee stuff works." I couldn't get over that acid dirt taste, so once that work combo from hell was over, I went back to limited amounts of pop, about 36-50 ounces per day.
Once again, I hit the pop threshold, and realized pop wasn't all that inexpensive, and we already had coffee and sugar in the house. Though I hated the taste of it, I didn't feel as awful (outside of my tongue) drinking 3 16-ounce iced coffees each day as with the diet soda consumption. I must admit I feel some self-loathing that I have acquiesced to the Coffistas of the world and the coffee culture. This self-loathing was tempered in that I can join my wife much more easily for a coffee. I'm also a little bit disgusted that my life is out of control that I feel it necessary to detract from my wholeness with a sustaining dose of stimulant. I wouldn't trade many of the joy and fullness of life so that I wouldn't feel the need to consume caffeine. But I can't "control" my children. I give them loving discipline, but they also need to be their own people. I also need to be able to do my own thing--like write. I don't drink coffee everyday, only on the days when the day is so full of contingencies that I need something to survive. I drank coffee on Monday (that would be iced fu-fu coffee) but no caffeine yesterday. Today might be a coffee day. I put the odds at 50-50.
Writing this 5-part reflection on coffee has been attempt to be a little more self-aware about stimulant use. Some healthy people I respect, like Jeff Galloway uses coffee in his training to stimulate thought, creativity and motivation. I also recognize that coffee is a curious part of my religious culture. Though I can understand coffee's social role, I think the beverage's importance is overplayed in and of itself, especially for those who proclaim it as a sacrament. There is a degree of humor implied in this statement, of course, but when a woman cantankerously calls out to me "Are you another one of those young Lutheran pastors who doesn't drink coffee?" reveals something about the social rigidity of congregants. Let's be clear about the ends and flexible about the means. I have invested thousands upon thousands of hours in contributing and building relationships among the people of God. I have gone way outside my own comfort zone in many ways--but in the end, my value is that I uphold and encourage and find joy in the basic dignity of human relationships that communicate the love of God. Coffee can be useful, but it is not essential. Pop could work, as could a cup of water or a wheat grass shot or a beer (my preferences). Or, people could just talk--but I also recognize the terror in that. The more I see coffee as the essential and a point for argument, the more I weep for my culture. I hope there will be someone with whom I can talk about this. I am thankful that my dear wife and I do this. We don't need the coffee--but that kind of blessed conversation has been 15 years in the making.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
An evolving relationship with coffee (part 4)
Yesterday as we drove into a strip mall area with a whole host of eating establishments, coffee houses and drive-thru windows, my two-year old daughter clearly proclaimed, "Daddy, I want a latte!" Indeed, these kids pay attention in more ways than we know.
The previous day, after an awfully hot day in a church with no air conditioning (not unusual for Western Washington), a frail woman in her 80's asked me, "are you one of those young Lutheran pastors who doesn't drink coffee?" It was like I never left the Northern Great Plains/Upper Midwest. Is it only Lutherans who drink hot coffee in a 90 degree building with no air circulation? It tastes bad enough as it is, but to drink hot coffee during a sweat-fest in which I almost passed out during my sermon (at least I didn't have to sit through it) makes little sense.
Such is the life of an elderly Coffista.
The previous day, after an awfully hot day in a church with no air conditioning (not unusual for Western Washington), a frail woman in her 80's asked me, "are you one of those young Lutheran pastors who doesn't drink coffee?" It was like I never left the Northern Great Plains/Upper Midwest. Is it only Lutherans who drink hot coffee in a 90 degree building with no air circulation? It tastes bad enough as it is, but to drink hot coffee during a sweat-fest in which I almost passed out during my sermon (at least I didn't have to sit through it) makes little sense.
Such is the life of an elderly Coffista.
A double dose of brain spam (and more on Klosterman)
If a neuroscientist reader comes across this blog, maybe I could be enlightened by the science behind a song that gets "stuck in my head (or I could Google this concept)." Sesame Street and other PBS Kids' tracks were touched off by a repeat shuffle button behind my ear, but the Michael Jackson songs have taken the repeat function to a new level. At least they're songs that I tend to like:
"Black and White"
"The Way You Make Me Feel"
"You Wanna Be Starting Something"
"Rock With You"
While bathing the kids this evening I found that I sang a medley weave of "Rug Time (which has evolved into my rendition called 'Bath Time)," from Sid The Science Kid, and "Black and White." I'm wondering what kind of shelf life this double dose of brain spam will have. I'm guessing until my oldest goes back to school. Or at least until my dear wife stops taking interest in the Jackson stories. At least she didn't take the day off to watch the memorial service.
By the way, Chuck Klosterman described some of Jackson's songs using the word "awesomeness." This is not a word that seems to fit his repertoire, but considering his articles on The White Stripes, Radiohead and Robert Plant, Klosterman possesses enough music credibility to say whatever he wants about music--his knowledge base, research and published credits give him plenty of credibility.
I'm just living in a Groundhog Day of catchy songs.
"Black and White"
"The Way You Make Me Feel"
"You Wanna Be Starting Something"
"Rock With You"
While bathing the kids this evening I found that I sang a medley weave of "Rug Time (which has evolved into my rendition called 'Bath Time)," from Sid The Science Kid, and "Black and White." I'm wondering what kind of shelf life this double dose of brain spam will have. I'm guessing until my oldest goes back to school. Or at least until my dear wife stops taking interest in the Jackson stories. At least she didn't take the day off to watch the memorial service.
By the way, Chuck Klosterman described some of Jackson's songs using the word "awesomeness." This is not a word that seems to fit his repertoire, but considering his articles on The White Stripes, Radiohead and Robert Plant, Klosterman possesses enough music credibility to say whatever he wants about music--his knowledge base, research and published credits give him plenty of credibility.
I'm just living in a Groundhog Day of catchy songs.
An addition to Famous North Dakotans? Thoughts on Chuck Klosterman's work
After reviewing a few lists of famous North Dakotans I didn't find Chuck Klosterman on those lists. A few theories and thoughts: 1) Does a famous North Dakotan have to be born in North Dakota? According to his profile, though he was born in Minnesota, he was raised in Wyndmere, North Dakota, graduated from North Dakota, and probably wrote one of the more famous pieces of fiction based on a composite North Dakota town, Downtown Owl. Having not read Downtown Owl (it's on my list), but having recently completed Chuck Klosterman IV: A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas, 2) I now wonder whether North Dakota doesn't want to claim him. Some of his work is a little explicit for all of those Norwegian-Americans in North Dakota. 3) What distinguishes someone as "famous?" Is it that their names are part of wider public discourse? That their name is recognized by a wider audience? Klosterman has written for Spin, Esquire, ESPN the Magazine, and The New York Times Magazine, to name a few.
Even though I lived in South Dakota for over 8 years and admired the state, I always thought North Dakota was a little bit cooler than South Dakota for a few reasons:
1. North Dakota colleges and universities are way better at sports than South Dakota colleges and universities (though the gap may be closing). Until a few years ago, the University of North Dakota had the only Division I sports team in the Dakotas (UND Hockey). UND Hockey is really cool (literally and figuratively).
2. North Dakota is much more obscure (which I consider cool). You have to want to go there. South Dakota is drive-through country--with Mt. Rushmore, Wall Drug, and being on Interstate 90--the great path from the West to the Northeast, New England and the Atlantic Ocean, not to mention several large metropolitan areas along the way, many folks can say they've at least driven through South Dakota, and for seemingly good reasons. North Dakota also doesn't have a city over 100,000 people and doesn't have as much easy access popular culture on well-traveled paths as South Dakota.
3. North Dakota has easier access to the bountiful and mysterious north that is Canada.
4. I suppose North Dakota is literally cooler in temperature than South Dakota.
5. Chuck Klosterman.
After reading one of his fabulous articles in ESPN the Magazine a few years ago, I picked up a copy of Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto. I enjoyed this book as I resonated with the Gen X perspective, but also appreciated the anti-academic, yet still sharp and intelligent observation and writing. Chuck Klosterman IV is a similar product to Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs in its intelligence, but it tracks his work (mostly from Spin and Esquire) for a decade. The (London) Evening Standard called Klosterman's work "Ferociously clever and ferociously self-deprecating." Klosterman accomplishes this rare (unique?) combination with tight and economical writing. I particularly enjoyed the introductions to each of his columns/essays. For example:
"You are offered a Brain Pill. If you swallow this pill, you will become 10 percent more intelligent than you currently are...to all other people you meet, you will seem 20 percent less intelligent...Do you take this pill (p. 259)?" This is an introduction to a specific critique of Entertainment Weekly's look at Guilty Pleasures in entertainment. The introduction is good on its own, but it's even better when considered with the essay.
I also appreciated his look at the useless and misguided level of astonishment in cultural critique: "Why do non religious people think that the Christian Right shouldn't have a voice in government? Why do conservatives get angry bout the prospect of gay marriage, even if they've never met a gay person and never will...culture can't be wrong...people can be wrong, and movements can be wrong. But culture--as a whole--cannot be wrong. Culture is just there (p. 267).
The following could be classified as a Gen X perspective, but what I appreciate about the following quote is that Klosterman articulates my reflections on politics and public discourse better than I can myself (I know because I've tried a few times in this blog and foolishly on message boards): "Whenever I meet someone who openly identifies themselves as a Republican or a Democrat, my immediate thought is always 'Well, this person might be interesting, but they'll never say anything about politics that is remotely useful to me.' I refuse to discuss abortion with anyone who is pro-life or pro-choice...All the world's stupidest people are either zealots or atheists. If you want to truly deduce how intelligent someone is, just ask this person how they feel about any issue that doesn't have an answer; the more certainty they express, the less sense they have. This is because certainty only comes from dogma (p. 240)."
I value this kind of thought, but it sure is hard to articulate challenging thoughts such as these from within the church especially from the pulpit or leadership position. Few people in the Church will question the Church in a valuable way. I think there is too much on the line on multiple levels. I certainly don't have the courage to do it on many occasions. From where will the next Martin Luther come? Luther was great thinker with a heart for the common person, a love for God and the mysteries of God, and someone with the courage to articulate where the Church is lost while still holding a love for the Church.
I'm not sure whether Klosterman is intentionally left off the famous North Dakotans lists for his challenging writing, or that he frankly writes about sex and drugs at the dark side of humanity at times. He doesn't glorify the darkness of humanity, but he asks great questions about it and makes great observations. This writing brings to mind the seminal Gen X writer, Douglas Coupland, with his sometimes dizzying prose, dancing the fence of disbelief suspended. But Klosterman's journalistic background also takes his low culture philosophy to a place Coupland cannot go: some of the things Klosterman reports could not possibly be made up. This makes Klosterman a way cool North Dakotan, even if he may not widely be claimed as famous.
Even though I lived in South Dakota for over 8 years and admired the state, I always thought North Dakota was a little bit cooler than South Dakota for a few reasons:
1. North Dakota colleges and universities are way better at sports than South Dakota colleges and universities (though the gap may be closing). Until a few years ago, the University of North Dakota had the only Division I sports team in the Dakotas (UND Hockey). UND Hockey is really cool (literally and figuratively).
2. North Dakota is much more obscure (which I consider cool). You have to want to go there. South Dakota is drive-through country--with Mt. Rushmore, Wall Drug, and being on Interstate 90--the great path from the West to the Northeast, New England and the Atlantic Ocean, not to mention several large metropolitan areas along the way, many folks can say they've at least driven through South Dakota, and for seemingly good reasons. North Dakota also doesn't have a city over 100,000 people and doesn't have as much easy access popular culture on well-traveled paths as South Dakota.
3. North Dakota has easier access to the bountiful and mysterious north that is Canada.
4. I suppose North Dakota is literally cooler in temperature than South Dakota.
5. Chuck Klosterman.
After reading one of his fabulous articles in ESPN the Magazine a few years ago, I picked up a copy of Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto. I enjoyed this book as I resonated with the Gen X perspective, but also appreciated the anti-academic, yet still sharp and intelligent observation and writing. Chuck Klosterman IV is a similar product to Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs in its intelligence, but it tracks his work (mostly from Spin and Esquire) for a decade. The (London) Evening Standard called Klosterman's work "Ferociously clever and ferociously self-deprecating." Klosterman accomplishes this rare (unique?) combination with tight and economical writing. I particularly enjoyed the introductions to each of his columns/essays. For example:
"You are offered a Brain Pill. If you swallow this pill, you will become 10 percent more intelligent than you currently are...to all other people you meet, you will seem 20 percent less intelligent...Do you take this pill (p. 259)?" This is an introduction to a specific critique of Entertainment Weekly's look at Guilty Pleasures in entertainment. The introduction is good on its own, but it's even better when considered with the essay.
I also appreciated his look at the useless and misguided level of astonishment in cultural critique: "Why do non religious people think that the Christian Right shouldn't have a voice in government? Why do conservatives get angry bout the prospect of gay marriage, even if they've never met a gay person and never will...culture can't be wrong...people can be wrong, and movements can be wrong. But culture--as a whole--cannot be wrong. Culture is just there (p. 267).
The following could be classified as a Gen X perspective, but what I appreciate about the following quote is that Klosterman articulates my reflections on politics and public discourse better than I can myself (I know because I've tried a few times in this blog and foolishly on message boards): "Whenever I meet someone who openly identifies themselves as a Republican or a Democrat, my immediate thought is always 'Well, this person might be interesting, but they'll never say anything about politics that is remotely useful to me.' I refuse to discuss abortion with anyone who is pro-life or pro-choice...All the world's stupidest people are either zealots or atheists. If you want to truly deduce how intelligent someone is, just ask this person how they feel about any issue that doesn't have an answer; the more certainty they express, the less sense they have. This is because certainty only comes from dogma (p. 240)."
I value this kind of thought, but it sure is hard to articulate challenging thoughts such as these from within the church especially from the pulpit or leadership position. Few people in the Church will question the Church in a valuable way. I think there is too much on the line on multiple levels. I certainly don't have the courage to do it on many occasions. From where will the next Martin Luther come? Luther was great thinker with a heart for the common person, a love for God and the mysteries of God, and someone with the courage to articulate where the Church is lost while still holding a love for the Church.
I'm not sure whether Klosterman is intentionally left off the famous North Dakotans lists for his challenging writing, or that he frankly writes about sex and drugs at the dark side of humanity at times. He doesn't glorify the darkness of humanity, but he asks great questions about it and makes great observations. This writing brings to mind the seminal Gen X writer, Douglas Coupland, with his sometimes dizzying prose, dancing the fence of disbelief suspended. But Klosterman's journalistic background also takes his low culture philosophy to a place Coupland cannot go: some of the things Klosterman reports could not possibly be made up. This makes Klosterman a way cool North Dakotan, even if he may not widely be claimed as famous.
Saturday, July 04, 2009
On Independence Day
Independence Day was a favorite holiday as a child because it usually meant special activities. We spent a few days at the ocean, watched or lit fireworks, visited some friends at the lake, or have a family gathering at a park. These celebrations weren't overly special, but activities that created anticipation. What does Independence Day mean to me and what will my dear wife and I teach our children?
It's not part of my belief system that my freedom comes from living in the United States, but my freedom comes from God in Jesus Christ. It's still a blessing to live in the United States, but it is not the source of my freedom. I don't attach that freedom to the military or any public servant--but I ascribe to the teaching of Martin Luther that good government is a blessing from God.
I am not an anti-government type, nor do I believe that government is a solution to all problems, even though the zealots from either end of the spectrum seem to enjoy the pigeon-hole process. I do appreciate the positive contributions to my life from the military and leaders in the United States Government. The path of my family changed dramatically when my Grandfather served in World War II on the U.S.S. Washington. With his GI Bill he moved to Washington State and became the first person in his family to graduate from college--a degree in journalism from the University of Washington. He met my grandmother before starting college--another family without a college graduate. We don't have a lot of college graduates in our family, but "furthering education" has been a family value since the GI Bill. Could my Grandfather have gained a college education without help from the US Government? Maybe, but not likely. The GI Bill provided opportunity for many military men and women, making an investment in the future of the nation. I believe the GI Bill was a great investment for the good of the country and its people. Though I can be persuaded to believe that government shouldn't be involved in certain things, someone will have a hard time convincing me that the government is not an important player in investing in people for the common good. Through the GI Bill my Grandfather learned what was possible, and was given the resources to do it. Our family tree was changed.
I met a man in South Dakota Ranch Country who said his biggest regret in life was that he didn't use his GI Bill. I hope that the government is not the sole source of opportunity, but I'm glad that it takes part. Independence Day is another reminder of gratitude in this country for our opportunities. But my freedom comes from God.
I'm not sure yet what we will teach our children--but we had a special day playing at the beach with friends and watching fireworks from our car. The glass and metal barrier of the vehicle gave some security to our oldest daughter who doesn't "like the booming fireworks." I think I will tell them stories of how Americans in her family have contributed to the good of the world--maybe their are other days we can offer critique, but Independence Day can be a day can be a day of reflection about those contributions.
It's not part of my belief system that my freedom comes from living in the United States, but my freedom comes from God in Jesus Christ. It's still a blessing to live in the United States, but it is not the source of my freedom. I don't attach that freedom to the military or any public servant--but I ascribe to the teaching of Martin Luther that good government is a blessing from God.
I am not an anti-government type, nor do I believe that government is a solution to all problems, even though the zealots from either end of the spectrum seem to enjoy the pigeon-hole process. I do appreciate the positive contributions to my life from the military and leaders in the United States Government. The path of my family changed dramatically when my Grandfather served in World War II on the U.S.S. Washington. With his GI Bill he moved to Washington State and became the first person in his family to graduate from college--a degree in journalism from the University of Washington. He met my grandmother before starting college--another family without a college graduate. We don't have a lot of college graduates in our family, but "furthering education" has been a family value since the GI Bill. Could my Grandfather have gained a college education without help from the US Government? Maybe, but not likely. The GI Bill provided opportunity for many military men and women, making an investment in the future of the nation. I believe the GI Bill was a great investment for the good of the country and its people. Though I can be persuaded to believe that government shouldn't be involved in certain things, someone will have a hard time convincing me that the government is not an important player in investing in people for the common good. Through the GI Bill my Grandfather learned what was possible, and was given the resources to do it. Our family tree was changed.
I met a man in South Dakota Ranch Country who said his biggest regret in life was that he didn't use his GI Bill. I hope that the government is not the sole source of opportunity, but I'm glad that it takes part. Independence Day is another reminder of gratitude in this country for our opportunities. But my freedom comes from God.
I'm not sure yet what we will teach our children--but we had a special day playing at the beach with friends and watching fireworks from our car. The glass and metal barrier of the vehicle gave some security to our oldest daughter who doesn't "like the booming fireworks." I think I will tell them stories of how Americans in her family have contributed to the good of the world--maybe their are other days we can offer critique, but Independence Day can be a day can be a day of reflection about those contributions.
Friday, July 03, 2009
A word I enjoy, and why I enjoy the Seattle Mariners Baseball Club
When I lived in South Dakota, on sweltering summer days I would saunter to the backyard while the girls splashed around in the plastic pool (aka, The Beach). I didn't think there was a lake or swimming hole worth the travel in South Dakota, so we hung out at "The Beach," and looked forward to hanging out with our neighbors--sharing a beer, some barbecued shrimp, and a fire later in the evening with a cocktail. If we weren't hanging out with our neighbors, I would take my laptop outside and listen to the Mariners, while Dave Niehaus hosted the girls and me like he was our uncle. It didn't matter how good the team was, but it added a little excitement when they played well. I learned this leisurely summer practice from my father--Niehaus painting the story of the game while Dad pulled weeds and my brothers and I explored and played outside, sometimes crafting our own Mariners game through the magic of wiffle ball.
Mariners and baseball games in general give shape to the summer--storytelling by Niehaus, learning the characters/players of the game, excitement and disappointment, and statistics to solidify observations about heroes. I would listen regardless of the state of the team, but this year's edition of the Mariners is enjoyable because they are a plucky team. Back in the PNW, I now have more media outlets with which to enjoy the Mariners--TV, radio, and on the computer if necessary. Playing in the hallowed walls of Fenway Park in Boston--where legends and passion are cultivated, and history wafts in the smells of the park (I'm not exaggerating, it's a pilgrimage), the Mariners played with no fear. They have less talent than the boys from Boston, but the stars (Felix Hernandez) played well and the apprentices stayed focused, and contributed, all the way down to the mediocre stick of Ronny Cedeno. This team is so much better planned and crafted than in recent years. Thank you, Jack Zduriencik, for building this team with a plan. Thanks, Don Wakamatsu, for being a good steward of these baseball resources (I appreciate your style). I'm having that much better of a time with my family this summer already. Keep it going. Stay plucky.
Mariners and baseball games in general give shape to the summer--storytelling by Niehaus, learning the characters/players of the game, excitement and disappointment, and statistics to solidify observations about heroes. I would listen regardless of the state of the team, but this year's edition of the Mariners is enjoyable because they are a plucky team. Back in the PNW, I now have more media outlets with which to enjoy the Mariners--TV, radio, and on the computer if necessary. Playing in the hallowed walls of Fenway Park in Boston--where legends and passion are cultivated, and history wafts in the smells of the park (I'm not exaggerating, it's a pilgrimage), the Mariners played with no fear. They have less talent than the boys from Boston, but the stars (Felix Hernandez) played well and the apprentices stayed focused, and contributed, all the way down to the mediocre stick of Ronny Cedeno. This team is so much better planned and crafted than in recent years. Thank you, Jack Zduriencik, for building this team with a plan. Thanks, Don Wakamatsu, for being a good steward of these baseball resources (I appreciate your style). I'm having that much better of a time with my family this summer already. Keep it going. Stay plucky.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
If I could only eat (sort of) like my 2 year old
One of the benefits of my dear wife's new employment and me staying at home is that we eat together at the table at least once per day. I remember times when we ate together twice per week on average. I have read plenty saying how this is not good for children, let alone a marriage. I left full-time work in order to stabilize our home life--so our children understand where they're going to be on a daily basis (sometimes we didn't even understand when we were both serving different congregations full-time). This move hasn't been only good for our children, but for the adults and for the whole family.
Watching the 2-year-old eat is fascinating. Our oldest daughter has always been a prolific eater. She eats too much of a few foods, though she will eat a variety and at least try new things on occasion. The 2-year-old really only eats when she's hungry. Just because we sit down for a meal doesn't mean she will actually eat. She gravitates toward junk-type food (a consequence I induced while trying to eat on the cheap), though at significantly reduced levels since using the Feingold Diet. If someone allowed her milk, chips, chocolate, and an occasional banana, she would be perfectly content. I remember days when food was less about social convention than nutrition. These were days in my 20's when I lived as a vegetarian and didn't care what I was "supposed" to eat by society's standards--I stuck with grains and veggies. I've almost completely lost my way since then. Eating these days is manipulated by emotion. This is a bad equation.
I admire in many ways how my 2-year-old eats. Since we went to the Feingold Diet, her diet is much better. She eats when she's hungry, and doesn't eat any more than necessary. She had a fit during the evening meal last night and went to her bedroom. She came downstairs later, ate about 15 black beans and went swimming. When we returned from the pool, she ate 2 bowls of popcorn, and drank a glass of lemonade. The girl looks good--from all the running around and better nutrition, we might actually raise a healthy daughter. She has plenty of time to pick up on variety--she tests for new foods to add to her repertoire by licking them (and mostly rejecting them) first. I don't aspire to that idiosyncrasy of her diet, but she continues to teach me if I will be willing to learn.
Watching the 2-year-old eat is fascinating. Our oldest daughter has always been a prolific eater. She eats too much of a few foods, though she will eat a variety and at least try new things on occasion. The 2-year-old really only eats when she's hungry. Just because we sit down for a meal doesn't mean she will actually eat. She gravitates toward junk-type food (a consequence I induced while trying to eat on the cheap), though at significantly reduced levels since using the Feingold Diet. If someone allowed her milk, chips, chocolate, and an occasional banana, she would be perfectly content. I remember days when food was less about social convention than nutrition. These were days in my 20's when I lived as a vegetarian and didn't care what I was "supposed" to eat by society's standards--I stuck with grains and veggies. I've almost completely lost my way since then. Eating these days is manipulated by emotion. This is a bad equation.
I admire in many ways how my 2-year-old eats. Since we went to the Feingold Diet, her diet is much better. She eats when she's hungry, and doesn't eat any more than necessary. She had a fit during the evening meal last night and went to her bedroom. She came downstairs later, ate about 15 black beans and went swimming. When we returned from the pool, she ate 2 bowls of popcorn, and drank a glass of lemonade. The girl looks good--from all the running around and better nutrition, we might actually raise a healthy daughter. She has plenty of time to pick up on variety--she tests for new foods to add to her repertoire by licking them (and mostly rejecting them) first. I don't aspire to that idiosyncrasy of her diet, but she continues to teach me if I will be willing to learn.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
The Feingold Diet and Household Budget
Today the girls and I are making the trek up to Whole Paycheck (aka Whole Foods Market). The distant commute minimizes the Whole Foods' influential tentacles on our household budget. After about a month of eating exclusively Feingold food at the family table (household and personal products took a little longer to integrate) the effect on the budget is about an extra 100 dollars per month in groceries, give or take 20 dollars. The trip to Whole Paycheck is for a change of scenery and for some menu variety which we (I?) seem to need at this point. Out of all the food listings on Feingold Diet, Whole Foods appears to have the greatest availability of products. The biggest temptation will not that I will bust the budget on Whole Foods groceries, but that I will buy things that we will consume too quickly because of their novelty--and that I'll have to go purchase groceries again too soon--a budget buster of a different brand. I also must remember to take cash with me and leave the debit card in my wallet.
I can't imagine what we would be shelling out to live on the Feingold Diet if we lived in South Dakota; groceries were expensive enough with all-natural and organic varieties insanely expensive. If we were merely eating on the cheap, we could probably lower our food budget by 100 dollars on King County grocery prices. It's that less expensive in the Northwest compared to South Dakota--though I haven't determined whether the lower prices can be attributed to metro location (competition and volume) or regional abundance of foodstuffs, or a combination thereof.
Commuting so far to go to the grocery store rubs me the wrong way these days, especially since I discovered Walk Score. These are the day to day adventures of the give and take of a home economist. I know I'll miss it when I'm not doing it full-time, so I shall enjoy it while it lasts.
I can't imagine what we would be shelling out to live on the Feingold Diet if we lived in South Dakota; groceries were expensive enough with all-natural and organic varieties insanely expensive. If we were merely eating on the cheap, we could probably lower our food budget by 100 dollars on King County grocery prices. It's that less expensive in the Northwest compared to South Dakota--though I haven't determined whether the lower prices can be attributed to metro location (competition and volume) or regional abundance of foodstuffs, or a combination thereof.
Commuting so far to go to the grocery store rubs me the wrong way these days, especially since I discovered Walk Score. These are the day to day adventures of the give and take of a home economist. I know I'll miss it when I'm not doing it full-time, so I shall enjoy it while it lasts.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
A sad realization: web browsing with Safari 4 (my first meager attempt to comment on tech)
I generally appreciate Apple products--their interface, their functionality, their ease of use. I strongly dislike Safari 4, mainly because I can't use it--it feels like I'm partying on my computer like it's 1999. That is, I'm waiting for what seems like minutes to get into the browser. Even when I get into it, eons elapse before I can navigate anywhere.
Granted, my Mac Mini is going on 4 years old--filled with music, pictures and software. I thought I was doomed to buying more hard drive space or, perish the thought, a new computer (not possible on the Frugal Rule right now). My back up option for web sites that don't want to work with Safari has been Firefox for about 3 years. Firefox opens and navigates quickly and is now my first choice for browser over Safari for the first time since I left Internet Explorer around 2003. The difference was negligible with Safari 3, but it's a huge difference now. I'm not sure why Safari performance on my Mini has slipped so much--did Mozilla do better work or is Apple with Safari dealing with its Apple Luddites?
Though I haven't investigated much, some find hangups with Safari 4, but with Apple prices coming down so much, maybe I will remain behind the times longer until I can save enough money for the Apple power I want. I am not willing to sell my soul for something that will be cutting edge for 2 weeks. My relationship with Apple is not in jeopardy--I began my relationship with Apple around 1980 at computer camp in Seattle, where I sat around writing simple programs with an Apple computer and printing things on a dot matrix printer. Talk about brand loyalty, I came home and got my hands on a computer whenever I could. When I couldn't do that, I made computers out of cardboard boxes my Dad brought home from Albertson's.
I'm disappointed with Apple because I've never been disappointed with anything Apple. They've had me for almost 30 years (You had me at 'Hello!'). It would take a lot to lose me, especially after that ghastly 2-year relationship with a PC.
Granted, my Mac Mini is going on 4 years old--filled with music, pictures and software. I thought I was doomed to buying more hard drive space or, perish the thought, a new computer (not possible on the Frugal Rule right now). My back up option for web sites that don't want to work with Safari has been Firefox for about 3 years. Firefox opens and navigates quickly and is now my first choice for browser over Safari for the first time since I left Internet Explorer around 2003. The difference was negligible with Safari 3, but it's a huge difference now. I'm not sure why Safari performance on my Mini has slipped so much--did Mozilla do better work or is Apple with Safari dealing with its Apple Luddites?
Though I haven't investigated much, some find hangups with Safari 4, but with Apple prices coming down so much, maybe I will remain behind the times longer until I can save enough money for the Apple power I want. I am not willing to sell my soul for something that will be cutting edge for 2 weeks. My relationship with Apple is not in jeopardy--I began my relationship with Apple around 1980 at computer camp in Seattle, where I sat around writing simple programs with an Apple computer and printing things on a dot matrix printer. Talk about brand loyalty, I came home and got my hands on a computer whenever I could. When I couldn't do that, I made computers out of cardboard boxes my Dad brought home from Albertson's.
I'm disappointed with Apple because I've never been disappointed with anything Apple. They've had me for almost 30 years (You had me at 'Hello!'). It would take a lot to lose me, especially after that ghastly 2-year relationship with a PC.
Really Behind The Movies--The Devil Wears Prada
I recall seeing the novel upon which this film was based everywhere--maybe it was a time I spent many days in bookstores spending money I did not have. I must have had something in common with the film's main character played by Anne Hathaway--someone who knew little or nothing about the world of fashion. I recall web searching "Prada" during the apex of the book's popularity; if I was going to avoid pop culture, I needed to know a little more about what I was avoiding. I had no desire to read the book or watch the film, but this was another opportunity for a discussion topic with my dear wife. Wonderful thing about these films is that they provide some detachment from church topics, yet also provide theological grist for the mill should we decide to go in that direction. At the very least, I get to snuggle with my dear wife on the sofa.
I originally believed this movie would go toward the dark side of the Sex and The City series, a vapid depiction of gratuitous consumption in the fashion world. Thankfully, I was wrong about the story line, and it moved toward the good side of Sex and The City, which is sharp dialog, intriguing relationships and insightful social commentary. Though I don't know the book, the storyline avoids vapidity partly from the strong casting of Stanley Tucci and Meryl Streep. There is no way Anne Hathaway could carry this story on her own, and she is teetering on future typecasting with mere clumsy/awkward/tentative charm. She is uplifted in her films by some powerful and talented actors, like Tucci and Streep, and also Julie Andrews in The Princess Diaries (no need to review this one--it's like Prada but with no depth of social reflection). I hope Hathaway has taken copious notes on her colleagues' work with such close observations, for Tucci and Streep only magnify their versatility in this film.
It seems that Streep gives a screenplay writer of a popular novel a fighting chance for public discourse to proclaim that the movie matches the ethos of the book. A few Streep monologues ring powerful in this film above the craft of the story itself. In one scene that gives a primary lesson to Hathaway's fashion neophyte, Streep deftly, elegantly and implicitly describes that fashion does not deserve all of the critique from the masses: fashion is where art and beauty meet utility and accessibility. This convergence of beauty and utility also provides thousands and thousands of jobs, a point that couldn't be lost on Hathaway's character, who had won an award for covering a janitor union labor dispute in Chicago. Streep's character does this plausibly and beautifully (with just enough smugness) in a 3-minute scene while glancing at Hathaway's cerulean sweater.
Certainly this film will be entertaining for the fashion gawkers, and Hathaway provides plenty of fodder for that kind of entertainment. In the end, the wonderful surprise of this film is that different social perspectives come to this story, they meet and mingle, confront and question, and come out going their separate ways without acidic and destructive critique. For a story and film that reflects on image, the story is not preachy or overtly critical. It is possible for empathic feelings for all the characters, a rare feat in a story or film. This film was a pleasant surprise during this past week of a surreal and odd look at image through the deaths of 3 oddly different, yet similar public figures, Michael Jackson, Farah Fawcett and Billy Mays.
Image is much more complex than the over-simplification that can happen in popular media. This is not to say popular media doesn't play an important role in public discourse, only that it is incomplete. The Devil Wears Prada adds to the depth of discussion about image. I am currently reading a book by Chuck Klosterman that will take that depth to a new and enjoyable level. I will write on this book soon.
I originally believed this movie would go toward the dark side of the Sex and The City series, a vapid depiction of gratuitous consumption in the fashion world. Thankfully, I was wrong about the story line, and it moved toward the good side of Sex and The City, which is sharp dialog, intriguing relationships and insightful social commentary. Though I don't know the book, the storyline avoids vapidity partly from the strong casting of Stanley Tucci and Meryl Streep. There is no way Anne Hathaway could carry this story on her own, and she is teetering on future typecasting with mere clumsy/awkward/tentative charm. She is uplifted in her films by some powerful and talented actors, like Tucci and Streep, and also Julie Andrews in The Princess Diaries (no need to review this one--it's like Prada but with no depth of social reflection). I hope Hathaway has taken copious notes on her colleagues' work with such close observations, for Tucci and Streep only magnify their versatility in this film.
It seems that Streep gives a screenplay writer of a popular novel a fighting chance for public discourse to proclaim that the movie matches the ethos of the book. A few Streep monologues ring powerful in this film above the craft of the story itself. In one scene that gives a primary lesson to Hathaway's fashion neophyte, Streep deftly, elegantly and implicitly describes that fashion does not deserve all of the critique from the masses: fashion is where art and beauty meet utility and accessibility. This convergence of beauty and utility also provides thousands and thousands of jobs, a point that couldn't be lost on Hathaway's character, who had won an award for covering a janitor union labor dispute in Chicago. Streep's character does this plausibly and beautifully (with just enough smugness) in a 3-minute scene while glancing at Hathaway's cerulean sweater.
Certainly this film will be entertaining for the fashion gawkers, and Hathaway provides plenty of fodder for that kind of entertainment. In the end, the wonderful surprise of this film is that different social perspectives come to this story, they meet and mingle, confront and question, and come out going their separate ways without acidic and destructive critique. For a story and film that reflects on image, the story is not preachy or overtly critical. It is possible for empathic feelings for all the characters, a rare feat in a story or film. This film was a pleasant surprise during this past week of a surreal and odd look at image through the deaths of 3 oddly different, yet similar public figures, Michael Jackson, Farah Fawcett and Billy Mays.
Image is much more complex than the over-simplification that can happen in popular media. This is not to say popular media doesn't play an important role in public discourse, only that it is incomplete. The Devil Wears Prada adds to the depth of discussion about image. I am currently reading a book by Chuck Klosterman that will take that depth to a new and enjoyable level. I will write on this book soon.
Monday, June 29, 2009
An evolving relationship with coffee (part 3)
Just when I thought coffee culture couldn't reveal any more to me, I was thrown a curve ball. As a young adult seminary student and intern, the coffee klatches were merely apoplectic about my avoidance of coffee. As a pastor, elderly women of Northern European descent became outright evangelistic (though with differing techniques) about coffee consumption.
Some statements by the Coffistas created a nuanced persuasion that I somehow missed something in my earlier experiences with coffee:
"Nothing tastes as good with a pan of my turtle (or insert any type of cookie or bar) bars like a cup of coffee (watch out when you find a Coffista Food Pusher)!"
"Sure, you may have tried coffee, but you've never tried EGG coffee!
I didn't want these elderly evangelists to know that I did taste their egg coffee. I don't think the egg does a damn thing to the taste (it still tastes like crap), but for them, adding the egg makes it a special occasion--which I think is the most important aspect of this recipe. The coffee tastes like licking the bottom of a recycle bin because the ultra-cheap coffee (coffee brands with names like Butter Nut) sits for hours in their 40-year old metallic percolators. Maybe the egg knocks down the beverage toxicity around five percent.
Sometimes the coffee evangelists took on a Big Brother tone: "You'll be drinking coffee before you leave this church." This type of statement from the Coffistas of the NGP/UM annoyed me more than any other, and made my anti-coffee stance even more resolute.
There was also the side of coffee culture that made me laugh. One day at a local cafe in which I used to frequent, I inquired about the status of Oliver's day. His reply. "Oh, I've been here most of the day talking with my friends. I'm on my 7th pot of coffee."
Seventh pot of coffee?!?!?!?!?
Here I learned the lesson about coffee strength. My loved ones tend to go for deeply black coffee that looks like gas tank sludge. The darker color speaks to coffee efficiency--the beverage remains a social lubricant, but also operates as a charge for the day. No drinking seven pots here. Conversely, Oliver and his ilk use a coffee not so much concerned with efficiency, but it's warmth and drinking motion that fills the time gaps and provides space to think. This type of pregnant pause to drink and swallow allows time to prepare statements and responses that solve the problems of the church, world, and discussing "prayer concerns (aka gossip)." Drinking coffee provides a tactile motion similar to prayer. I still struggle with the arithmetic that 90-year old man can drink 7 pots of coffee in 4 hours. In this equation I discovered a new paint color or J Crew clothing fabric hue: "Old Man Lutheran Coffee." This "coffee" is almost the shade of Lipton tea, but is not quite as red. Old Man Lutheran Coffee is almost transparent; certainly one can see the bottom of the cup when the coffee is poured. I don't marvel at the weakness of the coffee, but that a 90-year-old man would be willing to urinate with the frequency necessary to consume 7 pots of coffee.
Since Oliver is now sipping coffee with the heavenly court, maybe I'll figure out the mysteries of this culture on the other side of heaven when he greets me in heaven's basement. Heaven's basement wouldn't be hell, just the place where Oliver probably prefers to be after a full day of praising God.
I served in 7 congregations throughout the NGP/UM Lutheran Holy Land, walking a wide enough circle around the Coffistas to be able to observe coffee culture with a bemused detachment. Until 2009.
Some statements by the Coffistas created a nuanced persuasion that I somehow missed something in my earlier experiences with coffee:
"Nothing tastes as good with a pan of my turtle (or insert any type of cookie or bar) bars like a cup of coffee (watch out when you find a Coffista Food Pusher)!"
"Sure, you may have tried coffee, but you've never tried EGG coffee!
I didn't want these elderly evangelists to know that I did taste their egg coffee. I don't think the egg does a damn thing to the taste (it still tastes like crap), but for them, adding the egg makes it a special occasion--which I think is the most important aspect of this recipe. The coffee tastes like licking the bottom of a recycle bin because the ultra-cheap coffee (coffee brands with names like Butter Nut) sits for hours in their 40-year old metallic percolators. Maybe the egg knocks down the beverage toxicity around five percent.
Sometimes the coffee evangelists took on a Big Brother tone: "You'll be drinking coffee before you leave this church." This type of statement from the Coffistas of the NGP/UM annoyed me more than any other, and made my anti-coffee stance even more resolute.
There was also the side of coffee culture that made me laugh. One day at a local cafe in which I used to frequent, I inquired about the status of Oliver's day. His reply. "Oh, I've been here most of the day talking with my friends. I'm on my 7th pot of coffee."
Seventh pot of coffee?!?!?!?!?
Here I learned the lesson about coffee strength. My loved ones tend to go for deeply black coffee that looks like gas tank sludge. The darker color speaks to coffee efficiency--the beverage remains a social lubricant, but also operates as a charge for the day. No drinking seven pots here. Conversely, Oliver and his ilk use a coffee not so much concerned with efficiency, but it's warmth and drinking motion that fills the time gaps and provides space to think. This type of pregnant pause to drink and swallow allows time to prepare statements and responses that solve the problems of the church, world, and discussing "prayer concerns (aka gossip)." Drinking coffee provides a tactile motion similar to prayer. I still struggle with the arithmetic that 90-year old man can drink 7 pots of coffee in 4 hours. In this equation I discovered a new paint color or J Crew clothing fabric hue: "Old Man Lutheran Coffee." This "coffee" is almost the shade of Lipton tea, but is not quite as red. Old Man Lutheran Coffee is almost transparent; certainly one can see the bottom of the cup when the coffee is poured. I don't marvel at the weakness of the coffee, but that a 90-year-old man would be willing to urinate with the frequency necessary to consume 7 pots of coffee.
Since Oliver is now sipping coffee with the heavenly court, maybe I'll figure out the mysteries of this culture on the other side of heaven when he greets me in heaven's basement. Heaven's basement wouldn't be hell, just the place where Oliver probably prefers to be after a full day of praising God.
I served in 7 congregations throughout the NGP/UM Lutheran Holy Land, walking a wide enough circle around the Coffistas to be able to observe coffee culture with a bemused detachment. Until 2009.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Listening...(June 26, 2009 edition)
My music playlist has shifted a bit in the last two weeks. Between Starbucks, the free iTunes downloads, and splurging about three dollars on downloads, I'm putting a little variety in my listening habits. It's not a large departure, but at least the songs are different.
No listening habit can eclipse the songs going on in my head, thanks to my daughters and PBS Kids. I learn I am not the only parent suffering from the infinite PBS playlist. We get together and sing the Sid The Science Kid opening song. Jingle writers and children's TV song writers are the greatest under the radar artists in society. Their ability to get something in the heads of millions is uncanny. When I think of all the songs that make my playlists and compare them to jingles and children's TV shows, the latter makes many more tracks on the soundtrack of life.
If the CD/playlist/album was called, "Moving Back To King County" the track list would look like this
"Rug Time" Teacher Suzie from Sid The Science Kid
"Curious George Opening Song"
"Martha Speaks Opening Song"
"I'm Looking For My Friends" Sid The Science Kid
"Word Girl Opening Song"
"Dragon Tales Opening Song"
"Earn Enough For Us" XTC (We're still trying to sell our house--big theme song)
"Revival" Me Phi Me
"Everywhere" Michelle Branch (Those damn Chase commercials)
"Into The Great Unknown" Mary Fahl
"Bad Day" Barenaked Ladies
"Jai Ho" Slumdog Millionaire Soundtrack (A favorite of child #2, "Listen to Jai Ho, Daddy?)
The PBS songs are far more infectious, and sometimes the girls and I will sing these songs like we're living in a musical. We can see a rug, or go sit down somewhere to talk, and we break into singing "Rug Time." I used to think musicals were silly in my younger life, but I'm beginning to understand their artistic value more and more each day.
No listening habit can eclipse the songs going on in my head, thanks to my daughters and PBS Kids. I learn I am not the only parent suffering from the infinite PBS playlist. We get together and sing the Sid The Science Kid opening song. Jingle writers and children's TV song writers are the greatest under the radar artists in society. Their ability to get something in the heads of millions is uncanny. When I think of all the songs that make my playlists and compare them to jingles and children's TV shows, the latter makes many more tracks on the soundtrack of life.
If the CD/playlist/album was called, "Moving Back To King County" the track list would look like this
"Rug Time" Teacher Suzie from Sid The Science Kid
"Curious George Opening Song"
"Martha Speaks Opening Song"
"I'm Looking For My Friends" Sid The Science Kid
"Word Girl Opening Song"
"Dragon Tales Opening Song"
"Earn Enough For Us" XTC (We're still trying to sell our house--big theme song)
"Revival" Me Phi Me
"Everywhere" Michelle Branch (Those damn Chase commercials)
"Into The Great Unknown" Mary Fahl
"Bad Day" Barenaked Ladies
"Jai Ho" Slumdog Millionaire Soundtrack (A favorite of child #2, "Listen to Jai Ho, Daddy?)
The PBS songs are far more infectious, and sometimes the girls and I will sing these songs like we're living in a musical. We can see a rug, or go sit down somewhere to talk, and we break into singing "Rug Time." I used to think musicals were silly in my younger life, but I'm beginning to understand their artistic value more and more each day.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Surreal lives
It's a strange day when Michael Jackson and Farah Fawcett die on the same day. I never owned a Michael Jackson cassette or album, nor did I have the quintessential Farah Fawcett poster on my wall, but these two celebreties were two of the most difficult public figures to avoid in the 70's (Fawcett) and 80's (Jackson). One had to crawl in a cave to avoid hearing something about them, and this was even in the days before the Internet. These two figures are case studies on the effect of celebrity on society, and on the individuals themselves. When I learned the news, I immediately thought of the Barenaked Ladies' song Celebrity, and its lyrics that highlight the only thing we ever see in the person is the celebrity itself, and that celebrity has tenuous meaning.
I write this reflection as an observation rather than judgment, but it makes me wonder about how we look at any celebrity, whether that person is a musician or actor, athlete, or even a religious figure. How do people (how do I?) look at Jesus? How do congregational members see their pastor? I will never forget the four-year old child who didn't believe that I ate when I shared a meal with her family one Sunday afternoon. Our images of the other are always incomplete, if not constructed by what we want to see. Some days I live a surreal life.
I write this reflection as an observation rather than judgment, but it makes me wonder about how we look at any celebrity, whether that person is a musician or actor, athlete, or even a religious figure. How do people (how do I?) look at Jesus? How do congregational members see their pastor? I will never forget the four-year old child who didn't believe that I ate when I shared a meal with her family one Sunday afternoon. Our images of the other are always incomplete, if not constructed by what we want to see. Some days I live a surreal life.
An evolving relationship with coffee (part 2)
I thought the cultural attachment to coffee in the Northern Great Plains/Upper Midwest (NGP/UM) strange as I moved more deeply into congregational life. The relationship to coffee appeared different in the Pacific Northwest in my simultaneous regional observations. In the early 90's coffee developed into a heavy commerce/status/survival commodity in the Pacific Northwest. Commerce, because coffee stands sprung up like rainy season mushrooms all over the PNW, in any old place. As a non-coffee drinker, I saw it as a status/commerce thing at the time. However, after repeated visits to the PNW, my dear wife commented that coffee was more of a survival drink, offering a means to get through mind-altering and numerous overcast days. I found that argument persuasive, though I still could not relate. So much money and effort placed on something that tasted like something brewed from dishwater, dirt and acid.
Coffee in the NGP/UM Lutheran culture became annoying--it was a social ticket in any congregation with which I came in contact. I literally received gasps when I refused coffee. What does one do with their hands and mouth during a conversation? How does one stay awake during an Adult Bible Study on a Sunday morning? I joke that I almost wasn't ordained or graduated from seminary because part of the examination period involved being offered a cup of coffee. If I didn't accept, I failed and would be removed from the program. This joke was not completely baseless; I had one instance where I thought I was failing on my internship because of coffee. A local pastor was visibly offended when I refused coffee at a meeting and insisted multiple times I had a cup. "What do you MEAN you don't drink coffee (can't Baptists enter into anything without judgment--I'll have to talk with my friend Theobilly the Baptist about this one)?!??!???" Having a weak self-esteem bubble, I gagged through a cup and 1/2 and felt a racing heart mangled taste buds the rest of the morning.
Marriage offered me no shelter from coffee culture--my dear wife loves her coffee. Few things solidify and care for our marriage like the dependable cup of coffee brewed in the morning, it speaks something about the commitment of love. She taught me the art of working with espresso--and I have developed into a decent amateur barista. We've worked our way through two espresso machines in nearly 12 years of marriage, and are in need of a third. I attempted to resurrect our last machine, but broke it beyond repair in that attempt. The Frugal Rule is so strong that we are holding off on a new machine purchase until our budget can help us acquire a higher quality device. But we have our basic Mr. Coffee to get us through the interim period. My dear wife has never been a militant coffee activist. She has never derided me for my simple freedom to reject coffee--only that I tolerate her simple(?) pleasure and not look down on keeping it as a household staple. No problem there. Though I don't like the taste or smell of coffee, it doesn't evoke the gag reflex like the banana or paper mache.
After ordination and graduation from seminary, I became more resolute in my personal rejection of coffee, but it wasn't merely the coffee institution, but the entire idea of caffeine. I wondered about the need for such a stimulant. A very good friend of mine used to carry large gas station containers of java wherever he went at the seminary--I could identify a place he landed, because he left his coffee jugs all over campus with his papers and books. One day in a real smart-aleck tone I told him--"I don't need coffee, I just sleep. It works a lot better for studying." Part of this declaration involved what I learned trying to pull all-nighters...but I still had (have) a lot to learn.
Coffee in the NGP/UM Lutheran culture became annoying--it was a social ticket in any congregation with which I came in contact. I literally received gasps when I refused coffee. What does one do with their hands and mouth during a conversation? How does one stay awake during an Adult Bible Study on a Sunday morning? I joke that I almost wasn't ordained or graduated from seminary because part of the examination period involved being offered a cup of coffee. If I didn't accept, I failed and would be removed from the program. This joke was not completely baseless; I had one instance where I thought I was failing on my internship because of coffee. A local pastor was visibly offended when I refused coffee at a meeting and insisted multiple times I had a cup. "What do you MEAN you don't drink coffee (can't Baptists enter into anything without judgment--I'll have to talk with my friend Theobilly the Baptist about this one)?!??!???" Having a weak self-esteem bubble, I gagged through a cup and 1/2 and felt a racing heart mangled taste buds the rest of the morning.
Marriage offered me no shelter from coffee culture--my dear wife loves her coffee. Few things solidify and care for our marriage like the dependable cup of coffee brewed in the morning, it speaks something about the commitment of love. She taught me the art of working with espresso--and I have developed into a decent amateur barista. We've worked our way through two espresso machines in nearly 12 years of marriage, and are in need of a third. I attempted to resurrect our last machine, but broke it beyond repair in that attempt. The Frugal Rule is so strong that we are holding off on a new machine purchase until our budget can help us acquire a higher quality device. But we have our basic Mr. Coffee to get us through the interim period. My dear wife has never been a militant coffee activist. She has never derided me for my simple freedom to reject coffee--only that I tolerate her simple(?) pleasure and not look down on keeping it as a household staple. No problem there. Though I don't like the taste or smell of coffee, it doesn't evoke the gag reflex like the banana or paper mache.
After ordination and graduation from seminary, I became more resolute in my personal rejection of coffee, but it wasn't merely the coffee institution, but the entire idea of caffeine. I wondered about the need for such a stimulant. A very good friend of mine used to carry large gas station containers of java wherever he went at the seminary--I could identify a place he landed, because he left his coffee jugs all over campus with his papers and books. One day in a real smart-aleck tone I told him--"I don't need coffee, I just sleep. It works a lot better for studying." Part of this declaration involved what I learned trying to pull all-nighters...but I still had (have) a lot to learn.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
An evolving relationship with coffee (part 1)
I live in a borderland region between idealism and pragmatism. Nothing has made me realize such borderland living than raising children.
Life in idealism says that I have control in my life. I do not need the typical human aides for day to day life. Life in pragmatism says that I need to make choices that will allow me to uphold my values even when those choices may go against personal preferences in the short term. I do not write of a deep ethical deliberation, I write about my evolving relationship with coffee--from the place of idealism to pragmatism.
The prominent adults in my life, except for my father, began their day and jolted their mid-day with a terrible product I knew as Taster's Choice instant coffee. The brown crystalline powder smelled of landfill dirt laced with acid. My Mom and Granddad drank it, and it was the one drink in the house (besides booze) that it was easy from which to keep me. Despite its mysterious aversive qualities, that green or red decorated glass jar was a morning icon of sorts. This instant coffee, in all its putridity, signified grown-up culture. The grown-ups knew something that the children did not know. For all I wanted to know about being a grown-up, this coffee substance was a mystery for which I had no complaint. Occasionally I tried to drink from this mystery, only to send shudders throughout my nerve endings. It was something that my love for straight sugar could not serve. Though I could eat straight sugar cubes and spoonfuls of brown sugar, not even piles of sugar at the church coffee stop could make that dirty liquid taste appealing, even with a deep desire to be a grown-up myself, it still tasted terrible.
I avoided coffee throughout most of my teenage years. When my friends started drinking coffee on late night trips to Denny's or local coffee houses, I discovered a more palatable bitter beverage. Earl Grey became my bitter beverage of choice--it provided an enjoyable jolt and for some reason I enjoyed its bitter better. I think it may have tasted better because it became the beverage of my ever expanding ideas of the world--late night discussions with friends.
For some reason, I moved away from Earl Grey during my undergraduate days at the University of Kansas. Somehow the name Earl Grey doesn't match Kansas. While some drank coffee at all night study sessions, I surmised I needed to make the cultural leap toward coffee. At the church that opened its doors to late night studiers with coffee and donuts in Lawrence--I took a sip of coffee and thought I needed to find something else--all of the awful memories of this drink did not change. The commercials for General Foods International Coffees gave me an image of hot cocoa with a jolt. This beverage still tasted putrid to me. I moved on to Mountain Dew to get me through the study session. After attempting 4 all night sessions, falling asleep during one of my Russian History final examination, I learned that studying throughout the semester and sleeping well was a better equation for academic success than stimulant beverages.
When I continued my academic career in Minnesota, I was more immersed in Lutheran culture than ever before, and that jokes about coffee culture that I thought were exaggerated were not tall tales. Some said that along with Baptism and Communion coffee was the "third Sacrament." Coffee appeared to be a social pillar like cigarettes or alcohol--I wondered if a group of Minnesotans couldn't get together without sharing coffee. I loved Minnesota, and it represented a huge positive shift in my life, but this was a cultural institution I wanted to avoid. Looking back, I still wanted to maintain my own identity in this powerful cultural milieu. If you don't believe that Northern Great Plains/Upper Midwest Lutheranism is not a powerful cultural milieu, consider Garrison Keillor's A Prairie Home Companion. I once believed this was a comedic exaggeration I would never understand, but learned in 16 years of living in the heart of Northern Great Plains/Upper Midwest Lutheran culture, that it is no comedic exaggeration, but only highlighting cultural idiosyncrasies with gifted storytelling with a willingness not to take self too seriously. Avoiding coffee was my way of still maintaining self in the midst of strong formational cultural presence. These cultural distinctions appear not to matter much, but I think these cultural interactions we witness in the midst of a mobile society offer all kinds of points about how we create culture and how we as humans build relationships and societies.
Life in idealism says that I have control in my life. I do not need the typical human aides for day to day life. Life in pragmatism says that I need to make choices that will allow me to uphold my values even when those choices may go against personal preferences in the short term. I do not write of a deep ethical deliberation, I write about my evolving relationship with coffee--from the place of idealism to pragmatism.
The prominent adults in my life, except for my father, began their day and jolted their mid-day with a terrible product I knew as Taster's Choice instant coffee. The brown crystalline powder smelled of landfill dirt laced with acid. My Mom and Granddad drank it, and it was the one drink in the house (besides booze) that it was easy from which to keep me. Despite its mysterious aversive qualities, that green or red decorated glass jar was a morning icon of sorts. This instant coffee, in all its putridity, signified grown-up culture. The grown-ups knew something that the children did not know. For all I wanted to know about being a grown-up, this coffee substance was a mystery for which I had no complaint. Occasionally I tried to drink from this mystery, only to send shudders throughout my nerve endings. It was something that my love for straight sugar could not serve. Though I could eat straight sugar cubes and spoonfuls of brown sugar, not even piles of sugar at the church coffee stop could make that dirty liquid taste appealing, even with a deep desire to be a grown-up myself, it still tasted terrible.
I avoided coffee throughout most of my teenage years. When my friends started drinking coffee on late night trips to Denny's or local coffee houses, I discovered a more palatable bitter beverage. Earl Grey became my bitter beverage of choice--it provided an enjoyable jolt and for some reason I enjoyed its bitter better. I think it may have tasted better because it became the beverage of my ever expanding ideas of the world--late night discussions with friends.
For some reason, I moved away from Earl Grey during my undergraduate days at the University of Kansas. Somehow the name Earl Grey doesn't match Kansas. While some drank coffee at all night study sessions, I surmised I needed to make the cultural leap toward coffee. At the church that opened its doors to late night studiers with coffee and donuts in Lawrence--I took a sip of coffee and thought I needed to find something else--all of the awful memories of this drink did not change. The commercials for General Foods International Coffees gave me an image of hot cocoa with a jolt. This beverage still tasted putrid to me. I moved on to Mountain Dew to get me through the study session. After attempting 4 all night sessions, falling asleep during one of my Russian History final examination, I learned that studying throughout the semester and sleeping well was a better equation for academic success than stimulant beverages.
When I continued my academic career in Minnesota, I was more immersed in Lutheran culture than ever before, and that jokes about coffee culture that I thought were exaggerated were not tall tales. Some said that along with Baptism and Communion coffee was the "third Sacrament." Coffee appeared to be a social pillar like cigarettes or alcohol--I wondered if a group of Minnesotans couldn't get together without sharing coffee. I loved Minnesota, and it represented a huge positive shift in my life, but this was a cultural institution I wanted to avoid. Looking back, I still wanted to maintain my own identity in this powerful cultural milieu. If you don't believe that Northern Great Plains/Upper Midwest Lutheranism is not a powerful cultural milieu, consider Garrison Keillor's A Prairie Home Companion. I once believed this was a comedic exaggeration I would never understand, but learned in 16 years of living in the heart of Northern Great Plains/Upper Midwest Lutheran culture, that it is no comedic exaggeration, but only highlighting cultural idiosyncrasies with gifted storytelling with a willingness not to take self too seriously. Avoiding coffee was my way of still maintaining self in the midst of strong formational cultural presence. These cultural distinctions appear not to matter much, but I think these cultural interactions we witness in the midst of a mobile society offer all kinds of points about how we create culture and how we as humans build relationships and societies.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
A trip to the park and lunchtime texture issues
The girls and I just returned from a picnic at the park. I'm still a bit in the nesting stage of the family move, so it takes an intentional effort to get out of the house. I may find peace in organizing and pitching some of the undesirable stuff (I can't believe we moved some of this crap), but I look over at my girls and see their listlessness (even if they are doing good developmental activities) and know that a trip outside for play would be the best thing for all of us.
We are blessed to have a decent park about 1/4 mile away. It's not the best jungle gym, but it has a nice track, nice fields, and lots of places for the girls to roam while I can still see them from some bird's-eye views. The 6-year old moves along in her scooter while the 2-year old lounges in the baby jogger on the way. We swung by the post office to pick up the cheapest Seattle Times in town ($0.50), and we headed to park.
I packed a simple lunch of peanut butter sandwiches, Toasted Corn Doritos, bananas, and water. To even carry a banana on my person is a step forward. I have traumatic memories of bananas as a child. I recall biting into one an responding with a Technicolor yawn. Now the even the smell makes me despondent. Our oldest didn't eat many bananas growing up, mostly because I wouldn't buy them, let alone prepare them for her. But child #2 is a really picky eater, and would live off of chips, French fries, chocolate and milk if we let her. She won't touch a vegetable. She doesn't even eat grapes. A few months ago we discovered she likes bananas, and I learned I had to hold my nose and make a sacrifice if this child was to take in any nutrients at all outside of a multi-vitamin. Today's banana was over-ripe and smelly. I can still smell it, even though I have washed my hands 4 times since the picnic.
I have texture issues. Not only with bananas, but with any cooked vegetable--peas, carrots, zucchini or any other squash. The less cooked, the better. Overcooked is the trigger. It took me years before I could eat potatoes, and I still have a hard time with the sweet potato/yam cousins, unless my dear wife makes them a little crispy, like oven fries. I don't know from where this texture/sensory aversion comes--but all I know is that overripe banana for lunch sent a chill up my spine, sending a warning signal to my gag reflex.
The champion enemy to my texture gag reflex hasn't surfaced in almost 30 years. For some reason I had two elementary school teachers with unnatural relationships with paper mache. It seemed like any project we had involved paper mache. Art projects, science projects, geography projects, all seemed to involve paper mache with these education professionals. For me, these projects may as well have been made with a large vat of vomit. Sometimes I would leave the room, as my gag reflex would go wild, and one art project, smelling the chunky, thin oatmeal-like substance, with my classmates dipping their entire arms holding strips of newspaper, and pouring cups of the substance over the drying formation to solidify the structure sent me over the edge.
Paper mache and bananas turn me into Wendell Borton from the Simpsons. The only factor in my survival with these bananas is love for my children. I honestly find it easier to clean up poop. Maybe it's because people eat bananas and enjoy working with paper mache. Poop is always disgusting. But, I suppose you get used to it and can work beyond it to do what needs to be done.
My mother-in-law says that a seasoned nurse becomes so accustomed to changing bed pans that they can change a bed pan with one hand and eat a sandwich with the other. The memory of the latrine dive in Slumdog Millionaire also serves as a reminder that certain loathings can be overcome to achieve a goal. My daughters need their nutrition--and neither of them will need a banana for several hours.
We are blessed to have a decent park about 1/4 mile away. It's not the best jungle gym, but it has a nice track, nice fields, and lots of places for the girls to roam while I can still see them from some bird's-eye views. The 6-year old moves along in her scooter while the 2-year old lounges in the baby jogger on the way. We swung by the post office to pick up the cheapest Seattle Times in town ($0.50), and we headed to park.
I packed a simple lunch of peanut butter sandwiches, Toasted Corn Doritos, bananas, and water. To even carry a banana on my person is a step forward. I have traumatic memories of bananas as a child. I recall biting into one an responding with a Technicolor yawn. Now the even the smell makes me despondent. Our oldest didn't eat many bananas growing up, mostly because I wouldn't buy them, let alone prepare them for her. But child #2 is a really picky eater, and would live off of chips, French fries, chocolate and milk if we let her. She won't touch a vegetable. She doesn't even eat grapes. A few months ago we discovered she likes bananas, and I learned I had to hold my nose and make a sacrifice if this child was to take in any nutrients at all outside of a multi-vitamin. Today's banana was over-ripe and smelly. I can still smell it, even though I have washed my hands 4 times since the picnic.
I have texture issues. Not only with bananas, but with any cooked vegetable--peas, carrots, zucchini or any other squash. The less cooked, the better. Overcooked is the trigger. It took me years before I could eat potatoes, and I still have a hard time with the sweet potato/yam cousins, unless my dear wife makes them a little crispy, like oven fries. I don't know from where this texture/sensory aversion comes--but all I know is that overripe banana for lunch sent a chill up my spine, sending a warning signal to my gag reflex.
The champion enemy to my texture gag reflex hasn't surfaced in almost 30 years. For some reason I had two elementary school teachers with unnatural relationships with paper mache. It seemed like any project we had involved paper mache. Art projects, science projects, geography projects, all seemed to involve paper mache with these education professionals. For me, these projects may as well have been made with a large vat of vomit. Sometimes I would leave the room, as my gag reflex would go wild, and one art project, smelling the chunky, thin oatmeal-like substance, with my classmates dipping their entire arms holding strips of newspaper, and pouring cups of the substance over the drying formation to solidify the structure sent me over the edge.
Paper mache and bananas turn me into Wendell Borton from the Simpsons. The only factor in my survival with these bananas is love for my children. I honestly find it easier to clean up poop. Maybe it's because people eat bananas and enjoy working with paper mache. Poop is always disgusting. But, I suppose you get used to it and can work beyond it to do what needs to be done.
My mother-in-law says that a seasoned nurse becomes so accustomed to changing bed pans that they can change a bed pan with one hand and eat a sandwich with the other. The memory of the latrine dive in Slumdog Millionaire also serves as a reminder that certain loathings can be overcome to achieve a goal. My daughters need their nutrition--and neither of them will need a banana for several hours.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Weather joy!
Today I am thankful to be living in the Pacific Northwest instead of South Dakota. A nearly 30 degree difference in the projected highs in South Dakota and the Seattle metro. If I was in South Dakota, my only trip outside would be to go get the mail, and then I would retreat once again to my basement. I completed my 30-minute run today in the cool comfort of 53 degrees.
I realize I am in the minority by enjoying cloudy and cool weather, but it feels good to not be crabby today because of the weather.
I realize I am in the minority by enjoying cloudy and cool weather, but it feels good to not be crabby today because of the weather.
Downshift preaching
Yesterday was a very satisfying day of preaching, mostly because I worked harder on this sermon than I had any other sermon in a long time. Some of this hard work could be attributed to fear of looking like a fool if I didn't have the Revised Common Lectionary standing behind me. Some of the hard work could be attributed to a desire to to other things besides laundry and other household chores, and a longing for some intellectual stimulation. I was also not subject to the tyranny of the urgent last week, something that often happens in congregational life--funerals, complainers, preparing for a special service, a complicated leadership meeting, staff unrest, etc.
I think the real reason I had to work harder was that the resources and themes for a local, thematic sermon were not readily available. This week I am back on the Revised Common Lectionary, the congregation where I preach this coming Sunday uses the RCL in its worship life. All I have to do is go to textweek.com and I have numerous resources, I could attend a lectionary text study, I can listen to podcasts about text interpretation at workingpreacher.org. These are great resources, but sometimes they have become excuses for me not to think through texts and do some of my own study. That's not the RCL's fault--it's mine. The reminder is that I need to change gears and gain a new perspective before I get in a preaching rut.
I think the real reason I had to work harder was that the resources and themes for a local, thematic sermon were not readily available. This week I am back on the Revised Common Lectionary, the congregation where I preach this coming Sunday uses the RCL in its worship life. All I have to do is go to textweek.com and I have numerous resources, I could attend a lectionary text study, I can listen to podcasts about text interpretation at workingpreacher.org. These are great resources, but sometimes they have become excuses for me not to think through texts and do some of my own study. That's not the RCL's fault--it's mine. The reminder is that I need to change gears and gain a new perspective before I get in a preaching rut.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Really Behind The Movies--"Gran Torino"
Watching Clint Eastwood gives me hope for my older years. Eastwood wrote, directed and produced the 2008 film "Gran Torino." I hope that my creativity, talent and work ethic is lived out like Eastwood when I am in my late 70's. I can't remember dialogue so well crafted throughout a two-hour film. Usually during that length of film, there is some drag in conversation. If anything, Eastwood's character and his gigantic lexicon of head-shaking racist titles for his Detroit neighborhood neighbors offers enough anticipation for the next scene. However, there is much more to this story.
One thing should be said about this film that will probably not be said in any review--and it's actually something I have some authority to address. Gran Torino offers one of the best portrayals of a clergy person I have seen on television or film, if not the best. The Roman Catholic parish priest in this neighborhood is a strong, but young presence. He attempts to show that he is worthy of his charge, while revealing his inexperience even more (been there, done that). Though the priest shows great courage with his persistence in talking to Eastwood's character, and even though the cantankerous man calls him "over-educated" and doesn't want him to come around anymore (despite the priest's promise to his Eastwood's deceased wife), the priest persists. This persistence is also linked to his work with local Hmong gangs that are gaining a foothold in Eastwood's neighborhood, with whom he continues to interact. The priest seems to have the sense that he has a vigilante on his hands, but he is realistic regarding what can be done about the escalating racially charged violence in the neighborhood. The priest balances his understanding of the pastoral office, while also showing a believable humanity that I can't recall ever seeing.
In the end, what I appreciate about the priest in this film is that he bucks about every image of clergy on television, whether real or fictitious. Televangelists may attempt to craft an authentic image, but it appears to be a public relations campaign or a dramatic script. They may attempt to be more authentic because they wear jeans, or employ images from popular culture. For actors playing clergy, they're too one dimensional or predictable, they're monolithic--overfocused on being cool, moral, or they look like a lovable loser-- a buffoon. There's also the actor playing a clergy person who has lost their faith, and we watch their fall from vocation. The priest in Gran Torino changes and learns. He has gifts and deficits. He is courageous and fearful. He is idealistic yet realistic. He is a peacemaker, but also resonates with vengeance. Though my experiences as a clergy person don't mirror the priest in Gran Torino, the character is depicted in a way I was taught creates a story; the character changes. Change is important to me, because if change in people isn't possible, I should pack up all of my stuff and find another line of work. I believe transformation is possible. I believe Jesus is the best way that transformation is possible. I have learned not to be surprised by people's actions, but I try to learn the best way to redirect energy, with hope for transformation--I know there will be pain and suffering along the way.
The other angle I appreciated in Gran Torino is in its depiction of violence. The story of people and relationships woven with violence in Gran Torino serves as a reminder that violence is not a simple topic as pacifists or the NRA crowd would like the public to believe. I can't say anymore about this point without a spoiler for those whom have not seen this film. The topic of violence is presented with realism and care. Though the film is violent at times, it is not gratuitous.
In the end, I have also gained an appreciation for what I have seen as a clergy person. I have seen cultures, people and relationships I would have not otherwise seen. In some ways I see less than say a barber, bartender, or cosmetologist sees or hears. People try to put their best foot forward with us. Inevitably, a clergy person ends up in the cross hairs of life. Often times, I don't have the courage to be in the cross hairs. Sometimes God puts me there. The viewer of Gran Torino finds themselves in the cross hairs of life--I believe it is a film to be deeply appreciated, if not for the angles on which I have focused, but also for many more that can be discovered.
One thing should be said about this film that will probably not be said in any review--and it's actually something I have some authority to address. Gran Torino offers one of the best portrayals of a clergy person I have seen on television or film, if not the best. The Roman Catholic parish priest in this neighborhood is a strong, but young presence. He attempts to show that he is worthy of his charge, while revealing his inexperience even more (been there, done that). Though the priest shows great courage with his persistence in talking to Eastwood's character, and even though the cantankerous man calls him "over-educated" and doesn't want him to come around anymore (despite the priest's promise to his Eastwood's deceased wife), the priest persists. This persistence is also linked to his work with local Hmong gangs that are gaining a foothold in Eastwood's neighborhood, with whom he continues to interact. The priest seems to have the sense that he has a vigilante on his hands, but he is realistic regarding what can be done about the escalating racially charged violence in the neighborhood. The priest balances his understanding of the pastoral office, while also showing a believable humanity that I can't recall ever seeing.
In the end, what I appreciate about the priest in this film is that he bucks about every image of clergy on television, whether real or fictitious. Televangelists may attempt to craft an authentic image, but it appears to be a public relations campaign or a dramatic script. They may attempt to be more authentic because they wear jeans, or employ images from popular culture. For actors playing clergy, they're too one dimensional or predictable, they're monolithic--overfocused on being cool, moral, or they look like a lovable loser-- a buffoon. There's also the actor playing a clergy person who has lost their faith, and we watch their fall from vocation. The priest in Gran Torino changes and learns. He has gifts and deficits. He is courageous and fearful. He is idealistic yet realistic. He is a peacemaker, but also resonates with vengeance. Though my experiences as a clergy person don't mirror the priest in Gran Torino, the character is depicted in a way I was taught creates a story; the character changes. Change is important to me, because if change in people isn't possible, I should pack up all of my stuff and find another line of work. I believe transformation is possible. I believe Jesus is the best way that transformation is possible. I have learned not to be surprised by people's actions, but I try to learn the best way to redirect energy, with hope for transformation--I know there will be pain and suffering along the way.
The other angle I appreciated in Gran Torino is in its depiction of violence. The story of people and relationships woven with violence in Gran Torino serves as a reminder that violence is not a simple topic as pacifists or the NRA crowd would like the public to believe. I can't say anymore about this point without a spoiler for those whom have not seen this film. The topic of violence is presented with realism and care. Though the film is violent at times, it is not gratuitous.
In the end, I have also gained an appreciation for what I have seen as a clergy person. I have seen cultures, people and relationships I would have not otherwise seen. In some ways I see less than say a barber, bartender, or cosmetologist sees or hears. People try to put their best foot forward with us. Inevitably, a clergy person ends up in the cross hairs of life. Often times, I don't have the courage to be in the cross hairs. Sometimes God puts me there. The viewer of Gran Torino finds themselves in the cross hairs of life--I believe it is a film to be deeply appreciated, if not for the angles on which I have focused, but also for many more that can be discovered.
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