Friday night my family and I lived in a Hilton Hotel on the shore of Lake Ray Hubbard in Rockwall, Texas, the site of Concord Church's marriage conference. My coauthor, Bill Cutrer, flew in from Louisville so we could co-present the intimacy workshop.
I picked him up Friday night, and we had a little reunion of friends from his days as our pastor at Wildwood Baptist in Mesquite. Then the Glahn family and the good doctor headed out to Rockwall.
Talking about sex is not really my favorite topic. I'd rather talk about writing. But I do like the fact that churches now have both men and women talking on the subject instead of just men. That seems to better fit the spirit of Titus 2.
During a question/answer time, one of the couples asked about how to talk to their kids about sex. So I made that the topic of today's post over on the Tapestry Blog. You can read that here.
Then Saturday night our girl had her first date. A friend from elementary school days who's in ROTC asked if she'd go with him as "just friends" to the ROTC ball. Under those circumstances and since his dad was driving them to/from, we said okay. It was formal and everything. Golly. She learned how to feed herself only about two weeks ago, and now she has a date?
Last night we watched Drew Brees go marching in to the SuperBowl. I already mentioned our screaming...
Monday, February 08, 2010
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Did You Hear Us Screaming?
Did you hear us cheering for the New Orleans Saints tonight from Mesquite, Texas?
The first time we ever ate chicken spaghetti, we ate it with the Brees boys. Their mom worked at the same law firm that employed my hubby, and while we were poor seminary students, their family needed some weekend housesitting/childcare. (My husband is convinced that throwing the football in the back yard with Drew helped him clinch New Orleans's victory today.)
In honor of tonight's win, we'll be making Mina Brees's recipe. It's one of the staples at our Texas table. You might like to make some too:
The first time we ever ate chicken spaghetti, we ate it with the Brees boys. Their mom worked at the same law firm that employed my hubby, and while we were poor seminary students, their family needed some weekend housesitting/childcare. (My husband is convinced that throwing the football in the back yard with Drew helped him clinch New Orleans's victory today.)
In honor of tonight's win, we'll be making Mina Brees's recipe. It's one of the staples at our Texas table. You might like to make some too:
MINA'S CHICKEN SPAGHETTI
1 chicken boiled and deboned and chopped
1 medium onion, chopped
1 medium green pepper, chopped
1 can cream of chicken soup
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 can water
parsley, salt, pepper to taste
1 pkg (12 oz) spaghetti, cooked
Mix all together and serve in skillet. (I add garlic salt too.)
1 chicken boiled and deboned and chopped
1 medium onion, chopped
1 medium green pepper, chopped
1 can cream of chicken soup
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 can water
parsley, salt, pepper to taste
1 pkg (12 oz) spaghetti, cooked
Mix all together and serve in skillet. (I add garlic salt too.)
No matter who you rooted for tonight, isn't it fun to see a city go from devastation to celebration?
Thursday, February 04, 2010
HTML or Windows or what?
Ever since I updated to the latest version of Windows, when I view my web site, the pull-down menus have been stuck in the "down" position. Any programmers out there who have a clue how I can get them to return to normal?
Good quote: "Like everything which is not the involuntary result of fleeting emotion but the creation of time and will, any marriage, happy or unhappy, is infinitely more interesting and significant than any romance, however passionate." --W. H. Auden
Good bumper sticker: Honk if you love Jesus. Text if you want to meet Jesus.
Good bumper sticker: Honk if you love Jesus. Text if you want to meet Jesus.
Eyewitness Report from Haiti
My friend Diane, one of my EPA and Israel-trip girlfriends, writes this report from Haiti:
As we drive through the city — both its greener, more spacious outer limits and its packed, rubble-strewn urban pockets — I'm struck again and again with how very many people there are and how very little they have to do. Yes, there's ongoing, boisterous commerce on the streets. Buyers and sellers interact over green onions, eggplant, oranges and sugarcane, as well as lotions and soaps, cell-phone chargers, and even furniture. But so very many are just there. How can an earthquake-shaken city support so many lives?
The traffic is mind-boggling in certain areas — diesel fumes mingling with the saccharine-sweetness of rotting oranges and the aroma of burning garbage. In some places the concrete barrier between opposing traffic is only a suggestion. Once the "other" side gets over to ours, we permanently lose a lane.
And in addition to the sheer volume of people is the damage. In the city center, that damage seems almost apocalyptic — huge, ornate concrete structures tilting dangerously, domed roofs caved in, porches collapsed to the ground. The green lawn and security fencing around the Palais National creates a buffer of breathing room. Just across the boulevard, thousands of homeless stand on the side of their tent city to bathe, to trade goods, to simply sit, staring at the president's palace.
In some areas of the city, the damage seems capricious — one building seemingly unharmed next to another that's standing erect but sporting huge cracks across its face, across from yet another with three floors pancaked to the ground.
In other areas, closer to the epicenter, everything concrete is uninhabitable. The poorer the construction, the higher off the ground it once stood, the more the rubble. But simple hovels with tin roofs survive. So these people still have their homes, to use the word 'home' loosely.
Which is the big question here: Is the goal of "relief" simply to return Port-au-Prince to normalcy, the normalcy of pre-earthquake? Or is it to partner together to create a new normal — to help Haitians lift themselves up into a better way of life? As we realized from day one here, driving around, so much of what's visibly shocking is simply the poverty of Haiti — poorest country in the western world.
But regardless of the state of their buildings and their daily existence, the people of Haiti are beautiful. I'm especially struck by it when someone smiles — a smudged orphan sitting on my lap, a young girl waving as we drive past her tin shack, young men earnestly singing during a church service. Haiti's smiles are truly beautiful. And amazing, really, considering the past 3 weeks. Three weeks ago their world collapsed.
One American who lives here told me his story of Tuesday, January 12th. He was driving back from the hospital, having dropped off someone with malaria. The road started rolling, and as people poured into the street in fear, he frantically dodged them in his attempt to get home — to make sure that his family of orphans was safe. His family and house were some of the lucky ones. No one killed, the house intact. As they heard the cries and screams from outside, they hurried outside their gates to help uncover trapped neighbors. At the end of the evening, they gathered in their courtyard, shell-shocked yet praying, and listening to the screams and wails rising from across Port-au-Prince — "the collective moan of Haiti," he called it.
Every person has a story, and I so wish I could simply sit and hear those stories — magically endowed with the ability to understand Creole so that I wouldn't miss even a nuance of the emotion. Until God gives me that gift, I gaze at people as I pass them, wondering what they are thinking, feeling, fearing. I wonder where they were on January 12th, how many loved ones they've lost, whether they are too afraid to sleep under a roof each night. I especially stare at the children, unable to imagine their future.
But it's not all sadness and soberness. There is also a contingent of relief workers and pastors and churches with incredible energy and passion. And there are Marines.
We rumble past three U.S. Marines yesterday on a rutted road in the country. They're on foot, checking up on people's needs out in these villages, and they ask what our team knows about the people's needs here.
They've come to the right person. Mark — director of the crisis-response team I'm traveling with — gives them all the details about the people we are heading out to see, plus gps coordinates for other groups who are also receiving aid. And then the Marines invite us to their temporary encampment in the nearby town of Leogane, to pick up as many boxes of humanitarian MREs as we can carry. They are simply grateful to meet people who are working on long-term plans and are able to safely get food and supplies to where they're needed.
Soon, we're watching infantrymen from North Carolina execute a fast-paced, pass-it-down-the-line loading of supplies into our two trucks. Good-lookin', cleancut men — so young — all eager to do something to help, because the large-scale food distributions have been ineffective, and dangerous. "Come back soon," the first lieutenant tells us.
We will.
The traffic is mind-boggling in certain areas — diesel fumes mingling with the saccharine-sweetness of rotting oranges and the aroma of burning garbage. In some places the concrete barrier between opposing traffic is only a suggestion. Once the "other" side gets over to ours, we permanently lose a lane.
And in addition to the sheer volume of people is the damage. In the city center, that damage seems almost apocalyptic — huge, ornate concrete structures tilting dangerously, domed roofs caved in, porches collapsed to the ground. The green lawn and security fencing around the Palais National creates a buffer of breathing room. Just across the boulevard, thousands of homeless stand on the side of their tent city to bathe, to trade goods, to simply sit, staring at the president's palace.
In some areas of the city, the damage seems capricious — one building seemingly unharmed next to another that's standing erect but sporting huge cracks across its face, across from yet another with three floors pancaked to the ground.
In other areas, closer to the epicenter, everything concrete is uninhabitable. The poorer the construction, the higher off the ground it once stood, the more the rubble. But simple hovels with tin roofs survive. So these people still have their homes, to use the word 'home' loosely.
Which is the big question here: Is the goal of "relief" simply to return Port-au-Prince to normalcy, the normalcy of pre-earthquake? Or is it to partner together to create a new normal — to help Haitians lift themselves up into a better way of life? As we realized from day one here, driving around, so much of what's visibly shocking is simply the poverty of Haiti — poorest country in the western world.
But regardless of the state of their buildings and their daily existence, the people of Haiti are beautiful. I'm especially struck by it when someone smiles — a smudged orphan sitting on my lap, a young girl waving as we drive past her tin shack, young men earnestly singing during a church service. Haiti's smiles are truly beautiful. And amazing, really, considering the past 3 weeks. Three weeks ago their world collapsed.
One American who lives here told me his story of Tuesday, January 12th. He was driving back from the hospital, having dropped off someone with malaria. The road started rolling, and as people poured into the street in fear, he frantically dodged them in his attempt to get home — to make sure that his family of orphans was safe. His family and house were some of the lucky ones. No one killed, the house intact. As they heard the cries and screams from outside, they hurried outside their gates to help uncover trapped neighbors. At the end of the evening, they gathered in their courtyard, shell-shocked yet praying, and listening to the screams and wails rising from across Port-au-Prince — "the collective moan of Haiti," he called it.
Every person has a story, and I so wish I could simply sit and hear those stories — magically endowed with the ability to understand Creole so that I wouldn't miss even a nuance of the emotion. Until God gives me that gift, I gaze at people as I pass them, wondering what they are thinking, feeling, fearing. I wonder where they were on January 12th, how many loved ones they've lost, whether they are too afraid to sleep under a roof each night. I especially stare at the children, unable to imagine their future.
But it's not all sadness and soberness. There is also a contingent of relief workers and pastors and churches with incredible energy and passion. And there are Marines.
We rumble past three U.S. Marines yesterday on a rutted road in the country. They're on foot, checking up on people's needs out in these villages, and they ask what our team knows about the people's needs here.
They've come to the right person. Mark — director of the crisis-response team I'm traveling with — gives them all the details about the people we are heading out to see, plus gps coordinates for other groups who are also receiving aid. And then the Marines invite us to their temporary encampment in the nearby town of Leogane, to pick up as many boxes of humanitarian MREs as we can carry. They are simply grateful to meet people who are working on long-term plans and are able to safely get food and supplies to where they're needed.
Soon, we're watching infantrymen from North Carolina execute a fast-paced, pass-it-down-the-line loading of supplies into our two trucks. Good-lookin', cleancut men — so young — all eager to do something to help, because the large-scale food distributions have been ineffective, and dangerous. "Come back soon," the first lieutenant tells us.
We will.
Traveling Swiftly
Tonight I finished Gulliver's Travels (1726, amended 1735), by Irish writer and clergyman Jonathan Swift.
On the one hand, I encountered in this book exactly what I expected—a sort of Robinson Crusoe meets Honey, I Blew Up Gulliver. And then Crusoe meets Honey, I Shrunk Gulliver. But I didn’t know about Gulliver’s experience on the flying island dedicated solely to music and math. Or all about his years on the island full of Yahoos—humans in their basest form.
More significantly, the cartoon versions I saw as a kid never quite communicated Swift’s satire on human depravity. And while the book is only about 15 years short of 300 years old, his assessment of politicians and legal mumbo-jumbo sounds so “2010.” But I most appreciated his speculation about the utter misery humans would experience if our mortal bodies aged but couldn’t die. Robinson Crusoe meets Tuck Everlasting. Or more like Robinson Crusue meets Genesis 3.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Drawing Their Fish in the Sand
About using Bible references in U2 Music:
"We've found different ways of expressing it, and recognized the power of the media to manipulate such signs. Maybe we just have to sort of draw our fish in the sand. It's there for people who are interested. It shouldn't be there for people who aren't." -- Bono on faith, quoted in U2 at the End of the World
If you want to know about some of the lyrics based on biblical stories and imagery, go here.
"We've found different ways of expressing it, and recognized the power of the media to manipulate such signs. Maybe we just have to sort of draw our fish in the sand. It's there for people who are interested. It shouldn't be there for people who aren't." -- Bono on faith, quoted in U2 at the End of the World
If you want to know about some of the lyrics based on biblical stories and imagery, go here.
The Story and the Tellers
Author of This Boy’s Life, prolific American short story writer and Stanford University creative writing professor, Tobias Wolff, will keynote the 14th annual HP Literary Festival on February 18-19, 2010. Mr. Wolff will speak at 7 p.m. on Thursday, February 18th in the Highland Park High School large auditorium, 4220 Emerson, in Dallas. Following the event, Mr. Wolff will sign books in the lobby. The event is free and open to the public. For more information, go to http://www.hplitfest.org/.
Monday, February 01, 2010
Kenya Mini-Report
My husband tells us he had a fantastic trip to Kenya. Here are just a few highlights:
They did some strategic training with Christian leaders based on an oral rather than literary model. Hand motions help these leaders remember and teach essentials such as prayer, baptism, and loving one another.
Some of my readers may remember stories and photos from summer 2008 about a teacher who started a remote school under a tree, where 91 students showed up. "Shadrack" held a free school Monday through Friday and then invited anyone interested to return on Sunday for church. Today he has a government-supplied co-teacher, freeing up Shadrack to teach only part-time and work part-time as a pastor. A church has been planted!
Gary also took money to purchase supplies to build more houses for displaced families. A group of local pastors helped him unload the supplies in the dark--a long, hard day. These local leaders determine who gets the supplies. Past recipients have included other pastors, church members, and nonChristians--whoever is in greatest need.
On their way up the mountain last year, Gary noticed kids playing soccer with a bunch of plastic bags tied with a rope. So this time on the way up (in the dark), they dropped off a leather soccer ball and a pump. The kids were thrilled. One of the nationals suggested that Gary lead a prayer of dedication, which he did, and then off the kids went--kicking the ball with their bare feet.
They did some strategic training with Christian leaders based on an oral rather than literary model. Hand motions help these leaders remember and teach essentials such as prayer, baptism, and loving one another.
Some of my readers may remember stories and photos from summer 2008 about a teacher who started a remote school under a tree, where 91 students showed up. "Shadrack" held a free school Monday through Friday and then invited anyone interested to return on Sunday for church. Today he has a government-supplied co-teacher, freeing up Shadrack to teach only part-time and work part-time as a pastor. A church has been planted!Gary also took money to purchase supplies to build more houses for displaced families. A group of local pastors helped him unload the supplies in the dark--a long, hard day. These local leaders determine who gets the supplies. Past recipients have included other pastors, church members, and nonChristians--whoever is in greatest need.
On their way up the mountain last year, Gary noticed kids playing soccer with a bunch of plastic bags tied with a rope. So this time on the way up (in the dark), they dropped off a leather soccer ball and a pump. The kids were thrilled. One of the nationals suggested that Gary lead a prayer of dedication, which he did, and then off the kids went--kicking the ball with their bare feet.
Five Million Dead
The response to events in Haiti has been appropriately overwhelming. Yet most Americans don't even know about a war that has claimed about 30 times as many lives. For more, watch this video.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Tebow SuperBowl Ad
Tim Tebow, the first sophomore in history to win a Heisman trophy, was also the first college football player both to rush and pass for 20 touchdowns in one season. And as if that weren't enough, last year Tebow led the Florida Gators to a second national championship in three years. Some predict he'll go down in history as the greatest college football player ever to live. Note emphasis on live.
When Tebow was in utero, doctors counseled his mom to abort him after she contracted a severe case of amoebic dysentery during a ministry trip to Philippines. And on SuperBowl Sunday, CBS will air a commercial that briefly tells Tebow's story along with encouragement to celebrate life.
In response some of the more radical women's groups are protesting.
Yet an editorial that ran in today's New York Times called such protests "puzzling and dismaying." Why? Because they say "The would-be censors are on the wrong track. Instead of trying to silence an opponent, advocates for allowing women to make their own decisions about whether to have a child should be using the Super Bowl spotlight to convey what their movement is all about: protecting the right of women like Pam Tebow to make their private reproductive choices."
That would be more consistent with their beliefs, wouldn't it? Pro-lifers who kill doctors who perform late-term abortions are inconsistent with life; and pro-choicers who try to censor info about all choices are inconsistent with choice.
The Times advises,"Viewers can watch and judge for themselves. Or they can get up from the couch and get a sandwich."
Michaelene Jenkins, who some years back organized the "Silent No More" event, did so because many women who abort do not know all the options available to them. "I don't think we're at a place to close all the doors. I want to see options that empower women."
When Tebow was in utero, doctors counseled his mom to abort him after she contracted a severe case of amoebic dysentery during a ministry trip to Philippines. And on SuperBowl Sunday, CBS will air a commercial that briefly tells Tebow's story along with encouragement to celebrate life.
In response some of the more radical women's groups are protesting.
Yet an editorial that ran in today's New York Times called such protests "puzzling and dismaying." Why? Because they say "The would-be censors are on the wrong track. Instead of trying to silence an opponent, advocates for allowing women to make their own decisions about whether to have a child should be using the Super Bowl spotlight to convey what their movement is all about: protecting the right of women like Pam Tebow to make their private reproductive choices."
That would be more consistent with their beliefs, wouldn't it? Pro-lifers who kill doctors who perform late-term abortions are inconsistent with life; and pro-choicers who try to censor info about all choices are inconsistent with choice.
The Times advises,"Viewers can watch and judge for themselves. Or they can get up from the couch and get a sandwich."
Michaelene Jenkins, who some years back organized the "Silent No More" event, did so because many women who abort do not know all the options available to them. "I don't think we're at a place to close all the doors. I want to see options that empower women."
Friday, January 29, 2010
My Fatherland at the DSO
Excuse my ignorance, but I'd never heard of Smetana--till last night. Thanks to a partnership between local universities and the Dallas Symphony Orchestra, we landed three ninth-row center-orchestra tickets to Smetana's Ma Vlast ("My Fatherland").So the symphony provided my daughter, her fellow-violinist friend, and me with a musical feast. The DSO served up a little polka, a lot of pastoral, and some nationalistic (in the best sense) triumphs in this patriotic suite. It was comprised of six "tone poems" written in homage to Smetana's beloved Bohemia (a region within what is today the Czech Republic).
But the chocolate topping on this bowl of ice cream came from the incomparable Pinchas Steinberg, who conducted. Imagine seventy-two minutes of intensely complex music directed by a master who'd memorized the entire score. And unlike with most symphonic performances at the Meyerson, this time Steinberg explained beforehand each of the six "poems." Though the musicians looked downright bored (some even talked!) through his lengthy explanation, this audience member appreciated knowing when to listen for stuff like the bassoon "snoring" when the Amazon woman drugged the men in a musical version of an ancient Czech myth.
The most remarkable piece of information, though, was the revelation that Smetana was entirely deaf at the time he composed Ma Vlast. At rehearsals, he knew how well the musicians were handling his masterpiece by watching the tempo and movement of the string bows. As if the music weren't inspiring enough...
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