Video Camera Generation

As I was looking through the calendar this week, I happened upon a list of celebrations and observances here, in the U.S., and some abroad. Little did I know that this week of the calendar year- the fourth week of May 2008 Anno Domino - is Pickle Week. I did not know that this is an international remembrance of the way pickled cucumbers have influenced the way we live our lives.

I also did not know of some of the other celebrations and observances such as:

1. January is clown month.

2. January is also fiber focus month, national oatmeal month and prune breakfast month. I guess they want us to be regular after the holidays.

3. In the midst of celebrating our return to intestinal normalcy, some celebrate cuckoo dancing week. (I don't know what that really is)

4. February is cat health month.

5. Embroiderers unite! February celebrates you.

6. Lastly (I could only waste so much time checking up on special dates) March 1 is pig day.

There is a joyous opportunity to celebrate virtually every day of the calendar year. Common holidays include Christmas, Easter, Valentine's, Thanksgiving (if in the United States). We are people who love to establish rituals to mark the passage of time. We have birthday parties, anniversary celebrations: included in the commemorations are baby's first toilet training, the loss of the first tooth, when I correctly learned to identify the difference between adjectives and adverbs - you know, all those normal things.

I remember graduating from high school and college. My graduation from seminary was a huge cause for celebration. Memory sometimes fails of my graduation from preschool although my parents have a wonderful picture of me grabbing my 'diploma' wearing a wonderful '70s style green jumpsuit.

Today I went to Josephine's kindergarten graduation. In these days, kids not only graduate from high school, they also graduate from kindergarten, fifth grade, sixth grade and eighth grade. Hallmark must be making a fortune. As Christine and I journeyed into the chapel where the graduation ceremony was to be held, we noticed that there was a complete forest inside the sanctuary. This was not a forest of wood, but a forest of tripods. Video cameras replete with all the buzzes and whistles of an affluent society. Most of the cameras were the size of the owner's palm; I remember when the video cameras were the size of a rocket launcher. My aunt and uncle used to have one. It was the kind where you had to look through the eye piece to actually see what you were recording, one eye shut, blinding light making all the people in the picture throw up there arms to ward off the luminescent assault. I'm glad video cameras have become smaller. I digress.

We took our position in the back of the church; all the front pews had been reserved by three or four people who were saving them for all the family members in the four county area. Thus, Christine, Greta and I watched our beloved Josephine craning left and right to peer around the heads of all the Johnsons and Jones' in the first fifteen rows.

As the beautiful singing started, I heard beeps, buzzes, whistles as recorders were turned on and tuned in to each family's star of the show. (There was some mild profanity uttered as a few parents had forgotten to charge their batteries.) Throughout the ceremony I noticed that almost all the parents who were holding video cameras were so intent on recording the moment that they missed the moment. Because future posterity was so important, they missed out on the life giving, breathing moment of the beautiful children singing in a choir. They missed the live performance to watch it on a little three inch screen.

I think it is incredibly important to record for future generations the 'way things used to be' but I wouldn't have traded for a minute watching little Josephine dance and sing and laugh with her classmates. I could visually see how she wanted to silence a little boy who was singing to far ahead. Even though our event was recorded also, I really don't know how many times we'll watch Josephine's kindergarten graduation in the future, but I do know that Life escapes all too quickly and I'm going to enjoy it live - not by Memorex.

Sea Squirt

Years ago, looking up information took a lot longer. In researching papers for high school, more often than not I would head straight to the Encyclopedia Britannica. Walking to the east wall of the library, I would find the EB set for the current year. The sheer weight of the volumes, the mass of the books, caused the shelves of the book case to bend in frustration. If I remember correctly, the library housed copies of the EB for at least five years. So, hundreds of pounds of knowledge took up most of the east wing. I never understood why the EB printed a new encyclopedia every year. How much could change in one printing? I suppose discoveries and wars and people make the headlines, but really, was it worth it the heavy price on the bookshelves?



Now, information is as quick as how long it takes to type in a search word. No longer do we need to have an intricate knowledge of the Dewey Decimal system or even alphabetical order, for that fact; we simply need to know a few words of a topic, and Shazaam (I had to get one TV show reference in here) out spits millions of pages of trivia for whatever idea that might come into my head. Looking information up on the web is so predominant that "Googling" is an actual word in the dictionary now - a verb, amazing. You can Google anything including your own name. I was astonished to find that I am indeed a real person now that I can find me on the web.



I typed in four random words last week - bowl, chapstick, cardinal, and Lee Laaveg last week and it's amazing the kind of websites you can navigate to.



I also typed in something I heard on the radio. I Googled "Sea squirt." One of the radio announcers was long-windedly speaking about this tiny little creature of the ocean. Sea squirts are not a large link in the food chain; they don't take up much space in regards to the vastness of the ocean; they don't eat the shrimp that I like to order (for that, I don't have a personal vendetta against them.) Sea squirts are simply... there - out of sight, out of mind for the most part. Anyway, the DJ said that sea squirts, after completing their larval stage, affix themselves to the bottom of the ocean and then, get this, proceed to ingest their own brains. They don't need them anymore. I looked it up - sufficiently googled and wikipediaed. It's true (according to the web source - I didn't look up EB for final satisfaction). Once a sea squirt is fixed in a certain spot it digests it's own brain, it eats the very thing that allows it to move.



I've met a few human sea squirts in my life. Sometimes we become so entrenched in our daily activities, sometimes we become so complacent with our lives (our spiritual lives included) that we set our brains aside and refuse to move. We somehow convince ourselves we don't need them anymore. A sedentary society becomes mired in academic mediocrity. Sometimes we fill as if we have learned enough and disengage because our brains feel full. At times, learning becomes either frightening, dull or (seemingly) pointless; knowledge seems a burden. A co-worker wrote to me in an e-mail last week that you are only old when you stop learning - it doesn't matter what age you are.



So, I'm on a mission to get off my tuckus and learn. I'm getting up, searching around in my own head for my brain and affixing a lifestyle of reading and writing (not typing). How can I broaden the very borders of my mind and thus open up new opportunities to enrich my life? How can I turn my back on living life more abundantly?



So, my dear reader(s?), don't be sea squirts. How's that for a nice, pithy ending?

Equilibrium

In the air is the smell of spring. Even though the thermometer stubbornly refuses to arise, the sun bakes the smell of the earth and, like bread in the oven, the aroma wafts up from the ground to encourage our hungry souls.

I walked to work this morning full of whistles and springs in my step. Today, for me, is a great day to be breathing some of the oxygen on this planet. As I turned the corner from my home street to the larger street, I noticed a police officer in front of a house. Two pick-up trucks had narrowly avoided each other but one couldn't shirk the oak tree on the side of the road; the other truck pulled up lame with a broken axle after hitting the curb too hard. The frustration from both drivers was palpable - glaring and staring ensued. The irony, I think, was that they work for the same roofing company. I guess they were a little out of sorts this morning?

What held my interest aside from the accident, though, was the man standing beside the freshly dilapidated pickups. Auto accidents often draw crowds but this older gentlemen was the only one viewing the events. It was his house that was being roofed and the fender bender occurred at the foot of his acorn throwing tree.

I had met this man before; often on my walks I will stop and chat with people in the neighborhood. I think it is refreshing for the soul to talk to new people, to hear new stories and to view life from a different street. I don't always remember names but I did remember his - Luigi. A longtime immigrant from (you guessed it) Italy, Luigi lived right on the corner and had seen his share of accidents.

"Morning, Luigi." I said and shook his hand.
He didn't remember my name but he remember who I was.
"Morning, Churchguy."
"Looks like you've had a little excitement this morning." Stating the obvious occurs most often in the mornings, I think.
Luigi smiled, took off his hat and responded, "Well," he replied with the singsong up and down inflection that only the Italian accent accentuates, "I guess the insurance companies will have a good time with this one. I can't believe - two boys from my roofing company."
I looked up at his house. "You need a new roof?" I truly am Captain Obvious.
"Yes." Inwardly he was rolling his eyes, I'm sure.
"Do you ever get up on the roof?"
"I used to," the seventy year old man said, "But I don't do it anymore. I've got problems with my ears, my equil... ebrilquiliem... equilebr... you know what I mean."
"Equilibrium," I filled in the blank.
"I lose my balance if I get to high. I've got to stay right here on the ground."

I could delve into the rest of the conversation, but Luigi got me thinking. Equilibrium - something wrong with our ears.

Sometimes our ears are filled with all sorts of things that keep the voice of God out. Our balance becomes distorted; we are then incapable of attaining great heights. When our ears are out of balance to hear God's voice, we stay rooted in one spot in order that we don't fall or fail. I am learning to open my ears to hear God's voice and let myself be balanced by the Holy Spirit so that I can attain new heights and allow God to lead me where he would. Fear of falling or failure becomes a distant memory.

Love, Exciting and New

There were eight people seated at my table. A beautiful bouquet sprouted from the centerpiece; mirrors reflected the candlelight from the ceiling. Pseudo-soft music floated through the air. This wedding reception seemed as if it would be like any of the myriad of receptions that I have attended in my life. After all the guests had been seated, the D.J. cleared his throat to make introductions for the wedding party. The lights dimmed, conversation stopped. As the disc jockey began to speak, I thought I was transported to a NBA game. Lights flashed, his voice announcing the wedding party as if they were the starting five for the Chicago Bulls. People clapped and whistled - bridesmaids in there strapless dresses attempted to walk across the hall without tripping (or slipping). The groomsmen strutted like roosters on parade. It was all wonderful to watch. Then (drumroll please) the bride and groom floated across the hall seemingly levitating on a cloud. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness all bound up in a ten thousand dollar credit card bill.

I love weddings - not specifically for the predictable, but for the unpredictable. Weddings almost always produce an event, by someone in attendance, that will be regretted later. I think that event occurred at the table behind us. One of the young ladies, garbed in bright floral patterns, was having difficulties with her dress. Christine pointed out to me that she had spent much of the wedding reception adjusting the front. Perhaps she had imbibed a bit too much, but as we watched her make her quarter-hourly trip to the bathroom, Christine leaned over and said, "I think her dress is on backwards." Sure enough, the ribbon was on the wrong side, thus giving her the opportunity to be extremely self-conscious for most of the night.

The other unpredictable event occurred at our very own table. I think that most times the bride and groom don't know where to seat the pastor. Should they put him (in my case) near the front? Should they keep him as far away from the 20 somethings as possible? In my case, they put Christine and I at the very end of the hall - and with the other pastor and his wife. I smiled as we sat down. It's good to keep all the pastors in one area.

There were two other couples at our table. One duo was expecting their second child and the other, a couple who could not keep their hands off one another. Before the meal, the woman Mary constantly massaged Pete's arms and shoulders. They held hands, kissed, made eyes at each other. I felt like I was on the Pacific Princess. This perhaps could be expected if they were newly weds, but this couple, Pete and Mary, had been married for 38 years.

In this world, at this wedding reception, it was nice to see that love can still overcome all obstacles. That the divorce rate is over fifty percent, it made no difference. As the bride and groom sat at the head table, Pete and Mary sat with us at the foot table. Passion and love don't regress with age; I think they are more like the ocean tide. When the tide is high, passion and love are at their highest. When the tide is low, love carries seemingly by itself.

This couple was definitely riding high tide.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

One of the great icons in all of television history is Fred Rogers. I didn't know his first name was Fred until I was in college, I think. I just assumed that his whole person centered on being a "Mr." There was a time when televisions only had a limited amount of channels - usually thirteen and then there was that special channel that seemed to only carry kids stuff - PBS. I neither cared about what PBS stood for or why it didn't have an number; I only cared that it carried Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood.

Sesame Street was totally unpredictable; you were always shocked by who the guest of the day would be or what number the Count would be offering for the day. Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, on the other hand, was utterly predictable. The camera zooms through a miniaturized set up of a city and rests on the door of Mr. Rogers' house. The viewer is whisked inside as Fred waltzes through the door, takes off his wonderful cardigan sweater, changes into his house shoes all the while singing a song. At the end of his musical missive, Fred Rogers gazes questioningly into the camera and asks, "Won't you be my neighbor?"

If you are anything like me, it is quite common to talk to the television. Of course I wanted to be his neighbor! Yes! I would shout. Yes, Fred, count me amongst those of your friends and with you, let me ride on that train to the Land of Make Believe! Fred, take me with you!

Mr. Rogers' question is still very important today. Sometimes that query, "Won't you be my neighbor?" can be changed to the question, especially in Christian circles, "Who is my neighbor?"

In my growing up years, the nearest neighbors to us were at least half a mile away. We could ride our bikes or walk to our neighbors - we had an understanding of who they were, what the parents did. By all means we knew the names of roughly all the households in a ten mile radius. That, in essence, is a core value of small town life in rural Iowa.

Thirty years later we ask the same questions: "Who is my neighbor?" and "Won't you be my neighbor if you are not now?" Walking around the streets of my neighborhood, I have yet to meet all of those who share the same street address. When asked, "Who is my neighbor?" I could give you the names of those who share property lines with us, but I don't really know them. I think that has to do in large part to a change in perception of society. In this new culture we don't want neighbors - we want privacy. We don't want relationship or communication - we want to be left alone.

What a sad thing that is, in my mind. In a world longing for care and love we shun closeness. Concerned more for our own "personal time", we lose track of that which makes us human - our relationships. Who is my neighbor?

Just recently, on the way to work, I have been stopping to talk with people during the six block walk. As I approach some houses, I can see people's eyes scrutinizing me - wondering if I am a salesman - wondering if I am going to pressure them into buying something that they neither need nor want but simply want to rid themselves of my presence. After a few words of greeting I assure them of my non-fiscal intentions and we can talk, usually about the weather or forecast for weather or how much rain his cousin's wife's daughter's niece got, but simply talking to each other allows us to be neighbors - to share the same street, to share life under the same trees.

Neighbors are a good thing.

They don't necessarily need to take us to the Land of Make Believe where we pretend all sorts of things.

And so Mr. Rogers, at the end of his show, encourages all young children to tune in again sometime soon and says goodbye to his new neighbors. What a concept.