Why Christmas?

Quite a few people have walked into my office today, most of them letting the smile precede them, some of them are whistling a happy Christmas carol. Some of them even knock. As they sit down on the sofa, there is an expectation that I will ask them what brings their smile to my office, and I gladly oblige because if there is any one time of year that seeks fulfillment of joy, it is the advent season. So much expectation - so little time.

Why can't advent be prolonged for four months? Why only four weeks? There are many places on the web that I could find the answer to these questions; many of them claim that the original understanding for advent, or "coming", was more in preparation for Epiphany, rather than Christmas. Little do many know that in the early church there were three main church holidays: Easter (of course), Pentecost (that would be right) and Epiphany (the coming of the light). What? The first three are 'churchy' holidays. What about Christmas? 'Christ' right in the word unless you are my neighbor who continually (to get my goat, I think) calls the whole season x-mas almost as if it were a holiday for Wolverine, Magneto and Storm.

Why didn't the early church celebrate Christmas? Most likely, I think, because they didn't actually know when he was born. Let's face it: Jesus was born as (traditionally understood) part of a poor Jewish family. Birthdays were not considered that important in those days - most people didn't really even know how old they were. They probably would have known what season they were born, but an actual date? Probably not. So how was December 25 chosen as the date of the birth of the Savior? The most obvious guess is metaphorical. December 21 is the date commonly given as the solstice, when the earth begins to swing back the other direction. For those who live north of the equator, the daylight hours would be getting longer after December 21. The young church (already almost two hundred years old at this point) chose the winter solstice because it was a quaint understanding that the light was coming back into the world. What was interesting to me, as I pored through some research on Christmas, was that after the winter solstice, it usually takes the human eye four days to begin to see the change in length of daylight hours i.e. four days after December 21. Literally, we could see a change in the light coming back on December 25. (in the northern hemisphere, that is).

The most common understanding of the date chosen, though, was that it was a religious takeover of a pagan festival. This was common practice in the early church to commandeer the best dates during the year such as Eastertime and Christmastime to help people remember to be especially 'religious' at these times. For the new Christians who were pagan or non-practicing something or other, Christmas was the corporate church takeover of the pagan holiday dies natalis solis invicti or in English, "birth of the invisible sun god.' Imagine that, the metaphor of Christ, the light of the world being born at Christmas - it fits, doesn't it? Christmas which literally means, "Christ Mass" - was an attempt to separate the people from the pagan mindset to celebrate Christ at the darkest time of year.

But Christmas, in the early church, was never intended to become one of the 'Big 3.' Easter carries with it God's saving grace in the world, Pentecost is the greatest gift of the Holy Spirit, the comforter and Epiphany, the celebration of the light of the world and his baptism: Light and Water, symbols of life. But Christmas, why has Christmas become Number 1? I think for multiple reasons:

1. People like babies. According to Taladegha Nights: the Legend of Ricky Bobby - it's easiest to pray to a 8 pound 6 ounce baby Jesus. If somehow we can keep Jesus little, keep him bound up in all of our best pictures of Christmas as a 'fleece diapered child of God,' Christmas is more palatable for the general public. People don't want to think about what Jesus did in his life, his death and resurrection. (My sarcasm ball and socket is flexing wildly.) I would guess that many people agree with Ricky Bobby.

2. Christmas is all about receiving. I've heard it over and over again, Jesus said it, "It is more blessed to give than to receive.' But more and more what I hear across the radio waves: "The one who has more presents has more love." Usually, the bigger the present, the more you are loved. Businesses have to sell, I guess, but how many of us really need to be told that, in no uncertain terms, 'your wife will really love you if you put a bow on a brand new Mercedes this Christmas (I should write 'holiday' to fit in with the advertising. Wouldn't want to send mixed messages at this blessed time of year.) Ask and ye shall receive. Write your list to the portly, red outfitted, chimneyphile - ask and ye shall receive it - unless, of course, you've been bad.

3. Everyone likes what Christmas represents: trees, lights, presents, family together, stuffing your bellies full of food and drink and then waddling to the sofa that night after opening presents to fall asleep and not go to Christmas Day services at church. Oops, maybe next year. The glam of Christmas is wonderful, don't get me wrong - but where is the 'silent night' of Christmas. Where is the reflection? Where is God's whisper to us that he loves us forever and ever? Why do we wonder that we can't hear God's voice now?

4. Lastly, Christmas became bigger and bigger once lent and Easter became darker and darker. As western culture developed, as the Church became older, the message of Easter stressed sacrifice and the cross, crucifixion, death, blood and gore... This is what people want to avoid, if they can. It used to be that sex was the great taboo - no one would talk about it. But now, death is the great taboo. We don't talk about it; we avoid it at all costs. We fill our lives with things that speak of eternal youth. As the church tries to exercise the beauty of discipline and sacrifice, more and more people want to call a halt to it. Sacrifice means death; the death of a selfish part of life. Discipline means restrictions on what I want to do. We want happiness and things that make us generally content, not things that remind us of death. But how, as Christians, can we separate Christmas from Easter? It is because of Easter that we have the freedom to celebrate the light and life that came into the world.

It is time to go home. Those who have visited me have left the comfy sofas. There Christmas carol whistles still hang in the air somewhere, but now I am alone for a little bit in silence. It's a good thing during advent: to sit in silence and prepare for what God might have for us at Christmas.

Just a few rumblings for advent - a time of preparation. Prepare for the coming again of the light. Have a very merry Christmas.

Reid

The Blessing

During the late hours of Sunday evening this last week, I prepared diligently for Monday's chapel service. For most chapels there is scripture, music, message, prayer and blessing. When it is my turn to give the message, I usually spend most of my time on the words I will speak to the four hundred students at Faith College. I must admit, rarely do I spend a lot of time thinking about the words of the music - I pick songs by necessity which, priority wise, go like this: songs the chapel band can play, songs the chapel band likes, songs that don't make me cover my ears and want to rock back and forth. I spend even less time, unfortunately, on the words I will say for the prayer and blessing and usually I simply hope that God will give me the right words at the right time: that's biblical, right?

As I looked through some understanding of the assigned scripture for me I was left with the daunting task to try and explain the Spirit to this group of thirteen to eighteen-year-olds. Many of them have not had a large amount of understanding with things Christian, much less spiritual, so I was left with the conundrum: do I try to explain, or do I try to help them experience. I went for experience.

Rob Bell is a popular Christian speaker probably most well known in Christian circles for his Nooma videos. The irony is that the word pneuma in Greek means 'spirit', 'wind' or 'breath.' I found one of the videos entitled 'Breath,' and Rob spoke eloquently and at length about breath and how life is breath. We need breath, obviously, but it was pointed out that most of us never quite get the large breaths that we need. Our bodies are designed to take roughly six breaths per minute. Our lungs have the capacity to hold enough oxygen to supply ninety-nine percent of the fuel that we need to energize our bodies (which would help us lessen our need to eat so much). We only use approximately twelve percent of our lungs and thus we stunt our ability to move in this world. If we could only breathe - and breathe deeper. If we could only fill our lungs; if we could only...

I invited the kids to breathe deeply, to experience the fullness of life coursing through their lungs. In and out they breathed silently (for the most part.) Then I invited them to think about Rob's other understanding in the video, Breath. He said that some theologians, who have contemplated the name of God - YHWH - would say that God's very name, not only unpronounceable because of its holiness, is simply the very breath of creation - the Spirit that hovered over the waters preparing to make the earth as it is. The letters in Hebrew, yod, heth, vav, heth, are full of air and breath. Some would say that it is God's name that keeps us alive; as we breathe in and out, it is God keeping us alive.

I noticed at this point that some of the students were really studying their breath deeply (some of them so deeply that their eyes were closed - the Spirit must have been speaking to them on a very different plane, I'm sure), so, I decided to wrap up the message and commend God's breath to them, God's new life to them.

Then, as is normal for chapel, we extended our time into prayer. Normally I would have one of the students come up to lead us in prayer, but because we were already past time (beautiful, isn't it - chapels determined by time - just like Sunday morning worship) I decided that I would lead the prayers for the day. The words came easily, I thought, and as I opened my eyes after the prayer, I invited one of the kids up to do the blessing. This young man, Luke, had been wanting to share the blessing with the rest of the students for quite a while. He was standing off to the side, smiling, excited - like a child who is about ready to deliver his Show and Tell. He moved quickly toward me (he had told me earlier in the day that he had been working on his blessing). I handed him the microphone and as soon as it hit his hand, this young ninth grader froze. It was as if he had been hit by a taser gun. His face locked into a grimace, his wide eyes imploringly searched mine and then he whispered, "I don't know what to say. Will you help me?"

I had just done such a nice job with the prayer I said out loud, "No problem, Luke," and so I said the words and he repeated them. After raising his hand to the congregation of his peers, as if casting his blessing far and wide over them, he repeated the words I spoke to him:

"Almighty God who hovered over the waters," Luke spoke these words clearly and surely, "will bless you this day and forever more." He was really getting into it now.

And that certainly was my demise...

"We implore you, God, to bless each one of us today with your life and..."

Here it comes, that moment which we wish we could take it back, the moment we replay in our minds hoping that we didn't actually say it...

"And we ask that you give us huge breaths today."

Luke looked at me after he said it aware that the snickering had started in the back. I looked up at the principal and she was trying desperately to not laugh. At first, I didn't get it, but if you read my statement above out loud, you will recognize that it sounded as if I was begging God to give us large, um, well, um... you know...

When it dawned on me what it had sounded like, I then said out loud (I wish it would have been an internal monologue) "Well, that didn't sound very good." The congregation of students began to laugh. After overcoming my embarrassment, I joined in the laughter, but it made me think once again,

Life is full of blessings. Just be careful which blessings you ask for.

S.W.A.T church

Okay. So, it's been almost three months since I posted. Most of the posting has been for my own personal benefit, an emotional enema, if you will. For some who read this blog they have found amusement, maybe a sliver of inspiration, or, in many cases, a diversion to make it through a work day. I won't get big headed about people who say they read my blog: actually, I'd like to, but that wouldn't be humble, and I'm really proud of my humility. The calculated amount of people who read this blog probably reaches into the tens of ones - which is why I mostly blog for my own benefit, but I love the comments after I haven't done it for a while. This is from my former neighbor, Merv,

Kept looking for a blog from Reid and decided he must have broken both arms and couldn't write...

Or, this one from a friend in Arkansas,

I haven't seen a new blog since August 10th... I pray nothing has happened to keep him from writing those as I always look forward to the next one coming out.

Thanks, David, just a reeeeeaally nice way of saying "Stop being so lazy, Reid, and do what you like to do."

Lastly, and probably the best, Thanks for the photos, Christine, sure looks like your husband is losing a lot of hair. Tell him to write his blog.

Nothing like the honesty of friends.

The family and I were driving to church on a Sunday night last month - October. It was an exciting night, the first in a string of nights with the word fest attached to them. Oktoberfest - at church. With the rest of the congregation, we'd been planning Oktoberfest for months. Christine had organized a sheet for people to bring food for the potluck; I had been running down music and a script for the skit. But, what intrigued most people (especially the younger adults and anyone with a last name that sounded even the littlest bit German - you know, names with lots of 'k's' or 'sch's' together) was that we were going to have beer. I know, right, at the church? Beer and brats, throw in the Bible study and you've got a Lutheran rave.

On the way to the church our blue Holden station wagon bounced back and forth between potholes in the road. The floods did great damage to the infrastructure of the highway systems and often driving on country blacktop is like the grainy image of the lunar vehicle bouncing across the moon's surface. As the scenery rolled passed, bounced a little bit, I guess, we noticed life coming back to life. Recent rains had encouraged the grasses to grow again; the dams were full, bursting to the edges while black swans and other fowl floated on the surface. As beautiful as the scenery was, I kept thinking to myself, "Am I doing the right thing? Are we supposed to be having beer after church? Does the Lutheran Church of Australia excommunicate for this sort of thing?"

Most people, when needing directions to Green Pastures Lutheran Church in Lockrose, Queensland, hear that they should turn left after the Brightview Tavern. You know that drinking is part of the culture when the Tavern itself has a children's playground in it, just like the big McDonalds in the States. So, I figured, if people have to be told how to get to church using a bar as a landmark, we might as well make the church hall the very same kind of landmark - not a bar, per se, but a place where people take their time, let their hair down (or in my case, obviously, let my scalp down) and share what's going on in life.

Last week, as I talked with one of the professors from the Lutheran Seminary in Adelaide, I heard him say that it was obvious what Lutheran churches in Australia do really well: they fellowship. He said you could tell what was most important to a church by the size of its buildings. Guess what, the church hall where we gather for events at Green Pastures, is twice as big as the actual sanctuary. Pretty cool, huh?

I turned left at Brightview Tavern noticing the absence of children playing on the monkey bars outside the pub. They must all be heading to church to drink beer. As we neared the small, yellow church, I noticed something different though. At 4:00, the cars were already starting to arrive. Church didn't start until 6:00, so it surprised me that so many were turning up already. Then, I noticed the trailer. Someone had brought a bar-b-q spit! We were going to roast a pig! At Church! And there would be beer! This is the coolest church in the world! Whose idea was it to bring the spit?

I was excited...

Until I noticed Don walking towards me. Don is the chairman of the congregation; he is sturdy and full of laughter. There is almost always a sense that his chest is so full of mirth that any minute the dam might break and I'll be flooded with laughter so deep I might drown in it. He was smiling this night, too, except that it was more of a smirk. We parked our car and I walked over to Don noticing then that all the cars that were parked on the church grounds all looked the same.

"Good evening, Don."

"Evening, Pastor Reid."

"What's going on?" I asked after shaking his hand.

"These guys are some friends of mine from the police department." He motioned toward the hall.

In my head I had sudden flashbacks to college of the police rousting parties that were getting out of hand. But, I'd never heard of the police breaking up a party that hadn't even started yet. Maybe that's how they do it in Australia? It seems to me there are some more disruptive places than churches by the name of Green Pastures to take care of, but, it could have been a slow night.

"Ummm, what are they doing here?" Just as I asked the question, a group of policemen in full body gear came issuing from the hall in full S.W.A.T. gear. They were like angry wasps that buzz out of the nest when you've disturbed them.

"There's going to be a bust in town," Don said.

"Pardon my ignorance," I responded, "But they aren't actually busting Green Pastures' church hall, are they? That probably wouldn't be a good evangelical tool - you know, one of those catchy slogans you'll never put on the billboard, 'Come to Green Pastures: Get saved - Get busted. Don't worry, you're forgiven."

Don laughed. "Nah, it's just up the street. They are just using the hall for a staging point. They should be out of here by the time the service starts."

Excellent. As I looked back again at the trailer, it was not a bar-b-q spit, but a trailer of death: guns, tear gas, ammunition - straight out of a Arnold Schwarzennegar movie. He's got a German last name, he could stay for Oktoberfest. Well, we were in for an interesting night.

Now, the problem that I had was that if the swarm of angry S.W.A.T bees was using the hall for the staging point, how was I going to get the beer in the fridge? It would be kind of strange to walk up to the commanding officer and say, "Excuse me, Captain, I realize that you are kind of busy right now, but do you think it would be alright if I carried a case of beer through your gathering here and put it in the fridge. It's of the utmost importance that this beer stays cold. It could mean life and death to someone."

I couldn't say it like that, but I was pretty sure that people who came to Oktoberfest would rather have cold beer. Deciding to take one for the team I approached one of the officers.

"Excuse me," I stopped one of the black garbed, bullet-proof vested officers who was looking at his machine gun. "Would it be possible for me to go in to the kitchen."

His steely eyes gazed up at me with disdain. Who was this fool with his polo shirt, thinning hair and American accent? Was he a spy from the house that was about to be drug busted?

"What's your name?" he asked me brusquely.

"I'm Pastor Reid Matthias," I hoped that my title would calm his fears and perhaps allow him to lower his weapon of mass destruction. The officer scanned me from head to toe and realized that I was not a threat to him (or to any other segment of the world for that fact).

"No, you can't go in the kitchen."

"But I'm the pastor here. The kitchen needs to be utilized for holding the elements of consecration. The bibles we need are in there. A cross from the Holy City of Adelaide is inside." I didn't really say that but I really wanted to get the beer into the fridge.

"Do you know when we can get into the kitchen?"

"After we leave," the officer responded and then he turned his back on me. Amazing. A pastor turned away from his own...

"Reid," Don said smiling. "They'll be out in a little while. Just let them do their thing. They are trying to be secretive about the bust."

"I can tell," I said sarcastically as I looked over the small army that had assembled. There were roughly fifteen officers in full S.W.A.T. gear (which I looked up means 'Special Weapons and Tactics") two armored vehicles and a whole fleet of unmarked cars. For anyone who lived within five miles of Lockrose, I don't think it was too much of a secret.

The S.W.A.T. team bundled up after about half an hour. While I led Bible study (inside the church, mind you, because the selfish officers wouldn't let us use the hall), the team began to move out. My beautiful wife, in the middle of Bible study got side tracked and began to watch with great amusement until finally, the moment got the best of her and she exclaimed from the back of the church, "They've got two tanks!" Needless to say the kids in the Bible study did a quick calculation of what would be more interesting: Romans, chapter 1 or two armored vehicles motoring down the road to break down the door of a drug lord.

Bible study was over.

When people began to arrive to church, they noticed some of the police vehicles still there. A few of the congregation members verbally expressed their concern by saying, "I wonder what Pastor Reid did? I knew it was only a matter of time - being American and all. We've seen the TV shows, C.O.P.S. Bad Boys, Bad Boys, watcha gonna do?"

It was an interesting night and after the cops left, before the service started, I surreptitiously retreated to my car to carry the case of beer to the ancient fridge. We had to plug the thing in the week before just so that it would be mildly chilled for Oktoberfest. This fridge is so old that the energy rating is negative, I think. But, at least the beer was kept tepid.

It was a great night of worship and fellowship. It made me think of Green Pastures. We have our own Special Weapons and Tactics team. Our weapons don't kill people but ideas like grace and forgiveness are weapons of mass reconstruction. For those that have been beaten down over the years or have been neglected by churches telling them that they are only good in so far as they can 'do something' Lockrose is a place of healing. The tactics we use, special, but not exclusive to Green Pastures, are welcoming and fellowship - finding a place to sit and sing, pray and eat, live and be merry. We toasted the night. We laughed about me verbalizing, "Excellent, we're going to roast a pig tonight," when, in fact, 'pig' is a derogatory term for 'policeman.'

I was wondering why they didn't come back for worship.

Oktoberfest was a moment in time when we realize that church is about relationships, being part of something bigger than our own individual identities, and enjoying life for a while. I guess that's what makes a S.W.A.T. church.

There's No Place Like Home

In 1939 audiences were treated to one of the best motion pictures of all time. Bringing music and cinematography to a whole new world, The Wizard of Oz brings audiences to an enchanted land swirling through a twister to land in a place where lions brave the yellow brink road, tin men feel their way through life and scarecrows realize that life is even better if you only have a brain. I think the American Congress can really associate with all three of these characters - bravery, feeling and an understanding that a brain is tantamount to good politics. I digress: this is neither a political blog or one built on foundational understandings of economics. This is the third installment of my fishing expedition and I bring us to one of the most famous quotes in all of cinema history: "There is no place like home."

Halfway through the night on our ride home southwest from the Swains to Gladstone, the winds started up again. Because the night had been so calm up until this point, I was startled to the point of waking. The waves cause the boat to twitch like a horse shaking a fly from its head and I immediately opened my eyes briefly and thought to myself.

"Oh, sunshine."

Most of the other pirates on the ship had reminded me that since I had been doing so well for the last days of the trip, I had my sea legs, in other words, I shouldn't suffer too much on the ride back. I lay in the upper bunk, Robert sleeping in the lower silently dreaming away in his own, non-seasick way, running through the last day of fishing on the Capricorn Star.

The sun beat down on us most of the day; sunscreen was a must. Some of the other fisherman had arisen at 4:30 in the morning to begin a new day of mackerel fishing; I had taken my turn wanting a chance at the long sleep fish and Graham had allowed me the chance. By 5:30 one had taken the pilchard dangling on the end of a line where three large hooks pierced at intervals. The mackerel, not wanting to end up on the boat went running, line zinging this way and that. As I grabbed the pole I remembered wanting to make a good impression on the other pirates. Unfortunately, the kind of equipment used on a deep sea fishing expedition is much different than North American Lakes and I found myself fumbling and fooling around with the line until eventually, as Warwick and Graham were watching, the mackerel swam to the front of the boat and found a way to tangle itself around the anchor. I watched the captain smile as he looked over the point of the boat.

"I think you've caught something much bigger than a mackerel," he said.

That was the longest sentence I heard him say all week. I wish he wouldn't have seen me. When I returned back to the stern of the boat, Warwick stood, head almost scraping the ceiling, smiling. I knew what he was thinking, "Rookie." After a display like that, there is nothing that I could do but laugh at myself once again. Life is much more enjoyable when you learn to laugh at yourself (that's my attempt at justifying being a lousy deep sea fisherman).

After we ate breakfast, some kind of egg with spaghetti and four pounds of bacon (Steve made the plates look like smiley faces - I guess he was happy to almost be off the ship for a few hours) the boat took off for a few more stops of fishing before the long, disinteresting ride, ten kilometers per hour across the ocean. At the first stop, I positioned myself on the duck board again away from my neighbors Peter and Adrian. Because we'd all gotten to know each other a little bit during the week, they did not take offense for my absence; it was not because of them, but it was a space issue. Just like all of nature longs for a little extra space, so did I and I watched with a small amount of schadenfreude when the middle of the boat connected with snagged lines. Just as we were about to leave, a tug on my line allowed me to catch one last fish. This one had heft and with a sinking resignation, I assumed that one of two things would happen on the long way up from the depths of the ocean: 1, I had a nice fish on that would be a piece of nice fish when it came up half swallowed by a shark or 2. I had caught another friendly remora. Let's face it, during the week, I was a remora magnet - even as the sharks had their feed of all the other fish approaching the surface, their friends found my bait as appetizing as a steak after a week at a vegetarian getaway.

Remoras, also called a 'suckfish' by Encyclopedia.com, is a scavenger. It has a flat disk on the top of its head which allows it to 'suck' on to various predators. The smallest remoras glom on to tuna or swordfish but the most common suckfish attach to sharks or whales, sometimes even the undersides of boats. The sucking property of the remora is so great that some tribes of the Polynesian people tie lines to the tails of remoras which suck to sea turtles which they can then pull in without even using a hook.

The remora makes its living, then, finding a decent host, attaching itself via 'sucking up' to the predator and then taking the scraps from whatever is left over. Not only does the remora not expend any energy in movement because they are pulled wherever the predator is going, but they also don't have to hunt down their own prey. What a life. I've known quite a few people who would have been remoras in previous lives. They were very prominent at college and usually when we would be having a celebration at the house. The suckfish would start showing up at the same time as all the coeds, the predators, who came with empty cups. Then, when the predators would get a drink, the remoras would ask the predators to fill their cup also thus sparing them any effort (or money) to enjoy life. It doesn't stop at college either; remoras are seen everywhere any time there is a celebrity in attendance. You can see them from a distance. I went to a Harry Connick, Jr. concert once and as he tried to leave the venue, people were around him crushing him for an autograph, a handshake or to press a CD into his hand as if he would listen and be moved to record it on a new CD.

It is simply part of nature that this happens: wherever there is power, there is safety. On the African plains, all the animals crowd around elephants and giraffes. Lions are hesitant to approach elephants, and giraffes can see them coming for miles around. Remoras are nature's highest form of sloth, I guess.

Anyway, back to the fishing story, this fish turned out not to be either choice one or two, but the third option was something I hadn't really considered (but continually hoped for). It was a red emperor. We hadn't caught any for the whole week of a keepable size until that morning when Graham had snagged one. But here I was, holding a nice red emperor up from the duck board hoping with all my might that it was big enough to keep so that Warwick and Russell would see it. Warwick, being the good natured person that he is, took a picture of me and finally he could see that I was truly a much better fisherman than he was. Sometimes I just write things because I know that the person I write them about will be reading it also. Kind of like when you are talking on the phone in a very public place and say at a much-louder-than-necessary voice to your wife, "Yes, you'll have to put on some clothes when I get home. I'm hungry."

The rest of the day was spent in relative stasis. The waves stayed low and the captain took us to other spots that, I would guess, he had never caught anything before - he probably just wanted to get home. After reeling the lines up for the last time, it was not really a sad thing to begin our journey homeward. There is no place like it. By the time the week was ending, the pirates were getting restless and ready to be away from the boat, the smell of fish, the sound of the motors and ready for landlegs.

The sun began setting for the last time, a beautiful sunset and the dolphins swam with us for a while. After dark, the stars shone glisteningly white across the ocean like permanent snowflakes attached to the dark canvass of the sky. Great pods of immature flying fish flew beside the side of the boat as we raced toward the west. After a large meal, many of us headed off to bed, others watched a movie and some sat, staring at the stars connecting the points of light like a draw by number picture.

Until the shaking of the boat, the time went quickly and then, as I prayed for a settling in my stomach for the last little while, we were nearing the port of Gladstone. Morning breakfast was at 4:00 and when I arose, the first, I noticed the beauty of land with only a trace of sadness to be leaving the sea behind.

After docking, we alit on land again, each hairy pirate giving expression to different pleasures of being back on solid ground, although it didn't really feel like it. The longer one is on a boat, the longer it takes to adjust to walking on land again. For the first two days of return, my steps were shallow and shaky and I was grateful that this passed.

What a great trip it was. We headed to Robbie's house, picked up our fish, handed out trophy's for biggest fish, said our goodbye and headed home to meet our wives and children. It is always good to be back with family.

It's always good because there is no place like home.

Oceanic Life

Tom sat across the table from me. Slouched in the padded blue benches where we ate our meals, Tom flashed an impish smile at me. We'd been sitting for almost an hour sharing stories, telling tales of younger years, Tom, like many diminutive men, tried to regale me with myths of conquest. I looked over at Mick, the other deckhand, who smiled into his Coke swirling it round ice tinkling the plastic glass. We'd finally gotten around the topic that I knew was coming.

"What the (sunshine) is a pastor," he asked as his forehead scrunched up as if the question actually hurt. As my children will eventually read this, I'm going to insert the word 'sunshine' for the word that usually signifies carnal knowledge unlawfully gained. (Sunshine) was a very popular word on the boat, not just with the deckhands. The word seemed to morph into every different kind of speech, sometimes it was even inserted into the middle of other words as if to stress the meaning by adding (sunshine) to it.

I am not a prude by any means, but it was interesting to me to watch (and listen) to many of my fellow fisherman transform from whatever profession they previously held to their new profession which was full time sailor, or even pirate, if you will. As beards grew longer, vocabularies grew smaller. So, when one of the pirates (fisherman) couldn't figure out what to say next it was just as easy to slip in a (sunshine). (Sunshine) was used for all verb tenses, nouns, adjectives, adverbs (which is a really funny thing to behold). I even heard one of the men use (sunshine) as definite article once. Oh well, what happens on the Capricorn Star stays on the Capricorn Star, unless, that is, one of the pirates writes a blog.

I laughed as Tom questioned me on my calling in life. "A pastor," I said, "is a person that works in a church and attempts to help other people."

Tom scratched his head and took a drink. "So you're one of those Christian thingies?"

"I guess you could put it that way, Tom." Mick had begun to giggle a little. Tom, twenty years of age, perhaps had not experienced the vastness of life yet and, due to the house size chip on his shoulder being small, it wouldn't surprise me if it took a while for him to learn a different meaning of life. Mick, on the other hand, had traveled the world, married but as of yet hadn't settled down. Mick was thirty-three, had reddish brown hair and a flock of freckles that covered most of his body. His legs actually looked the skin of a giraffe. I didn't tell him that though. Mick usually had a controlled laugh, hesitant, a few 'ha ha's' and then it was all done, but at Tom's second foray into the wide world of spirituality, he couldn't control himself.

"You don't know what a pastor is?" he asked Tom.

It was obvious that Tom's hackles were about to be raised and I could see him want to assert himself to Mick, but Tom finally realized that Mick wasn't laughing at him, but for him.

I changed the subject. "What do you like to do, Tom? Do you like to fish?"

"Nah," he said settling back into his seat. "I like to dive but I don't like to fish. It's too boring for me." I didn't point out the irony of his working on a fishing vessel and I'm pretty sure Tom would have thought the word 'irony' would have something to do with a laundromat.

"How about you, Mick?" I turned the question on the Mick. It was obvious that Mick was an intelligent, thoughtful man. He reminded me of many bartenders I'd seen, slow to speak, but insightful when asked a question. To this point, Mick seemed a calm, caring man who tended to gravitate towards the pirates who struggle with the trip. During my hours of seasickness, Mick was one of the first to see if I would survive. Almost a saint, I guess.

"I love the reef. I'm planning on getting my captain's license to do reef trips someday."

"I like to kill things," Tom said.

"Thanks, Tom, we'll continue with your journey into your psychology in a little bit," I said. I remembered back to the afternoon, Tom standing on the duck board, cudgel in hand beating a mackerel senseless in order to bring it up. I inwardly shook my concentration to move back to Mick. "I'm new to this side of the world. Tell me something about the reef."

Mick took a deep breath and smiled. This was his sweet spot; I'm sure we could have sat there all night and Mick would gladly have described every part of the Great Barrier Reef. "The reef is about 2,600 kilometers long stretching from the northeast tip of the continent to the middle of the east coast of Australia. Around 8,000 years ago, the water in the oceans was much more shallow but as the waters rose, the land 160 kilometers from Australia was submerged. The reef, which had already started growing in these shallow waters had more room to grow."

"How does it grow?" I asked.

"There are lots of different kinds of reef but the interesting part of this place is that the organisms all grow together. They are dependent upon each each other whether the reef itself, the fish, the snakes, the turtles, the squids - all of it. It's a very tenuous place."

Tom added his bit of knowledge. "The reef only grows about one centimeter every 100 days." He looked out the window his blue eyes seemed to be searching for something in the dark. "I guess you can see how old this place is." My mental arithmetic was not that good, but it was obvious that the reef was old. Very old.

Mick continued after a sip from his Coke. "The reef never breaks the surface. It can't survive in the open air and, usually, when it approaches the surface, it dies."

It seemed to me that the reefs should thrive near the surface as that is where most of the smaller fish tend to be. I told him that.

"I suppose that the reef could do well but it takes an enormous beating from the cyclones that wash through here every year. You'll see it tomorrow when you go snorkeling. You'll notice that the floor of the ocean on the reef looks like a dead wasteland. If you are expecting colors and beauty, you will probably be disappointed."

I was already disappointed because as I had dreamed of snorkeling, I wanted to take pictures with my underwater camera of the colors of the reef, the turtles, snakes, sharks...

"And, there will be sharks. Sharks love the reef." Tom was looking at me trying to gauge my reaction - fearful or feigned bravery. I think he saw more fear than anything else. The biggest fish that I got to see in Illinois was a largemouth bass which you could put your fingers inside of its mouth and maybe come away with an abrasion at best. Some of the fish we had brought up in the last few days had been chewed cleanly through by sharks. Some of them looked as if they had been cut by a laser. "And, they love human flesh."

Mick held up a hand and smiled. "Tom, you know as well as I that sharks are almost completely harmless. They just have a different way of sensing the world." Mick turned his attention to me again. "You know, Reid, how when babies are really little they like to put everything in their mouth - to test what it is?"

"Mick," I said, "All babies are really little."

Mick rolled his eyes, "shut up, (sunshine)er"

I opened my hands to him, "Please continue, Mr. Cousteau."

"As I was saying," Mick started again, "Just like big babies put things in their mouths, sharks do the same thing. It's the way they sense the world. That's why when some really big sharks are caught they have tires and metal inside their stomachs. They aren't really trying to eat them, they just want to know what they are."

"So that's why take a chunk out of people?"

"Exactly," Mick said. "Almost always sharks have plenty of food that they like to eat; you've seen how picky the sharks are here. They will only eat the fish coming up that they want to. They'll leave all the grassies and leatherheads but attempt to take all of the coral trout, sweetlips etc. They can afford to be picky. When a shark takes a chunk out of a person, a leg, an arm, a side..."

"A head," Tom added.

"Almost never a head," Mick said, " They are simply trying to experience what the strange object is in the water. They have an incredible sensing organ in their nose; not only can it locate even the smallest amounts of blood in the water, it also senses heartbeat. Incredibly, a shark can locate its prey by the rapidity of the pulse of an object. When it can't sense a heartbeat, it will often think that the object is either struggling or else dead. As sharks are tremendous foragers, they will cull the easiest prey that they can."

"So, what are you trying to tell me?" I asked.

"Sharks attack surfers because they think it is a struggling fish. When surfers paddle out on their boards, sharks see something that looks like a fish in distress. Then, when they approach the object, they don't sense a heartbeat because the surfer's heart is hidden by the board itself then, voila, surfer is now down to three limbs."

"Or headless." Tom was being very helpful.

"I'll make sure that I don't take my surfboard out tomorrow."

Mick smiled. "That would be good. And make sure you don't wear red."

The next day dawned brightly. The ocean seemed to be making her bed for us, the waves diminished to almost nothing. Warwick, Russell and I decided to try out one of the dinghies motoring out to the shallower parts of the reef to catch some other reef fish. We caught plenty of fish; at first I was catching the most as Russell was hopelessly working with what he termed the (sunshine)ing anchor rope. It was fun to watch my brothers-in-law work out their differences of opinion. Like two bulls squaring off, they argued over where to drop the anchor. I stayed out of it knowing that my opinion would be like the sound of mosquito swirling around the head of said bulls.

Eventually, we brought in a good catch of fish, then, as the morning ceased to be morning and the afternoon sun rose hot over the waves, we motored back to the mothership to prepare for our snorkeling adventure.

After lunch, Mick drove us to another shallow part of the reef where we could swim amidst the columns of reef. On the way, he explained to us why we weren't allowed to spearfish anymore, which was a source of annoyance to Russell as he had purchased a relatively expensive (for my taste) spear gun for the trip only to find that spearfishing was not allowed on Capricorn Star expeditions.

"Last year, not on Capricorn Star, but on a different boat, a man died from spearfishing not from shark but from drowning. There is a thing called shallow dive blackout. He had been doing too many dives down and simply blacked out while underwater and had drowned." I was already checking my breathing and preparing not to go under the water too many times. I'm such a wuss. It's like some well meaning Australian once told me, "Guess what, I heard that a guy was killed by a spider bite when the toilet seat he was sitting on released its eight legged prey on his butt."

I've been checking every toilet seat since.

Mick pulled over the reef and invited us to drop over the side and check out the underworld of water. He hoped that we saw some sharks as well. I didn't really like the sound of that, but I felt more comfortable as I looked over at Russell who was sporting a brilliant red sun-safe top. He looked like a gigantic coral trout. I remembered Mick's words from the night before, "Just don't wear red."

I guess Russell could feed the sharks first.

As we entered the water, it was incredible to notice how dead everything looked. Broken pieces of coral were littered across the floor of the ocean not twenty feet down and instead of brilliant colors, oranges, reds, blues - all those that I'd been expecting and hoping for - the only colors were greens, grays and dull whites. There weren't many fish either, some small ones floating across the top, but as I finned my way through the water in my oversize snorkeling boots, I realized how difficult it was to swim not only because of the oar sized fins but the current in the ocean is incredibly strong. It was like swimming upstream in a river. Added to that was the fact that I was swallowing enough seawater to fill an indoor aquarium, I didn't stay in the water that long. But for a few moments, I watched Russell and Warwick picking their way through the columns finding mackerel, cod, shark, turtles and such. Even in the wasteland, there is life. I waved to Mick, giving him the international distress sign of a horrible swimmer thrashing about in the water hoping against hope that nothing was getting in front of my rapidly beating heartbeat and he drove the boat over to me telling me to pull myself in. I was cold and ready to be out of the ocean but I was really surprised how difficult it was to pull myself over the edge of the dinghy. I landed with a thud. I looked up at Mick who was doing his best not to laugh at me.

After we retrieved the other two, Russell in his shark attractant top and Warwick with his six foot something frame, we drove back to the mothership and, after changing clothes, we hurried back onto our own dinghy to continue fishing. During the next hour we caught relatively little. I did catch a shark which was exciting for me, but Warwick caught a grassy and let it flop into the boat by my leg. I felt something sharp but thought nothing of it at that time but I should have looked at Warwick's face as he noticed that the fish had actually stuck in my leg for a moment. If I would have have known that, I would have noticed that a piece of its fin was sticking out of my leg. Funny thing, though, Warwick wasn't going to say anything because there was still fishing to be done.

There's a true pirate for you.

The reef is a beautiful place. Oceanic life is completely and utterly different than I ever could have imagined. The sea life, the five meter wingspan of a giant manta ray that flew past our boat, the poisonous sea snakes, the squid (I imagined a kracken to come take down our boat a few times) - everything including the currents of the sea was alien and beautiful. It is something that I never would forget.

That night we returned to our boat, our beds and our lives off the water. I approached Tom and asked "What are we going to be doing tomorrow?"

"(Sunshine)d if I know," he said. I could have sworn he added an 'aargh matey'. "But all I know is, I'm ready to kill something tomorrow. And, I'm ready to go home."

Isn't it a great thing to be trapped on a boat one hundred and sixty kilometers from home?

The One That Got Away

At four o'clock in the morning I looked around at the grizzled faces seated beside me eating a breakfast of cold cereal, dry toast and a cup of sloshing coffee. As I had been the first one to awake, I watched intently as the doorway to the front of the boat disgorged the groggy fisherman like a mother bird regurgitating its meal for her little ones. These men, seven days of (mostly) white stubble lining their hardened, sea weathered cheeks, could hardly be distinguished by the average tourist in Gladstone, Queensland, from twelve homeless men who might be loitering, or lurking, in the shadows of the quay.

Starting conversation was nearly impossible at that hour and, for the most part, exhaustion was written on their faces like words in a large print edition book. They could no more wish me good morning as they could throw a large coral trout back into the sea. It was a morning for silent reminiscing. Each man tried to remember, as best as he could, what in the world had just happened for the previous week.

Robert, my father-in-law had dropped the suggestion for this fishing adventure a few months earlier. He had regaled my imagination with his exploits of previous years out on the reef. Fishing amidst the coral reefs of the Great Barrier to Australia, photos of vibrantly colored fish, aquamarine waters, fluffy white clouds, and broad smiling men holding unnaturally large catch - I could smell the adventure of it, but Robert was only holding the worm on a hook in front of my face; there was no room on the Capricorn Star for the likes of this American. For fifteen plus years, this group of a dozen men, like the twelve disciples of two millenia past, had crossed the South Pacific Sea to anchor themselves in the midst of a catch. By the way they talked one only needed to drop a lure over the side of the boat and a Leviathan would gather it in his mouth and seemingly pull the boat into the ocean. I wanted very much to go on this trip but there was no room in the inn - only in my imagination.

The boat carried men who belied their appearance that night: businessmen, engineers, geologists, doctor, computer guru - but until one of their group became ill, it was devoid of a pastor. My guilty fear was that I prayed too hard to go on this trip thus causing the Job-like calamity of one of the twelve, but even with my eventual passage on the steamer, there was still room for one more thus assuaging my guilty conscience.

I guess they just needed a pastor on the boat.

We prepared weeks in advance for the weeklong trip on the Capricorn Star, a seventy-five foot boat - white and powdery blue (not too manly colors, if you asked me) - preparing the rigs, ten ounce lead sinkers tied onto line spoked with hooks and beads and all sorts of fish attracting designs. Robert, Elsa, Greta and I prepared a bucketful of them the night before we left and silently I wondered to myself, "Will we really need this much gear?" As much lead as we were putting on the boat, I was sure that we would need no other ballast and had dreams of pirate ships jettisoning weight as the storms of the fickle ocean pressed mercilessly upon the U.S.S. Minnow-like boat. (For those who don't know that reference, it is the name of the boat on the T.V. show - "Gilligan's Island" - I won't even begin to use this story as a metaphor for who Ginger, the movie star, would be).

The night before we left, Robert showed me all the fish we might (and might not) catch and with each flip of the page of his chart, he giggled with an almost childish, Christmas like exuberance. For Robert, this was his early birthday moment, a chance to be young again; to hang out with the boys; to laugh at ribald jokes and forget, for just one moment, that his hand wasn't working the way it used to. A few weeks ago, (the doctors still don't know exactly what happened) Robert lost the ability to use his right hand for anything other than waving hello. Some thought it was a small stroke, others thought something neurological or even a pinched nerve, but all in all, Robert was frustrated that this very thing might sabotage his fishing adventure.

Until... the electric reel.

Throughout the week on the boat it was fairly obvious when Robert caught a fish. For most fishermen, there is a routine on how landing a fish plays out. For instance, Adrian, when snagging a fish, would look around, smile and make sure everyone was watching what he was doing. Because he was in the middle of the boat, the fish that he would be bringing up from Davey Jones' Locker were obvious to all. But, it was humorous to me to watch his antics (mostly from jealousy, mind you, because when someone in the middle of the boat brings a fish to the surface he brings everyone else's lines and lures with him). Adrian was always the first one to get his line in the water, even before the skipper yelled out from his perch in the front of the boat "All right, let them down!" I so much wanted to beat Adrian to the bottom sometimes I surreptitiously would tinker with his reel when I went by, wrap the hook around his own line a few times - but it would never work. Adrian was the early bird of fishermen. Every time we stopped, he had his slab of fish wound through his hook and was halfway to the bottom before I could even get my pole between the other two men who stood beside me.

Anyway, Adrian, when hooking his fish would laugh and giggle as he 'struggled' to get them from the bottom, his pole bending this way and that, grunting as loudly as Sharapova landing a strong backhand to the corner. All fisherman make different noises when they fish, but Adrian's call was like a 'nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah' in my face and just once, I wanted to outfish him. It never happened, but in my own mind, I once dreamed of a fish pulling the rod out of his hands as he tried to rub it in that he was catching fish to wipe the smirk off his face.

What can I say; I'm a pastor, not a saint.

Robert, on the other hand, didn't need to verbally tell anyone that he had caught a fish. He let his reel do the talking for him. The electric reel that he had bought literally sang as it pulled a fish up from the bottom of the reef. It sounded like a plane taking off from the runway and every time that Robert pushed the up button, I imagined his face taking on a look of sheer pleasure as all heads turned to watch the tip of his rod bounce here and there pulling the brightly colored trout from its home. As his prize would near the surface, his reel would beep once, then a second time, until finally, like the last seconds before a bomb goes off, it would emit one long beep. Gradually, we would not look over to see him until we heard the third beep. Then, when he would catch one, he would look over to me, while I was untangling my line from the four other men not named Adrian in the middle of the boat, and say, "Did you happen to see that nice coral trout that was carried behind you?" His gloating made me sweat and I dreamed of a shark shredding his trophy fish at it was pulled from the water, like Jaws finding pleasure in a scantily clad water skier.

Fishermen are the most jealous of all 'sportsmen.' Even though they might be friends (and a few of us relatives, in my case) they look with envy as green as the sea itself when another fishermen pulls up a fish bigger than the minnow you just caught. Outwardly they say, "Hey, Robert, nice fish!" but inwardly their hearts are spewing curses at Neptune, king of the sea, hoping that Robert snags the coral reef the next time down. Fishermen are rarely content with quantity; they want quality - big, hefty fish as if the size of the fish is a reflection of the size of their... egos. Needless to say, for most of the week I was catching small fish, one after the other, and if on land I would have been keeping these beautiful fish to savor and enjoy with my family, but as I pulled these 'grassies' up from the bottom eventually cutting them up as bait, I grew even more envious of others, especially of my brother-in-law, Warwick, who was bringing up trophy sized fish and shouting across the deck, with thinly disguised boastfulness in his voice, "I've got six. How many have you got, Reid?"

I've always been a competitive person. I'm sure that it comes from my birth circumstances sharing a womb with two others, having to fight for everything, every bit of space, every bit of attention. But competing with in-laws is a completely different thing. Especially when they are as large as my brothers-in-law are (even my father-in-law dwarfs me). I want to compete with the big boys; I want to show them that this (smaller) American is just as able as these Paul Bunyanesque Aussie brothers to catch fish and to laugh and boast about my exploits. I wanted to impress them.

My first impression on the boat, though, was probably not what I had wanted. After a five hour drive to Gladstone, beginning at 7:30 a.m., we connected with Russell and Warwick at the Capricorn Star docked in the harbor. Warwick, all six feet-three inches and multiple-kilograms-heavier-than-I of him, was standing beside the boat unloading his gear that they'd brought on the plane. Warwick was wearing a blue-flowered Hawaiian shirt and shorts, his tanned skin reflected his days in the sun. His brother Russell, even larger than Warwick, stood beside his brother and as I approached, Russell extended his hand and his smile that I've come to really enjoy, and said, "G'day, mate. Welcome to Australia." It's the first that I had seen Russell since emigrating to the country.

I am the first to say that I am really lucky to have a fantastic set of in-laws. Christine's brothers, Russell, Warwick and Malcolm, along with her sister, Sandra, and her parents, have been openly welcoming all the days of our married life. We have similar interests, we connect on many different topics, I feel included when we gather together; but when we compete, all relations are thrown out the window. Warwick threw down the gauntlet first. "What do you say we put a little bet down on the fishing this week." As we drank a beer to the adventures that were to come, we laid down the rules: Most fish kept and biggest fish. I shook their hands and toasted their glasses. I'd been fishing many times before. How hard could it be?

We boarded the boat about four o'clock p.m. and as we sailed from the harbor in calm seas I had, in my head, the haunting melody of the movie "Titanic" running between my hears. Small pipes and violins filled me with a sense of foreboding. The skipper, Scott, told us it may be a 'little' rough on the way out.

All one hundred and sixty kilometers.

Because I'd been fishing on the reef before and because I'd fished in relatively un-calm seas, I thought that this would be no problem. In fact, I was so confident of my abilities that I consumed four pieces of greasy, oily, pineapple and ham pizza. (It would not be the last mistake of the night.) After we left the safety of the harbor, the seas came up. The southerly winds pushed at the boat in the worst possible way. Because we were traveling northeast, not only did the boat lurch up and down but side to side, also. My brain, tossed this way and that, began to lurch also. And Mr. Domino's pizza was starting to tell me he wasn't enjoying the ride. It was at that point, two hours into our sixteen hour adventure, I thought I might have made a mistake by praying to be allowed on the fishing adventure. God has a funny sense of humor, I think, and as I made my quivering-legged way to the back of the boat towards Russell and Warwick, I asked one more thing of the God of the universe:

Please don't let me puke in front of my brothers-in-law.

God must not have been able to hear me through the crashing of the waves against the side of the boat. Russell would later say, "I've never seen anyone spew that hard. It looked like a fire hose." Sixteen more episodes of vomiting later, the most miserable night of my life continued to drag on. Every time I looked up, my eyes rolled back into my head and my stomach would heave. I slept with the slop bucket. I wrapped her in my arms imagining just for a second that she would have pity for me. She evidently did not hear me either.

There are all sorts of slang for throwing up in Australian lingo: chunder, thunder from Down Under, technicolor yawn - all colorful names of what was going on in my life that night and I think I subconsciously named each time. I felt really sorry for Robert who was 'sleeping' in the bunk below mine. The sound of my retching must have left him in a terrible state and he even admitted to me later on in the week, "What have I done? What will these other salty sea dogs think of my world-record-shattering-longest-night-of-puking American son-in-law?"

I love making great first impressions. As the night drew to a close and as the sounds of breakfast reached my ears the next morning (which caused new, violent waves of nausea thinking about food) I fell out of my bed to notice the other eleven members of the fishing crew and four boat crew avoid me like the plague as if seasickness were contagious. What is worse, being sea sick or seeing the looks of pity from those around me?

And we were still only one day into the trip.

I got away on the fishing trip, a holiday, a vacation, if you will. But what unfolded in the next six days has left me with indelible and incredible memories which I will cherish for a lifetime. I will finish the story in two more parts.

Bon Voyage, readers.

The State of Things

I guess I am in a state of ignorance about some things Australian. Certainly, I've come to find a way to drive on a different side of the road, awake in the morning to the sound of magpies screaming at each other as if their domestic troubles edthe entire neighborhood's attention, and I've come to enjoy the way Australians begin their sentences with either 'yeah, no' or 'Look..." and end their sentences with, 'but anyway.'

For instance, here might be a typical conversation I had in the last week:

Me: So (I like to start my sentences with that word) did you enjoy the State of Origin match on Wednesday night?

Australian: Yeah, no, it didn't turn out the way I wanted it too. The New South Welsh (which I found out was the plural for multiple New South Wales people) thrashed the Maroons (which is the mascot, or color of the absent mascot of the State Rugby Team that played the New South Wales Blues - also absent of a mascot which I will get to later. I did enjoy that the 'blue' is not a deep, dark royal blue but almost a baby, powdery blue that made me want to cuddle the NS Welshmen.)

Me: I didn't understand the game much. Is this typical of Australian rugby?

Australian: Look, the world of Queensland revolves around whether the Maroons (which they pronounce 'maroans' - I've come to tease Christine that the satellite circling our beloved earth is the 'moan') win the Origin series (pause) but anyway...

It is these very differences in colloquialisms and mannerisms of speaking that bring great joy to my day. I love the fact that I hear a different slang almost every day, and I mean that very literally, almost every day. The other day I was asking one of the teachers about a song that some students were going to sing for chapel and the teacher said, "Perhaps you should have a sticky beak about that." I kind of screwed up my face, as if I'd sucked the rind off a lemon and asked, 'what in the world does that mean?" By nature I can usually connect the dots, find a way to unravel the context, but 'sticky beak?' The teacher said, "Go poke your nose in their song. See if it's what you want... but anyway..."

So, I've been getting my beak sticky with regards to the State of Origin. I poked into its history and according to the incredibly reliable Wikipedia files, the State of Origin series has been occurring since 1908 and described as 'the best rugby played anywhere in the world.' Each team draws from the national teams but the players on each side, from Queensland and New South Wales, play for the state where they played their first senior rugby match - thus, their own state of origin. From what I understand, it's like the Superbowl of rugby in Australia, and as I watched the game, there was obviously a love hate relationship for the players. The irony of this game is that after it is done, the players, who have spent the previous 80 minutes bloodying (not a swear word in this context) each others' faces, then shake hands and return to their normal teams, some of them playing on the same team.

During the three game matches, the players, clubs and states despise each other so much that they have, according to my reliable source, given each other monikers, or mascots befitting what they think of their rival neighbor states. The Queensland team is called the cane toads, which are the rampantly overpopulated amphibians which have overrun the state and are categorically hated by pretty much everyone I've met, while the New South Wales team is called the cockroaches, which I think are pretty much despised and loathed by the whole world. I think it would be pretty funny if the two teams actually had those mascots and people would come dressed to the game in wart-filled headgear and alternatively freakishly ugly legs with disgusting underbellies. I guess I would say I would rather be a cane toad than a cockroach, but anyway...

So, last Wednesday, I was invited by two of the students to view the second, of three, State of Origin game on the big screen at the school. I arrived as the pregame was occurring, all sorts of advertising was being promoted. Then, there was this small television bit regarding a group of ten thousand people who had donned powder blue wigs (the game was in New South Wales). I remember when I was growing up the only people that had blue hair were members of the ladies auxiliary and they were all eighty years old. But here they were, ten thousand strong, and the leader of the rabble was a thirty-year-old man who, five or six years before, had been taken to the game by his mates for a bucks' party (bachelor party - I don't know if bachelor, in Australian, is spelled 'bachelour' - they add a 'u' into many words). All twenty-five of them, rabid Blue's fans, wore blue wigs of the same color as that famous American cartoon annoying non-talking dog, Blue - from Blue's clues. The idea caught on and the next year there were a hundred people wearing blue wigs, then a thousand and then this year, there was a sea of blue hair - it looked like an AARP (American Association of Retired Persons) convention.

The commentator, who was interviewing the original (pun intended) blue hair, said something quite profound, which I would later understand is a rarity at Australian rugby matches. He said, 'It's amazing how this caught on. It's like everyone here, wearing the blue wigs, understands that they are part of something bigger than themselves."

I would like to go off on a mini-Christian devotional about how Christians would like to see themselves as marked for something bigger than themselves, but I can smell the eggs and toast in the kitchen and it's time to wrap this up, but anyway...

I want to finish writing about the game. As the players lined up, preparing their bodies for full contact battle, no padding, very few mouth guards - basically walking concussions - I noticed that these men were so disproportionately large I had trouble even looking at them. I was in a state of ignorance as to how these men could move with legs the size of beer barrels and arms which looked like they could be deflated with a poke of a pin. Their physiques truly looked as if they had donned one of the inflatable muscle suits you find at novelty shops. I approached the big screen just to see if I could find the little rubber capped plug where the suit was blown up.

But anyway...

These men gathered full steam, screaming down the field to chase the man who had the ball and pulverize him, pile drive him into the ground and then sit on his face until it looked as if he was having a grand mal seizure. I watched with horror the first time I saw this, the man who had been smeared was flopping on the ground like a chicken with its head cut off, but all those around were laughing as if this were normal.

"Why are they flopping like that? Are they injured? Shouldn't the medic go out onto the field?"

Australian: "Look, he's just trying to get up off the ground so that he can start the next play."

Whatever you say. So many times during the match one of the player would literally peel himself from the turf, gash in his forehead, dislocated shoulder, knee buckling and then push the trainer back to the sideline saying, "Yeah, no, I'm right, mate. She'll be good. I've got me other arm still working."

It was a fine night to hear the voices of the commentators screaming into their microphones, enjoying the gladiatorial atmosphere of the night. I watched with amusement at the students and the teachers as they watched with gnawed fingernails in mouth for the Cane Toads and Cockroaches to finish the battle. I watched the contestants, cruising down the field on tree trunk like legs bowl into each other and was quite aware that at any minute one of them would break a limb. It was a feast for the senses filled with the fruits of anxiousness. And even though I was in a state of awe and shock (and ignorance, for that fact) I enjoyed every minute of it.

But anyway...

A Different World

I guess I always knew this day was coming.

Even as I awoke this morning, I could feel life spinning on its axis, not out of control, but like the earth changing seasons. The tilt came slowly, like the transition between spring and summer. Perhaps I'd been putting off the inevitable, of thinking about what this morning and day would look like. Perhaps I thought that life would simply come skidding to a halt when I asked it to. Perhaps there is a little bit of that in all of us, a spark of the eternal, a glimmer of the immortal that assumes a piece of invincibility. Perhaps we all have that hopeful piece in us but today, that ceramic piece of my psyche was broken in a million pieces on the floor of life.

Today, I brought my little girl to high school.

Elsa woke up in a brilliant, glorious mood. For her, this would be an excursion into the bright future. It was a glimpse into the inevitable beauty, for her, of growing up. For a few years she has been making her own breakfast and lunch, doing her homework, helping with household chores, but it wasn't until today that I noticed she has begun to move beyond childhood. Like a shimmering boat she is moving out onto the horizon of a new world and I am left standing on the shore waving, waving so hard, praying desperately that the winds will not blow her sails and take her away too quickly. I watched Elsa prepare for school this morning and as much as she glowed for the day, I was not prepared for it.

On the way to school Elsa whistled and gabbed. She wanted to talk about all the things that the next year of school might bring: challenges in mathematics, science would be really fun, oh, Daddy, can I be in the choir? The only word I could connect with was 'Daddy.' High school, how can that be? How can the years pass so fast? How can I be so unaware of the passage of time that I don't realize that the next part of my life is approaching so rapidly, like a relentless waterfall that is drawing me towards the cliff?

Soon, I will stop being Daddy to her, I would guess. I'll just be 'Dad' or, as she learns from others, one of the 'runts' concerned only with curbing her fun and being a veritable stick in the mud. But, I smiled and assuaged any of her fears about meeting new people. It would be fun, I told her, she would fit right in. But inside, this Dad's heart was ready to break apart. Maybe the next two will be easier, but this day would be different than any other I had encountered.

We arrived at school; she helped me set up for chapel chirping all the way about how fun the day would be. The shades were pulled in the chapel. Small amounts of light filtered through the slats and onto the floor and I watched with fascination as my daughter, still so young, jumped between them. Other students began to slide into the room in twos and threes and my young Elsa, still insecure enough in strange settings, ran to her father looking for support. It was so precious, and like all the times in the past eleven, going on twelve years, Elsa subconsciously reached out to put her hand in mind. Her child-like faith that her daddy would always be there. She looked up at me with the largest of smiles, the ones reserved for only little girls' dads, beaming with all the joy of a child in a world full of gumdrops.

And then I did it. I didn't plan it and I certainly didn't think that I had the power to do it but...

I pulled my hand from hers.

It was like a switch had been flipped in this world - it became a little darker place. I thought I was helping her, helping her to make her way into an adult world. she couldn't always have her dad around. I told her it would be the best way for her to make friends, I tried to make a joke of it - you won't want to be around an old guy like me.

She looked at me as if I'd slapped her. Her face fell; she pulled her hand away from mine as if there was electricity leaking from my finger tips. Sensing the hurt, the betrayal (most of it was my own projected upon her) I asked her if she was okay. She said, yes, Daddy, and walked away from me. And as she walked away, every memory of her growing up years, her curly hair bounding through the grass as we went camping, her overalls protecting her from every bump in the road, her first book, her first tooth lost, her first day of school, her first lesson - everything flew in front of my vision and I realized that the past would be all that I would have soon enough. As Elsa walked away from me, the future came rushing at me - soon enough she would be graduating from high school, university, marriage and I would be that Dad that pulled his hand away from her.

But I had to; I have to let her grow up, don't I? Does every father feel like this? Does every parent want to rush back to those wonder years of childhood and count every single precious second and redo them, to see those little giggles and cuddles, falling asleep on my shoulder, asking for help for everything?

I made my way through the day trying to keep my head above the endless tide of emotion that is threatening to consume me. I smiled for the other students; cracked jokes with them, taught them a new song, made them feel welcome, but all day I kept one eye on my Princess (that's the name I have called her since day one.) I saw her throughout the day, but, in my own mind, all things were different.

As the day of school closed, we gathered all of the new students in the chapel and did some fun games. Those youth were happy, their parents proud (I just as much, believing my Princess to be the most beautiful, the smartest, the greatest child in the room) and the sunlight seemed to have changed to a different color - golden, I guess you'd call it. It flickered on Elsa's face for a little bit and I paused to stare at this beautiful gift that God has given us.

It has all gone too fast.

After all the youth had packed up, my Elsa came up to me, told me about her day, excitedly speaking about math and science, art and drama and especially music. And then, without thinking, Elsa looked up at me, smiled and put her hand back into mine.

Life happens. And on this different day, in a different world...

I call it good.

A Typical Sunday

It's Mothers' Day.

The girls and I have been scheming for weeks trying to find the right presents for Christine. We've been watching adds on television trying to entice us to buy the perfect present for the perfect woman. My favorite add is from a hardware store. A surprised looking mother, with hands over eyes, expectantly awaiting her gift, enters from camera right. Father is covering her eyes, Mother is smiling trying to pull his hands off while two stereotypical young children, one male one female, stand in the background attempt to look excited. For they are overjoyed to give Mother the best present ever on Mothers' Day:

A hedge trimmer.

The first time we watched that commercial (the hardware store also told us that other perfect gifts would be mulch and a garden hose) we had to rewind it a few times to take in the full scope of the comedy. I almost ran to the first hardware store that I could find to buy something that all mothers need desperately - a new wastebasket, only $5.50 on sale now through Sunday. Very, very good advertising.

It is Sunday, now, and I have found out that Sunday mornings are anything but typical. Atypical, if you will. Not only was I to preach at two different churches this morning, but I was attempting to negotiate the waters of Mothers' day for my wife. Unlike our previous life, we awoke early, the sun filtering through our white, slatted drapes, crossing us with unwelcome sunlight at 6:00. I kissed Christine 'good morning' and then headed off to prepare for what would become a very different morning.

After finishing the final touches on Christine's Mothers' Day card, I filled the time before her arising going over the last points of my sermon. I had never been to Ropeley before. Ropeley Church is, what most would say, out in the Boonies. I went there once, last year, but I was nervous about finding the place again. So, I wanted to leave plenty of time to get there. I thought for sure an hour would be enough. My Global Positioning System (Gladys) told me that it was only seventeen kilometers but what was interesting was, the time they allotted for me to get there was three hours and thirty-four minutes. That should have been an omen for me. Christine got out of bed to see me off; she would meet me at the next service in the town of Laidley in a couple of hours.

So, we started off - we, meaning Gladys and me, joyfully tooled down the road, her silken voice singing to me the directions. We traveled through the town of Blenheim - if you are a frequent purveyor of my blogs, this is where Greta's track meet was - I looked to the right to smile at the grassfield where Greta had run.

And then things got dicey. If I have learned one thing about Australia, road signs are not obligatory. Many times, they point in strange directions. One of the roads I came to, the sign pointed off into the middle of a field. We approached Ropeley Road which, I thought, was a good sign as the church should logically be on a road with the namesake. Gladys did not speak a word of negation so we traveled down the paved road. After a couple of miles, the road split into a 'Y' and both arms of the 'Y' turned into gravel roads. As I knew this church was out in the country it seemed normal that we would travel at some point on gravel. As I followed the right fork, Gladys started to make funny noises, almost as if she were looking at a map herself. I could hear her turning the map upside down and mumbling under her breath, "No, this can't be the right way, can it?" As she was busily rearranging herself, I began to get nervous. I had allowed myself some leeway but that amount of time was gradually being eaten up on this strange road that twisted and turned through some beautiful country. As I was nervously driving, countless kangaroos bounded across the road; a pheasant flew not ten feet in front of the car and the sounds of thousands of birds reverberated inside the car. If I weren't in a hurry, I would have stopped to listen for a while.

It was at that point, as I found my way to a 'T' in the road, that Gladys made another noise, almost like she were throwing up. The roads were so curvy she must have gotten motion sickness. I asked her if she was okay but she said, "I have no idea where we are. Stop at a gas station and ask. I am shutting down. Happy Mothers' Day." I looked around me. I'm not sure there was a gas station within twenty miles and I hadn't seen another car since I left Laidley. So, I did what every good man does - I just kept driving. Sooner or later you run into a paved road with a sign, right?

Not in Australia.

Eventually, after making u-turn after u-turn following random cars on the assumption that they were going to Ropeley Church (hey might have been wondering who the stalker was behind them) I happened upon the little church on the hill. I was only five minutes late (I was expecting much worse) but as the service started, and the time for the readings began, I asked the congregation if there was a reader for the morning. After a brief bit of silence the organist yells from the back, "You made us wait long enough, you do it!"

Touche.

I can recognize sarcasm when I hear it and we had a good laugh afterwards. Fortunately, the good people of Ropeley felt badly for their feeble American pastor and sent an emissary with him. Ross, and his brother Greg, jumped into the truck in front of me and drove me all the way back to Laidley for the next service. I was thankful for their help but I gave Gladys another chance on the way home. No luck. She still couldn't figure out how to navigate the spider-web-like roads of rural Australia.

The next service started well. The people had a full service order printed out for me; all that I needed to do was read from the script. Like a teleprompter. There should be nothing to shake me during the service. I actually thought those words while entering the pulpit. Everything went fine until it came time for communion. We, the pastor and his family, were to come up first. We were to kneel at the altar railing and receive. I took my place after the ushers motioned for us to kneel, but for some reason, the girls were standing back. Josephine looked horrified and exasperatedly I told her to come and kneel. Christine smiled at me and leaned over and whispered, "There's a spider just underneath the railing. Could you kill it?"

This is strange for Christine because she does not carry the curse of arachnophobia like I do. And, from my brief time in Australia, I understand that if something has eight legs in Australia, you back away slowly and hope that you have no exposed skin. Spiders are likely to rip your head off and drink your blood from your carotid artery. I was hoping it was a small spider and later on, Christine told me that she would have killed it, but she was wearing sandals and a dress and she didn't want the blooming thing to scamper across her foot and run up her leg. When she asked me to kill it, I thought to myself, "You can do this. You can do this. It's Mothers' Day. Be a man."

Then I saw it. It was a Huntsmen spider and I can see why it has that moniker. It was big enough to hunt down a man. It's long, hairy legs were as wide as my palm and with horror I looked at her shaking my head. I can't do it. I pleaded with her. If this cup can be taken away from me, but if not, Christine, thy will be done.

Indeed, Christine's will would be done. She gazed down at the hideous beast that she wanted me to crush underneath my foot. I was already kneeling down over this chihuahua sized spider; I jumped up quickly, and with quavering heel I moved to squash the eight legged leviathan.

It's fast. I jumped. Most of the congregation saw what happened and I'm pretty sure there was some laughter going on. But then, I overcame my fear and stood directly on top of it, squishing it. But it felt like I was squishing a tennis ball. I wanted to gag, to retch, to do anything but look under my foot at the spider that was probably eating it's way through the sole of my shoe laughing all the way.

It was dead. Communion continued but I couldn't erase the thought and the feeling of the arachnocide. By the end of communion, the spider had disappeared. It must have had five lives or something. Little did I know that one of the congregation members had picked up the Huntsmen in a paper towel and then put it in one of the communion cups. If I would have found it in the communion cup, the odds are, when I got home, I would be calling Qantas for the first flight out of the Huntsmen filled southern continent.

Quite a typical Sunday.

Cross Country

It's raining tonight which is not an altogether uncommon occurrence for this time of year in Australia. Because our house, like all of the houses in the neighborhood, has a slate roof, the sound the rain makes is a rhythmic drumming, like fingers rapping on a five gallon flour drum. Most people don't have flour drums anymore. Judging by the plentitude of varieties of breads that grace the aisles of the bakery, most people buy from store. My parents used to make all of their own bread; the smell of it still brings back memories of rolling out the enormous containers of flour in the cupboard underneath the microwave, sifting it, make sure that there are no chunks but mostly we just like sifting. The fineness of the flour feeling like a cool water filtering through my fingers. Those were good days of bread making, but when I make bread nowadays, (which is a very rare thing in any case) I don't have an attachment of memories. The bread that turns out from my eight inch bread pan is nothing like that of my parents: it is usually flat with increasing sizes of holes decorated throughout the middle. When I make toast, it falls apart in my fingers and with great frustration, I usually end up chucking most of the loaf away. But I still make bread for the smell. The smell of rain has memories attached to it also. As this rain pours down on our new house in a new country, the odor of wet grass - wet, cut grass reminds me of the country where the crickets would begin their annual symphony this time of year, the males singing their beautiful song in search of the perfect mate - the frogs, lounging in their temporary summer ponds in the backyard, barking to be heard. It seemed that all creation was crying out not to be lonely. I wonder what loneliness would smell like - probably of dusty attics and faded photographs, of moldy clothes and decaying wood. Silence would reign in the middle of the house of memories and those same photographs would be guideposts for the imagination. I guess my blog today is more of a stream of consciousness, that's not necessarily a bad thing as long as the reader follows along, but mostly what I wanted to write about this evening was a memory made just a few weeks ago. A very Australian memory. Greta was running in a cross country meet. In the small town where I grew up, cross country was simply how one described the shortest possible distance to another neighbor's house and no one would literally run across the country from one house to another. If a young boy did not play football, there was no other option for sports; cross country was something for boys who couldn't cut it for football - it was something they did in big schools. But Greta was exhilarated by the opportunity to push her legs faster and faster across the wide open course. In the United States, the extent of my cross country knowledge was that most of the races were on the hills of golf courses, roped paths lined the route, each leg of the race punctuated by timers and stands full of family and friends waiting for that one moment of time when they would see their favorite runner cross their area. Greta had asked if I could come with her to the event. The sporting opportunities are run during school hours and because it was on a Thursday, my day off, I could not turn her down. She batted her bright eyes at me and said, "Daddy, will you please, please, please come?" So, I walked Greta to school and promptly parked myself in front of Mr. Hooper, the cross country coach. Mr. Hooper is rail thin with skin darkened by the radiant sunshine of Queensland. His legs are so skinny (he wore shorts that day) that he looked like an ibis with a baseball cap. His good humor shown out that day as he prepared the kids for the day of running. Because they enjoy Mr. Hooper, he quieted them down with a hand. "All right, kids," he intoned with a voice very near that of the Crocodile Hunter, at least that is the way that it sounds in my memory, "today is a big day. We want to do our school proud. Run your hardest, run your best, and be good sports." He turned around as if he were finished, the kids were prepared to get up and run to the bus - a good warm up to the day. "Just wait, Mates," he smiled as he turned around again. "There are a few rules for the day. As we are going out in the country for the race (makes sense, it's cross country) rule number 1: The grass is yea high." Mr. Hooper signaled towards his chest the height of the grass. "Since the grass is that high, what does that mean?" In my own head I'm thinking 'it's time to mow the lawn?' but Mr. Hopper was digging for a different answer. A young girl raised her hand. "We have to watch out for snakes." "That's right," Mr. Hooper said. Bells and whistles were going off in my head at this point. Since when did cross country become an extreme sport? Do they even know how far away the nearest hospital is? He continued. "Stay on the path. There will be some brownies out there wanting to take a nice slither in the warmth of the afternoon so stay on the path. And, if you are watching any of the races, stay out of the grass." Okay, let me get this straight. This school is sending out thirty children to wend their way through pastures of deadly snakes - brown snakes are considered the second or third most poisonous snake in the world. I guess I'd have to run the race with Greta. "And another thing, because the grass is this high, if you get lost on the course, just stay where you are and someone will be around to pick you up at some point or the other." All the kids looked around at each other with this 'totally cool' expression, but my mouth dropped. What kind of crazy would this be? Mr. Hooper packed all the kids on the bus; I rode with Greta in the third seat front the front. Because the bus driver is on the other side of the vehicle from which I am accustomed, it still takes me a few moments to acclimate to the view of the scenery rushing at me from the left side of the bus. Screaming kids were a constant on the ten minute drive to the field (I had flash forward thinking of the pit of vipers that awaited each of the kids as they tore around the course). When we arrived, I found that cross country was indeed the correct description of what was occurring. The route was literally around a farmer's field, the cows were somewhat silent sentinels marking the parts of the course where the kids were supposed to avoid. I guess that cows have relatively little fear of the brown snake. En masse, we walked down the hill to our covered tent. Because the Australian sun is penetratingly hot, all forty-five of us (includes the parents) attempted to huddle under the canvas while simultaneously trying to avoid the shoulder high grass where brown snakes waited in hiding ready to ambush suspecting cross country fans. I looked out over the course and noted the beauty of the landscape. Various eucalypts dotted the course and the rolling hills promised a steady, hard race for Greta. She seemed unconcerned by the course or by the threat of snakes and simply wandered along the path pulling the heads from wheat like weeds. Ah, to be a child again. Greta's race was the last of the morning. As I watched all of the competitors before hand, I had a good understanding of what was going to happen. Usually, all the runners in an age group would bunch up at the beginning, the starter's whistle would sound and the little legs would churn faster and faster as they sprinted out of the finish line. Tangling in the mass, sometimes these same little legs would get interlaced would others and the children would take a spill where they would then get up and start running again. There was no malice; they didn't care if they fell or if they even ran the whole way. By the time the first group got to the hill, half of them were walking already so out of breath from sprinting the first leg that they needed a hundred meters to catch their breath. It was at this point in the race where the spectators would lose site of the runners. Like the moon craft that circled the dark side of the moon, there were tense moments of silence. Would the children find their way out? Would they be harpooned by venomous fangs? Would the cows rip from their fences to stampede the young children running their way? Not a child was lost. From the great distance we saw the runners turn the corner and job back to us. With great relief (perhaps I was the only one who audibly blew out breath) the cross country athletes slowly but surely followed the course and crossed the finish line. For those who decided it was a cross country walk a four wheel drive vehicle started the course ten minutes after the race began to clean up the stray runners that sprinted too hard at the beginning. Cross country extreme: if the snakes don't get you, if the grass doesn't swallow you, you can be sure that a large vehicle with exhaust pipe above the hood will come after you presumably aware of small children in its path. This was an incredibly enjoyable day. Greta finished well, she smiled, drank her water and rode back on the bus with her dad. I only got a few gray hairs from a cross country meet.