Lack of Interest

He ran a marathon at the age of 24, at the age of 42, and is about to at the age of 51.

He has four children (2.14 more than the average American family), all with the same wife. 

He writes a monthly article in a local Christian magazine, appearing in the back of it, because his ideas are so ...  different.

He blogs because the other 150,000,000 bloggers haven't said what needs to be said.

He does household repairs that would make a lesser man cringe, sometimes gets paid to do it, and actually enjoys it.

He once worked as an undercover security guard at Strawbridge and Clothier.

He built model rockets and potato canons with his kids.

He dabbles with the djembe, and mixes the sound for his local church, sometimes both a the same time.

Despite all this...  he is ... The Least Interesting Man in the World.


Note:  Apparently there are other "Least Interesting Men in the World" and we are like a club. 

Perhaps

“Perhaps” is a word that caught my attention in the year 1987.  As with things that often make a lasting impact, it was the person who said it which made the impression.

The television series “Beauty and the Beast” ran for three seasons starting on September 25, 1987.  The story involved a world of outcasts secretly living under the streets of the city.  Vincent is the appointed protector of the inhabitants.  He has the appearance of a “Beast”, but the heart of a savior.

The “Beauty”, Catherine, lives in the city above.  Beauty and The Beast meet when Catherine is assaulted by a thug, and Vincent takes her to the underworld to recover.  Affection develops between the two, he assumes the role of her permanent protector, and together they fight for the downtrodden.

Vincent has been raised by a man I only remember being referred to as “Father”.  Father is well read, wise, and the resident overseer of the outcasts.  Vincent is his moral image.  The influence of Father’s life over his son is obvious.

Vincent habitually speaks in a soft voice, uncharacteristic for his appearance.  He is a normal man, albeit incredibly strong, and with facial hair and features that resemble a lion’s. 

It was Vincent’s use of the word “perhaps” which caught my ear.  He used it often, usually while speaking to Catherine about a remedy to their current problem, softly uttering it so as not to dictate.

It was after the repeated viewing of this that I decided I too would use the word “perhaps.”  I never use it in conversation, but frequently do in writing.  My use of the word is meant to be in the same vein as Vincent’s.

There is more to the story of my watching this interesting twist on an old tale.  In the fall of 1987, I had moved back to Sussex County after a series of bad decisions.  I usually watched the show in the home of my parents who were helping to nurse me back to spiritual and emotional health. 

Some months prior to that move, I had received a call from my parents.  My brother, a leader in the local church I had been attending before graduating from college, had discussed with them that the church was not sure what to do regarding my membership, which was still technically on the books.  But it wasn’t technicalities with which they were concerned.  My slump was no secret, and it was an extended hand which they were really offering.  It was the wake up call I needed.  Repentance began to rise up in my heart, and a chain of events began which together would slowly work to bring my heart back to The Lord.

Shortly after that call, I moved into a room in the house at 408 Haverford, where 89 year old Emilie Cederstom lived, whose room for rent had become known to me through an inquiry to the local churches in the area in which I desired to live.  Hunched over due to severe osteoporosis, she informed me that her job was now to check the obituaries for deceased friends. She occasionally shared her cookies with me, her last remaining vice.  Her retired son was temporarily living there, getting her affairs in order, as her death was somewhere on the not too distant horizon. 

I did yard work just for something to do.  Rose of Sharon had engulfed everything in sight.  Her son had me prune it back to stubs, which left her yard looking like a bad hair cut, and dismayed Mrs. Cederstrom.  Regardless, she once told my mother that I was “To the manner born”.  Or perhaps she said I was “To the manor born”.  While I’m not sure exactly what she meant, I’m pretty confident it was a compliment, and unrelated to any social class.  It was in this home that The Lord did some radical pruning in my heart, and the healing first began.

Just before moving back to Sussex County that fall, my parents introduced me via cassette tape to a man who taught at the annual retreats of the local believers with which my parents were meeting.  I listened to those tapes in my third floor bedroom.  That man would become a spiritual physician to me, and a life long friend to our family.  He would point me to a Christ I had not seen before, and continues to do so to this day.

After several months with the old lady (she would not be offended, as she was fully aware of her season in life) , I returned to my native Sussex County.  My parents introduced me to that local fellowship of believers.  It was there that the nursing continued.  It was there that I began to understand for the first time how a group of believers functions as what we call a “body”.

And it was during those first months at home that we watched Vincent use the word “perhaps” and deal tenderly with Catherine.

Perhaps the timing of the phone call about the quandary in which my church found itself was just a coincidence.

Perhaps the availability of Mrs. Cederstrom’s room, a place of refuge when I most needed it, was a coincidence.

Perhaps it was coincidence I heard just the right taped message from the right messenger, at the right time.

Perhaps it was coincidental that I happened to find myself in that local body of believers when I moved back to Sussex County, where I met and married my wife.

And perhaps, coincidentally, I found myself drawn to the words of Vincent, a vague embodiment of The Savior, the likes of which I was just beginning to come to know in a way I never had before.

Or, perhaps, it wasn’t coincidence at all.


This story first appeared in the March 2012 edition of the Manna. http://readthemanna.org.

My Kind of People

Wicomico County, MD Recreation, Parks & Tourism put on the Hidden Treasures Half Marathon on September 9.  Along the course, there were people like this:

They held signs saying "Go Daddy", "Keep Going", and the like.

During the training for the race, some of these people also waited patiently for dinner so that daddy could run beforehand.  On the day of the race, they got up early to make their way to the Civic Center, cheered at the start, drove across town to cheer at a midpoint of the race, and dashed back to cheer at the finish line.

Some of these people allowed us to crash at their house the night before the race, and made pasta for dinner for carbo-loading.

There were also people from the County who organized the race, with its infinite number of details to work out.  There were problems to solve, volunteers to get organized, bands to book, and headaches to endure.

Other people directed traffic, manned water stops, and gathered cheer groups.

All this for 180 runners who wanted to navigate a 13.1 mile course through the city of Salisbury.

These are family members, friends, and perfect strangers.  These are my kind of people.  Thanks guys.

Sussex Central High Marching Band

Katherine performed at her first game with the marching band last Thursday.  I hadn't been to a football game in a while.

A friend commented "I bet your mind was really working, thinking about high school".  Actually, it wasn't.  In a rare moment of UN-nostalgia, I was not thinking about my high school days (well, not that much.)

Instead, I was focused on our Katherine and her band.  I watched as she practiced at the end of the field, giving me a little wave when she saw me approach.  I watched as the band marched out for the pre-game show, and listened for her clarinet.  I watched for her director, Mr. Nicholas Greeson, this being his first performance with our school, and wondered what he might be thinking.

I watched as the teams took the field, and thought of Joe Biden's recent comments about his own football days.  I noticed how filled the stands were, especially on our visitor's side.  There were a couple of loud fans... not obnoxious at all, but eager to cheer players by name.  They were obviously former players, probably the fathers of kids on the field.

The band sat at the end of the bleachers.  The percussion section, sometimes accompanied by the rest of the band, played throughout the game.  They obviously enjoyed it. I tried to duplicate the drum rhythms on my bleacher seat, hoping they would get ingrained in my head so I could do it later.

I thought of our son who was considering entering band.  He initially thought of percussion, but we are steering him towards another instrument, such as the sax, so that he can learn to read music (not just rhythm).  Our logic is that he will then be able to use that skill throughout his life.  But watching the percussion section, and seeing how much they enjoyed their work, I wondered if we were doing the right thing.  Perhaps Elias can make his own duplicator, duplicate himself, and do both.

During the third quarter, the band made its way over to the concession stand for a late dinner, as they came to the game directly from school.  Katherine came back with water.  "Didn't you want anything else?," I asked.  "They didn't have anything I wanted," she said.  "Are you hungry?"  "No, not really."  Then I noticed something sticking out of her pocket.  "What's that?," I asked.  "Oh, those are my Swedish fish."  I felt much better knowing that she would not go hungry.

I, on the other hand, was about to run the half-marathon, and needed to stock up on protein and carbohydrates.  Fortunately the concession stand offered a hot dog, diet coke, and peanut M&Ms.