ItsGreek2u

Harry! Neil! Hands! Sweet!

2012-01-09T10:31:00.001-08:00

A disclaimer: The following is nothing more (or less) than my unadorned confession of a few powerful streams of subconsciousness occasioned by my recent travels and observations. Although it may not make unmitigated sense to the reader, I write anyway. I pound the motherboard with as much clarity as I can because this sentence string and these feeling sequences apparently have been travelling beneath my conscious awareness; at last, they have rapped on the door of my sleep, waking me in mid-slumber in the small hours of New Year’s Eve, 2011, demanding cognitive recognition. Perhaps I also write because this tiny discipline may offer a small glimpse into the incomplete, but hopeful ruminations of my soul as I have journeyed through the recent holidays in America and as I look, with a mixture of trepidation and optimism, toward the approaching year. First, some background:

Three-days before Thanksgiving, we were in the Chicago O’Hare Airport, waiting for our Southwest Airlines flight. Financial considerations dictated that our air-hop from Nashville, Tennessee to Jackson, Mississippi should be routed through the Windy City. While awaiting our flight, Janice grabbed a crusty, fried serving of “fast food” in the Food Court and I waited for my allotment of nourishment at Harry Caray’s airport eatery. With a touch of family pride, my own Riley daughter and I sat next to the Reilly’s Daughter pub, conversing, with food in our mouths, over the airport noisy-ness. And, then, ….

Late one night just after Christmas, we had returned from our glorious Christmas family celebrations with our children in Austin, Texas and were flipping channels. Watching television in the Trinity Baptist Church of San Antonio, Texas guest residence was an unexpected luxury, largely unavailable in Athens, Greece. By a fortunate accident, we came upon the broadcast of the most recent Kennedy Center Awards. The crooner & pop star, Neil Diamond was among the honorees. We had presupposed that our interest would be peaked by the award given to the superb actress, Meryl Streep, but it turned out that Diamond may have made the most lasting impact. Finally, ….

On the eve of New Year’s Eve, with Jerry and Rita, we travelled to Fredericksburg, Texas for a performance at the Rock Box Theatre. The very professionally done rock & roll tribute featured, among many others, an additional recognition of Diamond’s musical talents. So now, the recurring melody of Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” keeps showing up on the back-lots of my mind. That chorus about “Hands, touching hands, reaching out, touching me, touching you!” sings its way through the open spaces of my cerebral cavity and runs laps on the treadmill of my feeble (and out of shape) mind.

In Harry Caray’s Chicago pub, there is an homage to the baseball announcer’s legendary practice of leading Chicago baseball fans in a stirring rendition of “Take me out to the ball game!” in the “seventh-inning stretch” of every home game for many years. While waiting for my lunch order, between flights, I was reminded of the potent human need to rise and sing together; although we routinely do it at church, Harry led it in the middle of “America’s pastime.” And then, through the Diamond tributes, I recalled that in sports events across this American nation, fans often sing together Diamond’s signature song, celebrating the “reaching out, touching me, touching you” that seems, when you think about it, such a soul-blessed response to an equally human need.

While I return to sleep, now, the demon of my subconscious at least temporarily surfeited, for a while, I leave you with but one thought, brought courtesy of Neil and Harry and the subterranean environs of my mind. Wouldn’t it be nice if 2012 could be marked by a massive universe of humanity who, for a “seventh-inning break” from the usual rivalry and competitiveness, would put aside the differences that so easily separate us, chose to make open our greedy, angry or gesturing fists and decide to reach out to others and make personal contact! This old world of ours so desperately needs to connect and to lift our voices.

Here’s my hand! Sweet!

Texas Toast!

2011-10-31T11:55:00.000-07:00

Our extended visit to the States is in full swing! In less than three weeks, we have crossed the ocean, celebrated my birthday with Matt & Nancy in Austin, Texas, had a great, but short, time with Janice’s mother and her brothers’ families in Gulfport, Mississippi, had a not-so-profitable visit to the Greek Consulate in Atlanta, Georgia, been officially reoriented with our organization and returned to Texas.

The San Antonians have already made us feel so welcome. Randy met us at the airport and we shared a great Tex Mex dinner with Joann & John David and Barbara on Friday evening. Emmanuel brought us the loaner vehicle on Saturday and we figured out how to get back to our temporary home with only one freeway mistake. On Sunday, we worshipped with Trinity Baptist Church, in whose guest residence we are temporarily residing and even figured out how to arm and disarm the security system!

Since we have been adopted Texans for over forty years, we are happy to be back where the Lone Star flies high and proud. Today, in San Antonio, when we enjoyed a quick, refresher walk through the Alamo and some vintage Texas culinary delights at a place called “Good Time Charlie’s,” I felt the urge to lift a glass of root beer and propose a toast to Texas.

So…, Here’s to Texas:

Where “beer belly” and “country fried” are redundancies, at least to some!

Where unsweetened tea is an option, as opposed to Mississippi, where sweet is naturally assumed!

Where Tex Mex stands for much more than just spicy food!

Where the locals know themselves to be a part of a distinct southwestern culture, yet also celebrate their global connectedness!

Where Blue Bell still rings my bells!

Where Halloween tricksters began early by cutting up and carting off the front license plate on the vehicle, which has been generously loaned to us, while we’re in Texas!

Where, contrary to the Greek bureaucracy, we managed to get replacement license plates in only two days, despite the reality that the vehicle's owners currently live in India!

Where a delightful, informative and free newspaper can be appropriately entitled “Much Ado”!

Where some of our luggage will wait for us, while we travel about the country raising funds and friends for PORTA – the Albania House in Athens!

Where Pastor Les Hollon still makes house calls and has an open door policy!

Where Baptists know themselves to be among a blessed family, but where their vision is wide enough to include Albanian immigrants in Athens, Greece!

Where, despite the various versions of the “new normal” around the globe, time-tested and eternal values are still held by loads of good people!

Where, despite the xenophobia of some and the nearness of the border, a welcome to the stranger is as warm as jalapenos are hot!

Thanks, Texas! You did not birth us, but you helped to raise us and you keep on raising our sights and our hopes!

Head Stones or Stepping Stones?

2011-08-07T04:21:00.000-07:00

On our recent holiday in the southwest coastal and midlands regions of England, we visited the small village of Lyndhurst, still known as the capital of The New Forest, because William the Conqueror established the area as a royal hunting ground, back in 1079. The Church of St. Michael’s and All Angels perches precariously at the top of a steep hill, overlooking the tiny town. Like many historic church buildings today, my guess is that most visitors are travel-weary tourists like me, intrigued by its architecture and history rather than by devout worship of God and a serious intent to follow Jesus.

The church and its grounds, with the aged cemetery surrounding its venerable walls, stand as a silent, yet poignant and compelling historical statement; without uttering a sound, the place speaks in brick, mortar and moldy ornaments of the passage of centuries and the persistence of the venerable institution known in the Bible as the “Bride of Christ.” In my travel guide, I read of this little church’s claim to fame. Among those buried in the church yard, the church boasts of Alice Liddell, Lewis Carroll’s inspiration for Alice of his famous Alice in Wonderland. Her burial plot has, today, been cordoned off and a full bed of roses now grows over this otherwise little-known woman’s body.

What struck me as most interesting, however, was not the burial ground of a woman pseudonymously immortalized many years ago by a writer of a famous children’s story. What intrigued me were the head stones of many other “regular” persons who lived and died years ago, whose families placed their mortal remains and stone markers in the old church yard. The years have not been kind to those ancient grave stones. With the passage of time, they have fallen down and, doubtless, they and even the graves themselves have been crowded out with the inevitable “population explosion” of the continuing deaths of others, generation after generation.

What are the living to do with these old grave markers, citing the brief or lengthy life spans and “sacred to the memory” of those long gone and now, mostly forgotten? Well, the wardens and leaders of the Church of St. Michael’s and All Angels have come up with a rather practical solution to this somewhat indelicate problem. They have chosen to recycle the venerable stone markers and reposition them as steps along the foot path leading up the hill to the church building! I do not know when one has been dead long enough for one’s tomb stone to be removed from the graveyard to the hill side, but it obviously happens. At some point, by some ecclesiastical dictate, the markers are transitioned from the noble and ceremonial, but challenging task of standing erect at the top of the hill to the more plebian, but functional duty of lying down on the side of the hill, the better to assist modern-day visitors to ascend the heights.

As I stepped on top of the names, dates and loving tributes, I thought to myself how effectively and exactly this pragmatic, mobility-assist solution expresses one of my life wishes! Write it down if you have to! Take note and do not forget! If there is any memory of me after my days on this earth have ended, I want the remembrance never to be carved and captured in an otherwise useless and ceremonial head stone. Find a way to place any appropriate tribute, rather, as a stepping stone. Let whatever recollection of my life some may elect to recall be used in a handy, helpful manner, the better to stabilize the foot-sore feet and assist the daunting journeys of fatigued pilgrims in the struggle of their uphill, earthly and eternal climb!

Dream Drapery!

2011-07-22T06:08:00.001-07:00

Like it was yesterday, I can still recall that cold winter’s January morning when they took me out to Walden Pond. With snow on the ground and ice on the top of the water, I crunched the frozen turf near Concord, Massachusetts and walked slightly uphill toward the still-remaining stone outline of what once was Thoreau’s tiny cabin. At only five years of age, the boy Thoreau had first glimpsed the tiny lake and its welcoming woods and his life was shaped by the encounter. He (and many of us, for that matter) would be forever changed by the child’s seemingly innocent visit to a humble, but becoming, peasant-looking natural habitat. Thoreau would later describe it this way: "When I was five years old, I was brought from Boston to this pond, away in the country, — which was then but another name for the extended world for me. [...] That woodland vision for a long time made the drapery of my dreams."

The world beyond as “dream drapery.” What poetic imagery! What an apt descriptor! What a powerful reality!

For most of my father’s life, Lauderdale County, MS provided the drapery for his window on the world. The hangings gathered around and surrounding his world outlook were understandably somewhat provincial and often drawn over much of the window’s already limited view. I remember when, just before his death, we travelled together for my older son’s graduation in California. Because it was so far removed from his ordinary window on the world and his treasured window dressing, Pop called the Southwest Airlines flight from Mississippi to California “the trip of a lifetime.”

No matter how cosmopolitan or provincial our point of view, we all have dream draperies. All of us have some kind of “window dressing” on our weltanschauungen (world view). Each one of us looks out on a world, whether wide or narrow, that is shaped and, in some powerful ways, affected by whatever immediately surrounds it. Often, the drapery is emotional or psychological. As likely, it is also political, economic, cultural and ethnic. We tend to view the world in light of what we have come to accept as customary and limited; our perspective is defined by what we perceive to be its outer edges. Our hopes and dreams are focused largely by what has come to surround our outlook.

Some have been known to belittle “window dressing,” as if it is of little consequence. My sense, to the contrary, is that, in this case, the draperies with which and by which our culture and experience have caused us to frame our world-view are most influential. One of life’s big challenges is to get close to our personal draperies and to push them back, allowing us a wider view of an even wider world. Of course, there is value in choosing to look out on the world from different windows, from others’ perspectives. But, before one moves to another window, a great beginning place is to pull back the drapes surrounding one’s own, personal “picture window.”

Do you “see”?

Dream Drapery!

2011-07-22T05:41:00.000-07:00

Like it was yesterday, I can still recall that cold winter’s January morning when they took me out to Walden Pond. With snow on the ground and ice on the top of the water, I crunched the frozen turf near Concord, Massachusetts and walked slightly uphill toward the still-remaining stone outline of what once was Thoreau’s tiny cabin. At only five years of age, the boy Thoreau had first glimpsed the tiny lake and its welcoming woods and his life was shaped by the encounter. He (and many of us, for that matter) would be forever changed by the child’s seemingly innocent visit to a humble, but becoming, peasant-looking natural habitat. Thoreau would later describe it this way: "When I was five years old, I was brought from Boston to this pond, away in the country, — which was then but another name for the extended world for me. [...] That woodland vision for a long time made the drapery of my dreams."

The world beyond as “dream drapery.” What poetic imagery! What an apt descriptor! What a powerful reality!

For most of my father’s life, Lauderdale County, MS provided the drapery for his window on the world. The hangings gathered around and surrounding his world outlook were understandably somewhat provincial and often drawn over much of the window’s already limited view. I remember when, just before his death, we travelled together for my older son’s graduation in California. Because it was so far removed from his ordinary window on the world and his treasured window dressing, Pop called the Southwest Airlines assisted flight from Mississippi to California “the trip of a lifetime.”

No matter how cosmopolitan or provincial our point of view, we all have dream draperies. All of us have some kind of “window dressing” on our weltanschauungen (world view). Each one of us looks out on a world, whether wide or narrow, that is shaped and, in some powerful ways, affected by whatever immediately surrounds it. Often, the drapery is emotional or psychological. As likely, it is also political, economic, cultural and ethnic. We tend to view the world in light of what we have come to accept as customary and limited; our perspective is defined by what we perceive to be its outer edges. Our hopes and dreams are focused largely by what has come to surround our outlook.

Some have been known to belittle “window dressing,” as if it is of little
consequence. My sense, to the contrary, is that, in this case, the draperies with
which and by which our culture and experience have caused us to frame our
world-view are most influential. One of life’s big challenges is to get close to our
personal draperies and to push them back, allowing us a wider view of an even
wider world. Of course, there is value in choosing to look out on the world from
different windows, from others’ perspectives. But, before one moves to another
window, a great beginning place is to pull back the drapes surrounding one’s
own, personal “picture window.”

Do you “see”?

Auto-Mad-Ick!

2011-06-13T11:59:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it is a highly specialized form of road rage. I don’t actually know! All I know is that I am angry at the guy who picked my pocket on the bus in Athens last week! I should be accustomed to it by now, since it has happened to me twice in the six years I have lived in Athens and once in the two years I lived in Tirana, Albania, before that.

I’m classifying it as a type of road rage because that scum stole my driver’s license. The money, you can have, but my driver’s license??? My credit cards and even my bank card can be replaced; I rarely use them over here. But, my driver’s license??? Surely not! Did you know that the Texas Department of Motor Vehicles will allow one to renew a driver’s license online, but will not permit one to replace a lost or stolen license in this most efficient manner? Oh well, I’ll be standing in line, in person, at a DMV office in the Lone Star state in late October!! I’ll bring along my Kindle and a pillow!

Meanwhile (and this is why I am so angry), my driving privileges have effectively been taken away by the low-life who felt that I should subsidize his unsupportable lifestyle. I remember well when Pop, my father, had his eye surgery, years ago. Before the operation, we called a family council and “announced” to him that, due to his deteriorating eyesight, he must turn-in his keys. You don’t understand. My father was raised in an auto enthroning culture. Born in Mississippi in the twenties, while Henry Ford was building Model T’s and Model A’s and was making them readily available for humble, rural folks like my father and his seven brothers, an automobile was always a not-so-subtle sign of manhood for Pop. When Pop opened his service station, it was just one more step in the beatification of the beautiful, bulbous-fendered, running board equipped American automobile.

When, at the tender age of twelve years old, Pop taught me to drive and when he let me take the family car on dates at age 13, he initiated me into the holy-of-holies and I became an acolyte; pretty soon, I was a devout worshipper. Despite my short stature (so short that I had to sit on my clarinet case to see over the dash board of the 1940 Chevy!), my less-than-velvet complexion and the total absence of biceps where biceps were supposed to be, I was transported around automobiles; I was convinced that this little adult, early-achiever had achieved a near God-like, stud status whenever I slid beneath the steering wheel.

I have been behind the wheel of my own personal vehicle since the I was 15. When no one else had wheels, I had wheels! When others were reduced to begging for a lift, I never had to look for my “ride.” I learned to drive a “stick shift,” “3-on-the –tree” and 4-on-the-floor.” Rear speakers were more sacred to me than sneakers!Forever, I have known how to double-clutch or to drive with one arm around my best girl. Most of the time, I can still parallel park and usually I can back-up at speeds equaling the maximum speed limit on most rural highways.

Before Janice and I left the States for this Balkan chapter of our lives, I sold no less than four personal automobiles. Even when we lived in the relatively auto-less land of Albania, I had a Land Rover Discovery at my fingertips. I have driven automobiles on several continents, on both sides of the roadway, up curving, switch-back, mountainous terrain, down rural lanes with vegetation reaching inside the driving compartment, on the German Autobahn, in rain, sleet, snow & gloom of night, in congested, Athenian gridlock, on Westheimer during drive-time in hot & humid Houston, Texas and in places where cars were never actually intended to go!

But now, see howthe mighty have fallen! Now, it has come to this. I must sit in the “shotgun seat” while my lovely wife takes command. It’s not that she is in the least incapable. On the contrary, she is an excellent driver! It’s just that this “Captain Kirk” has been removed from the flight deck of the Starship Enterprise and has been relegated to the lowly status of mere passenger! It’s a Drivin’ Miss Daisy role reversal!

I’m trying to be philosophical and positive about it. It is just another “learning opportunity.” It’s the only wise and smart thing to do. It will provide an entirely new perspective for me; now, I’ll understand better what Janice goes through. It’s an “early warning” signal, prophesying for me that dreaded day in the future when Matt & Doug will come to me in their beneficent maturity, like I came to Pop and take the keys from me. But, oh, it is so hard!

Chaos Theory, Butterfly Wings and Immigrant Parenting!

2011-05-24T03:09:00.000-07:00

In 1972, Edward Norton Lorenz, mathematician and meteorologist, articulated what has come to be known as chaos theory. This intriguing hypothesis, with applications in such disciplines as physics, economics, biology, philosophy and meteorology, assumes a systemic connectedness in the universe and asserts that large influences can sometimes result from very small, seemingly unrelated actions within a system. In the attempt to figure out why long-range weather forecasting was such an unpredictable business, Lorenz first spoke of the impact of the flapping of a sea gull’s wing on the formation of a hurricane; later, using more vivid and relatable imagery, he coined the phrase “butterfly effect” to explain how small actions in atmospheric systems could be responsible for vast and unanticipated changes. Lorenz asked: “Does the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil set off a hurricane in Texas?”

Although I have had considerable experience with chaos of several distinct types, I am, of course, far out of my league in even bringing up such topics. On the other hand, along my chaotic mental pathways, I thought of Lorenz’s “butterfly effect” recently, while talking with a young Albanian friend of mine. The thirty-something young man was married a few years ago; in addition to his new wife, when he said “I do,” he received a pre-teen son, his new wife’s child from a previous marriage. Since they married, the new couple has conceived a baby of their own, just two years ago. So this guy has gone from being single, with no kids, to being married and the father of two kids in very short order. Perhaps now you can understand why my mind bolted toward chaos theory!

My Albanian friend is very concerned, because he wants to do a good job in this most daunting of human responsibilities - fatherhood. He told me that, judging from his own experience as a son, he needed to improve on the parenting model that his father had given him. Although I tried to remain neutral, his firm conviction is that the autocratic, distant, dictatorial and physically abusive pattern which he inherited from his dad leaves much to be desired.

I was very impressed that this young guy wanted very much to be a “good dad” and was so excited about all that he is learning in this regard. He told me, for example, that he has learned never to hit his child in the face. He has concluded that, when all other means have been exhausted and it is necessary for him to use corporal punishment on his older stepson, he will only paddle him on the behind. He also said that he has decided that he will only tell the older boy to do something a couple of times. If the boy still refuses to do what he wants him to do, he will not instruct him endlessly, but will simply move the child to a select place and impose what you and I might call a “time out” in this “punishment zone.”

Knowing that Albanian immigrants in Athens have precious few resources of any kind and even fewer on subjects such as child-rearing, I asked him where he was getting this learning. This is when the “butterfly wing” flitted across the screen of my mind! My Albanian friend told me that he learned these parenting devices from television. Since he is mostly unemployed these days, with the Greek economic system in the toilet, he has lots of time to watch TV, while his wife is at her job and he is home with the kids. On television, he loves to watch that program where the British Nanny comes to the home of the parents who are having trouble with their kids. She observes the kids acting out and checks to see how the parents are handling the misbehavior. After a few days, the Nanny makes suggestions and institutes new behavior management regimes.

As my friend spoke, I almost could hear the flap of butterfly wings! I couldn’t help but wonder if, when this young man and his wife used their hard-earned money to buy that television, they had any idea how this “entertainment device” might help to shape the all-important emotional development of their kids. You can tell me that these basic child-rearing lessons are small or simplistic or perhaps still very unsophisticated. You can tell me that this guy still has a long way to go. But Lorenz and I will tell you that the tiny flap of a butterfly wing can change the weather!

Pearls in the Making!

2011-04-01T06:51:00.000-07:00

It was Frederico Fellini, the noted Italian film director, who said that “all art is autobiography.” In that vein, Fellini also said that “the pearl is the oyster’s autobiography!”

Although the ancient Greeks liked to suppose that pearls were the tears of the gods, the crude reality is much different. In fact, a pearl is a natural gem created by a living organism. Under the right circumstances, when a foreign object is introduced into a mussel or oyster, the creature coats the irritation with a substance called nacre, the very same material with which it builds its shell. Layers of nacre are required to make a shiny pearl.

If that be the case, then by metaphorical parallel, Albanians in Athens, “foreign irritants” lodged within the life of Greece, are, at least potentially, pearls in the making! I can’t help but notice that pearls are made out of the irritating conflict between that which does not belong and the “belonging environment“ of living organisms.

Note also that it is the very substance with which the oyster or mussel protects itself that pearls are made. Thus, Greek resistance to Albanians’ presence is the “stuff” from which the Albanian gem is being created.

Today, most pearls are cultured; that is to say, they are actually created in artificial settings, since natural oyster beds have been largely removed, due to overfishing. It remains true, however, that the most valuable of pearls are those found in natural settings, created in the “real world.”

Today, in the hardscrabble reality of Athens, Greece, I am going looking for my Albanian friends - pearls in the making!

Nothin' But a Hound Dog!!

2011-02-27T11:30:00.000-08:00

The grieving family had been escorted slowly and with dignity and difficulty, from the “holding stall” to the chapel. The area where local Greek Orthodox funerals originate reminds me of a less-than-dirty but far-from-clean, over-used, cattle stall; built with no doors on one end and open to the elements, families collect there, the room dominated by a simple, fiber-board casket. They grieve publicly and often loudly, while others stand around and watch, with a few self-designated persons close-by to provide support. Friends have, of course, already been to the home of the deceased, but now, they arrive, as if for the first time, to hug the loved ones again and to hold on more tightly to each other.

When those in charge declare that it is “time,” the priest leads the procession out into the weather, walking slowly toward the chapel. They follow the casket and pass by many similar “stalls,” built, in anticipation of those days, like this one, when funerals are scheduled back-to-back. The other “stalls” are filled with mourners of yet others, waiting their turn for the brief, Greek Orthodox funeral service in the cemetery chapel on a hillside on the outskirts of Piraeus, Greece, the port town adjacent to Athens.

After a stylized Greek Orthodox liturgy with little if any mention of the deceased, much repetition and some mellifluous male chanting, the family passes, one last time, by the now-open casket. In a typical Greek Orthodox funeral ceremony, the lips of the deceased may be kissed, but those on the icon of Jesus are most definitely kissed.

As Janice and I stood outside the chapel, awaiting that long, rocky walk, up and around to the open gravesite, a mangy, pitiful-looking, street dog proudly walked up. Sensing who was in charge, he ambled over to the Greek Orthodox priest. As a minister who has shared many unexpected happenings in the pursuit of serious reverential duty, I watched with interest, to see what the clergy person would do.

He kept his ministerial dignity. He never bent his silk-robe-covered body. From behind his full beard and beneath his pointed hat, a most loving and warm smile nearly broke forth and made its presence known to us. Holding a formal, black umbrella and a somber expression, both the seasoned holy man’s protection against the “worst case,” the priest gently rubbed the dog’s back and neck. The tip of the umbrella seemed to carry with it sacred oil, magical incense and the stuff of blessing. For a few moments, while the family reassembled for the final procession, the weary old dog willingly received the priestly blessing and seemed, somehow, lighter on his feet.

Too soon, it was time to move on; the priest “shooed “ away the mongrel, his momentary canine care replaced by the “higher calling” of leading the family to an open hole, where they would leave the mortal remains of their loved one on top of some other soul whose family had rented the gravesite three years before him. There, in the wind of an overcast day, they would bid him a last farewell.

Oh, what gift that God could give us, to provide for hurting humanity the sweet solace and genuine comfort offered to that old dog on that sad day! If it is true that “every dog has his day,” then, when my day comes, I want my family to be cared for like that. Rub their backs! Do not condemn them for their awkward grief! Embrace them, welcome them, stand with them in the neighborhood of the dead and dying and treat them with profound respect and gentle kindness!

WASTED SPACE!

2011-01-31T06:05:00.000-08:00

Janice’s grandfather, Grover Cleveland Riley, was known affectionately in the family as Papa. When I came into the family, Papa was in his eighties and had already survived two World Wars, the Depression, continuing tough times on his farm in Mississippi and the turbulence of the sixties civil rights struggles; in addition, he had outlasted two wives. He was, at the time, “breaking-in” (his words) yet a third wife. Somewhere in storage we still have (I hope) super 8 motion picture images of the aged but strong Papa, walking barefoot behind a mule, plowing his field in the cold of winter!

A few years after I married Janice, Papa’s once robust health began to fail. I remember one time, in the last hospital confinement before his death in the early ‘70’s, when my father was visiting with Papa in his room. Back when hospitals limited the number and times of visitors for patients, long days alone in his room were only occasionally broken by visits from family members and new friends, such as my father. On that day, my father would later recount to us that Papa looked directly at him and said: “Newell, there’s lots of wasted space in this room!” With much time to himself, the bed-ridden Papa must have been staring for hours from his bed, up into the ceiling and walls of his hospital room. With that limitation of the social world that often characterizes the elderly and, most especially, those confined to a hospital room, Papa sought to make conversation out of the imminent realities of his current situation.

Although Papa has been gone from us for many years now, so much of his life remains. Janice remembers how he always had orange slices candy for her; we recall the warmth (if not, oppressive heat) of those small heaters that burned in winter in the bedroom of his small, un-insulated, frame house. When Papa wanted to tell me that an idea or a project was not worth his while, he would say, “Son, there just ain’t no percentage in it!” To this day, when I tell Janice that I do not choose to become involved in a particular undertaking, I’ll borrow this well chosen syntax from Papa. Among our top remembrances of Papa, however, is, ironically, always his notice that “There’s lots of wasted space in this room.”

I suppose it is natural that, when one’s life begins to slow down and when one is faced with the reality that his days are numbered, one begins to reflect on inefficiency and waste. I take Papa’s statement to my father as reflecting on more than simply the construction design parameters of a hospital room from years ago. In a much larger sense, Papa was evidencing what I and others feel who have lived a few years and who, daily now, must acknowledge the reality that this life of ours is precious and fleeting.

With the perspective of some years, we are discovering that some projects must be abandoned because “there just ain’t no percentage” in them. And, with the benefit of maturity and a more keen concern for overall efficiency, we bemoan the sad reality of life’s abundant waste.

Oh God, show us how to so invest ourselves and our lives in such a careful manner that there can be an expectation of profound percentage of return and help us to join You in ridding this inefficient old world of its many costly and hurtful wastes!

Thirty-nine Tumbling Tangerines!

2011-01-19T02:28:00.001-08:00

Like every other Athenian, I go to the grocery stores often. Not every day, but close to it. The smaller size of our kitchen and, for many folks, the diminutive size of refrigerators in these parts makes essential a regular return to the grocer. Recently, I was returning from such an errand, loaded down with my permanent, ecologically-conscious grocery bag and also carrying several of the earth-polluting, small plastic bags. On my back and over my shoulder, I carried a web-sack of tangerines.

Those semi-tart and sometimes sweet, but not-so-juicy tangerines with their built-in easy-open outer skin and convenient servable pieces (We had something similar in Mississippi where I grew up; we called them satsumas!) serve as great in-between-meal snacks and make me believe I am eating something healthy for a change. On this particularly cold winter day, I was hobbling along on the sidewalk at the top of one of the hills in the business section near our place.

I could see her ahead, sitting on the sidewalk, holding her baby. This Roma (Gypsy) mother of no more than sixteen years routinely sits on her behind on the cold pavement, with legs folded in front of her, one forearm cradling a nearly newborn and the other arm extended, her cupped hand begging for Euro coins. This is her family’s preferred space to beg. I suppose it’s a good location, what with the generous population of middle-class Greeks who walk by each day and the higher-than-average percentage of retired folks who live in the neighborhood.

I was prepared to focus on keeping my precarious, nearly seventy-year-old balance, to shift the weight of my many packages and to resist eye-contact as I walked by, towering over her from my six-foot position of “superiority.” I always struggle with the tension between helping to feed a hungry baby and not wanting to co-depend and enable a subtle system that perpetuates both poverty and the over-population that aids and abets it. Like most “sophisticated” people on the street, I have perfected the skill of largely ignoring the woman-child and her baby and just walking on by.

No more than twenty feet from her, my web-bag broke, spilling thirty-nine tangerines on the sidewalk! Wish you could have seen those tennis ball-sized, rolling, orange, fruit balls as they spread out on the sidewalk and commenced, PacMan style, to chase each other down the incline! Everybody took notice! My fellow pedestrians just stepped aside, allowing the rolling fruit to gain momentum, rapidly descending the hill.

For the first time ever, I saw the face of the little begging mother on the street. Normally, she keeps her head and eyes down; only occasionally does she look up into the glazed-over eyes of the people passing by, pleading both with her words and with her face. But, with thirty-nine cascading citrus balls rapidly rolling her way, in terror, she looked up.

And, then, she did the expected thing. With her free hand and her legs, she began to corral those run-away satsumas and draw them into her skirt and other unmentionable portions of her body, now mostly spread flat on the ground. With dexterity and rapidity, she rescued every one of them, allowing none to get through her hastily-arranged fruit-dike.

Well – then and there, I decided that I was making a “generous” donation of fruit to her hungry family!

Armless Jesus!

2011-01-08T19:43:00.001-08:00

I have no idea why he has no arms and hands. Most likely, his normal body was compromised before it could be formed in utero because, years ago, his mother was given thalidomide early in her pregnancy. Sold in a number of countries from 1957 until 1961, the drug was withdrawn from the market after being found to cause horrendous birth defects. He is probably one of thousands who today are living evidence of an almost forgotten medical tragedy in modern times.
I came across him on a leafy, downtown, pedestrian walkway in my town of Athens, Greece. With a plastic cup held firmly in his mouth, shaking his head up and down, he was begging for money from passersby. His toothy grin beamed above the lip of the cup as the lady in front of me deftly dropped-in a couple of Euro coins. Still shocked by what I saw, I determined to put some money in his cup when I returned from delivering the papers to my lawyer’s office. To my disappointment however, five minutes later, when I stepped back onto the pedestrian walkway, he was nowhere to be found.
Walking back to the trolley stop, I couldn’t shake the image of that tall man with no arms, bouncing his head up and down, hoping for coins to drop in a cup tightly clamped between his teeth. Even as I boarded the trolley and stood next to another man with arms, hands and a guitar, singing beautiful Greek love songs and also asking for donations, I couldn’t erase the picture of the armless man. In the swift, kaleidoscopic collision of many mental eruptions, lubricated by a generous dose of survivor’s guilt, I simultaneously wondered how he emptied the coins from the cup, how he got the cup in his mouth in the first place, what he did with the coins, why such things are allowed to happen to human beings and why you and I are so blessed to have the use of both arms and hands?
Almost immediately, as the trolley moved slowly through the mid-day gridlock, I recalled that well-worn Christian prose by Annie Johnston Flynt that affirms the essential truth that “Christ has no hands but our hands to do his work today.” St. Teresa of Avila, speaking to us rather than for us, earlier made the same point when she stated that “Christ has no body now on earth but yours, No hands but yours, No feet but yours.” While I believe that these sentiments are profoundly correct – that you and I are the means by which the work of Christ is continued in our world – the armless man on the street reminded me that the first half of Annie and Teresa’s statements remains also sadly true. In our world today, Christ (sometimes) has no hands or arms at all!
It was Jesus himself who, in his classic parable of the sheep and goats, told us that “whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.” (Matthew 25:45) You may recall that he said this in response to those who were confused and defensive in responsive to Jesus’ critique of those who saw him hungry, thirsty, estranged, unclothed, sick or in prison and failed to respond. “When did we see you in this shape and did not help you?” (my summary of Matthew 25:44), they genuinely asked. Jesus’ reply indicates that, in some mysterious way, he is so intimately identified with hurting humanity that he is somehow present whenever anyone suffers.
If I take Jesus’ words seriously, then, on the street in Athens, Greece, I actually saw living, cup-bouncing, coin-clanking, teeth-jarring, head-bobbing proof that “Christ has no (arms and) hands!” Now, what am I to do with that?

Friends, Grecians, Countrymen - Lend Me Your Ears - PLEASE!

2010-11-29T22:29:00.001-08:00

The “Ear-Zoom” recently arrived at our front door by carrier. Janice ordered this hearing assist for me, in the hope that springs eternal; she dreams that, paired with my much more pricey hearing aid, she will no longer have to endure the higher volume of the television set, “juiced up” by me. I’m just trying to make sense of the dialogue on Law & Order or NCIS! She seems concerned that the neighbors may not want not to hear the programs that we watch. Go figure! Acknowledging her concerns, I have told her, in my best client-centered, counselor-training-speak, that I “hear what she is saying.”

The conversation at our house put me to thinking about ears – not just hearing, but ears. I can remember in my lifetime when ears, except for ladies ear-rings, were almost completed ignored by me. If you have ever seen the size of my ears, you would be tempted to wonder how I could bypass these protruding, curvaceous pieces of flesh, that, as some in my culture were prone to say, “look like a taxicab coming down the street with its doors open.” Mother often counseled me to wash mine, but, other than that, I actually paid little attention to them. Much later in my life, when I endured attacks of dizziness related to inner-ear imbalance problems, these two appendages and the mysteries within them would make themselves inconveniently known to me. I guess they were tired of being ignored.

As I reflect on it, ears are rather prominent in our world, not always for their hearing and balance functions, but as convenient places for hanging things. Of course, they have for many years been useful hangers for spectacles. My Mom & Pop grocery store-owner grandfather always had at least one pencil wedged behind an ear.

The other day, I saw a woman with five holes in each ear and five different pieces of jewelry – in each ear! Reminded me of a girl one of my sons once dated whom I referred to as the “love is a many punctured thing” girl. I can remember when men began to wear ear-rings and the controversy that it caused, including the “left is right” code with its gender-bending implications. Remember when “Big Mike” took a bite?

In recent years, ears have also been called on for multitasking by becoming convenient resting places for “hands free” telephone senders and receivers. Many of us routinely listen to music now on our ear-phone-equipped IPods and other, similar devices. When I get on the airplane, someone always has one of those expensive head-sets that block out the disturbing ambient sounds of nearby humanity and the mechanisms which we require.

In the seventies, in my culture, men allowed their hair to grow long and, for the first time, some of us found “follicle shelter” for our protruding ears. Recently, some people have, in the name of fashion, begun to enlarge holes in their ears and place all sorts of “decorative items” in the now vacant space. If Bobbie Burns would pardon me, I might say: “Oh, the gift, the giftie gee us to see our ears as others see us!”

Of course, on the romantic front, ears have often been blown into, kissed or sucked, in the heat and height of passion. “Sweet nothings” are often whispered into these little critters, perhaps to some seductive effect.

In His mystery, magic and marvelous creativity, God made our ears in such a way that, at their best, they can catch sound waves, transmit them to the brain, give us cognitive recognition and keep us from losing our balance. As marvelous as that may be, however and as often as we may find secondary and tertiary uses for our ears, there is absolutely no guarantee that human beings will actually “hear” – no matter how beautiful or how otherwise functional their ears may be. The kind of hearing to which I am referring is the “hearing to understand” or the “receiving and comprehending” kind of hearing.

So often, even when I “hear the message,” I do not “get it.” So often, I can dismiss it, or ignore it or reinterpret it, so that the functional reality is that I do not actually “hear” what is being said to me at all. Unfortunately, the “Ear Zoom” just will not help me on that!

God, grant me the “ears to hear!”

Turkey & Dressing; Cultural Ramadan & Civil Religion’s Thanksgiving

2010-11-05T07:39:00.000-07:00

Our early fall trip to Istanbul, Turkey for a few days of R&R provided a nice change of scenery and a break from the regular routine. As always, there were plenteous opportunities for people-watching and I tried to keep my cultural sensitivity eyes and ears open. Since our hotel was just minutes from the famous Blue Mosque and since we were in this predominantly Muslim city during Ramadan, I felt especially privileged. Each evening, as practicing Muslims were preparing to break their Ramadan fast, Janice and I were able to walk through Constantine’s famous Hippodrome area and experience, first-hand, this venerable religious custom.

The Hippodrome is no longer the center of public chariot racing which once attracted up to 100,000 spectators; many locals are oblivious to the reality that 30,000 died on these grounds in five days of urban warfare during the “Nika” (“Victory”) riots between the Green and Blue factions in 532 AD. Its proximity to the Sultan Ahmet (Blue) Mosque makes it a prized spot for Ramadan fast-breaking; so it was quite congested every time we were there.

A family representative would arrive in the afternoon to stake out a picnic table or a smooth spot on the grass, so that relatives could celebrate together in close proximity to the imposing 17th century structure. The mosque was originally constructed to demonstrate the superiority of Islam in general and, most especially, over the Agia Sophia - the historic church, become mosque which, in the modern, secular Turkish state, is now a museum of history.

As sunset approached, the place grew more crowded. Bands played, TV crews reported from the scene and local political movements were omnipresent. Sidewalk vendors revved-up both the volume and the intensity of their sales pitches, especially since, by custom, hungrier-than-usual children are allowed to eat early. The call to prayer signaled the beginning of the feast for the adults. Although I did not understand the language, it was clear that, from a functional equivalent standpoint, the voice over the public address system was saying “dig-in!”

With the American civil religious custom of Thanksgiving soon to appear and another kind of turkey destined to occupy the center stage of many an American imagination, I found some interesting comparisons. Both feasts serve as an opportunity for the underwriting of intergenerational family solidarity, reinforced by a generic, non-specific, national religiosity. In Ramadan fast-breaking and Thanksgiving, participants are called to step aside from routine priorities and sit with family around a meal. In the end, each provides, both literally and figuratively, the warm feelings of a full belly and the comforting, ethnocentric sense that one’s ways and those of one’s culture are superior to all others. Both feasts follow predictable and well-understood patterns, passed down over hundreds of years. In both cases, the ultimate, potentially powerful and influential voice of personal faith is all too easily made subservient to a penultimate patriotism and a nationalism that, by its very definition, flies in the face of a supreme devotion to the Almighty.

Both Ramadan and Thanksgiving, in their cultural expressions, are easy venues for use by radical extremist nationalists. They are perfect opportunities for those intent on revisiting, if not rewriting, history. They can quickly be subverted by the not-so-subtle “selling” of a version of generic, theocratic patriotism which substitutes timeless, religious, idealistic means for pragmatic, contemporary, political ends. I can only wonder if many cultural Muslims at Ramadan, like many cultural Christians at Thanksgiving, leave the table with a smug sense of both their own piety and the superior virtue of their own, largely unexamined way of life.

With so much hate talk poisoning the environment these days coming from both radical, civil religionists in the States and extremist Muslims elsewhere, we might do well to recognize some of the essential weaknesses and strong similarities between the two faiths, as expressed in these feasts. After the turkey and before the football and the nap, maybe we should add a little reflection on the side.

The Shelf-life of a Smile!

2010-10-17T01:24:00.001-07:00

In downtown Athens, merchants feel free to extend their store area out on the sidewalk, in front of their shops. Many restaurants here routinely take over the public space in front of the place by installing tables and chairs, as well as “temporary” lights and, sometimes, a television set, the better to watch futbol games. Rarely are the property laws enforced here, so, much of the time, the business owner appropriates the public spaces that surround the business with impunity.

As a result, I was not surprised that, during my recent visit to the key shop (see previous post: The Infamous Incident of the Vanishing Ignition Key), I was asked to wait on the street. The shop owner had proudly planted on the busy sidewalk two chairs, a potted plant, a small “coffee table,” newspapers and a coffee pot – the better to entertain the customers while they waited to have copies of their keys made.

After thumbing through the newspapers, I chose to watch the foot traffic, as it sought to navigate around me and the improvised waiting room. The chance to watch folks in their unguarded moments, simply being themselves, is always a treat. What better way to spend a cool, late-September morning, while waiting to get a new key for my car.

Shortly after taking up my post on the pavement, I looked up the sidewalk to see a young woman with a baby in a carriage. About the time that I noticed her, another woman, apparently a friend, also noticed and stopped to chat and admire the baby. After their brief conversation, the mother and baby continued on their way and the woman baby-admirer began to walk toward me. I couldn’t help but notice the smile on her face, for the length of several feet, after seeing the baby. Obviously, the experience of seeing her friend and “oohing” and aahing” over the baby generated pleasant feelings within the woman and her face couldn’t keep from smiling. As she walked passed me she was still smiling!

It set me to wondering: what is the shelf life of a smile? How long will a smile remain in one’s heart or on one’s face? And, does it return, later in the day? I can’t say what the woman was thinking about before she saw the other woman and the baby. I could not begin to know what problems were worrying her, how many deadlines were crashing in on her at work or what pressures she was facing at home. I have no idea whether or not she and her kids had argued that morning, whether or not her sex life was fulfilling or if she and her parents, spouse or ex were currently getting along. Who knows if she was able to pay the rent or if her ideas at work were being rejected by the boss?

I only know that, after seeing a friend and admiring her child, the smile on her face lasted into the next block! Since I did not follow that woman around all day, I can’t tell if the smile ever returned, later in the day, as she remembered meeting the mother and child. Do you reckon she thought about that happy scene later that evening when she was getting ready for bed? I don’t know.

I just know that the happy experience at least momentarily brought joy to the woman’s face. Although my days of strolling babies on the street are (most likely) over, some way, somehow, I want to be the kind of person who, when he is met on the street, can cause a smile to appear on others’ faces - maybe for as long as two blocks!

What about you?

Say What??

2010-10-06T03:52:00.000-07:00

Since it was my day to “cook,” I called Janice while waiting in the longer than desirable line at the bank. Just as she answered the phone, the electronic “Of course-your-are-waiting-in-line! That-is-not-our-concern! You-can-just-learn-to-like-it-or dislike-it!” sign-board lit up number 128; I was holding tightly my sequence number 150!

When Janice answered the phone, I told her that, since it was my day to “cook,” I had changed my mind about lunch. Instead of going to the Greek souflaki “joint,” to fetch two gyro pork sandwiches, I had unilaterally made an executive decision; since it was my day to “cook,” I was choosing to go to the KFC place around the corner. She seemed to handle my mid-course cuisine change with little bother, indicating in some less than enthusiastic tones that whatever I chose, as long as she did not have to cook it, was fine by her.

Fully confident now, that both my initiative and my selections would be honored on the “home front,” thirty minutes later, I completed my business transactions at the bank and proceeded toward the KFC store. As I walked in, the attractive, young, behind-the-counter attendant smiled and welcomed me to the store in perfectly good English. It is not at all unusual for young, minimum-wage employees at fast food establishments in Athens to speak English and to want to practice on those of us who, despite our best efforts, always look like non-Greeks.

Emboldened now, by her alleged English language fluency, I confidently approached the counter and said, in a clear and distinct articulation: “I want an order to go!” With a forlorn look of disdain on her pretty face, she frowned and said: “So sorry, our machine is broken!” Sensing that Greek would serve us both better, I shifted to my Hellenic glossary and said: “Den perasi!” (the rough equivalent in Greek of “It’s okay!”) Without missing a beat, she looked at me and said: “Thellete Coca Cola?” (Do you want a Coca Cola?)

Walking out later, with my order of hot wings and chicken strips (with a Coca Cola) under my arm, I smiled all the way home, just thinking about that interaction with my new Greek, teeny-bopper friend. This mixed up dialogue has now become a part of the lexicon of our lives. When I say something that Janice either doesn’t like or doesn’t understand, she says back to me: “So sorry, our machine is broken!” In response, I now say to her, “Thellete Coca Cola?”

I’m thinking that when it comes my turn to “cook” again, I might just say: “So sorry, our machine is broken!” or “Thellete Coca Cola?”

The Infamous Incident of the Vanishing Ignition Key!

2010-09-30T22:57:00.001-07:00

I finally located a parking place, a “country mile” (in the city of Athens) from where Janice and our guests exited the car. While they grabbed an outside table at Ambrosia, our favorite Greek taverna in Koukaki, one of our favorite sections of the city, I had gone “in search of” a place to hide the Hyundai.

The last thing that Janice said to me was, “Don’t forget the umbrellas!” Her normally accurate meteorological clairvoyance was in anticipation of what certainly seemed to forecast sprinkles of rain in the imminent future. Locating three nearly functioning umbrellas beneath the front seats, I hid the after-market GPS, climbed out of the vehicle and fumbled with the car key, in the futile attempt to lock the doors.

Falling from my hands, the key with its weighty electronic security apparatus seemed to sing a sinister song back at me as it landed on the street grate beneath my feet. In one of those slow motion moments, my already slow-motion brain joined up with my temporarily non-functioning vocal apparatus, itself a rare occurrence for me. Inaudibly, I whined and whimpered helplessly, as the cognitive reality of what I was witnessing slid slowly into some dusty, distant and slightly-used portion of my brain. It was a lot like being in a dream, where you try to scream, but can’t!

At last, something like “Oh, no!” (edited for publication) was released from deep within the chest of my fearful soul. Targeted to no one on the street (or in the world, at all), my angst was entirely directed internally, since I was, in that terrible moment, the sole companion to myself. In some combination of disgust, self-loathing and that universal sense of personal impotence, I watched in horror as the car key bounced on top of the sewer grate and ultimately fell through one of the too-large spaces between the heavy metal bars of the drain cover.

No dummy, I knew immediately that I was as deep in trouble as was my now-still-sinking car key in the sludge. Walking head down in the twilight streets, all the way to the restaurant, I rehearsed my embarrassing report and the plan for rescue that I had quickly devised. While Janice and the others enjoyed a great Greek meal, I, the lonely and long-suffering hero, would catch a cab back to the house, retrieve the other ignition key and return as the rescuer, hungry but successful. In her wisdom, it was patently obvious to Janice that we should simply manually lock the doors, leave the car on the street overnight, catch a cab home after dinner and return tomorrow by trolley to retrieve the car. No need for Bob’s heroics.

On the next day, I stopped by to see my neighborhood friend who owns the key store. In an intriguing combination of my stammering Greek and his “pretty good” English, he delivered the bad news. The replacement key would cost 80 Euros (over $100!) and he could not make the key unless I brought the car to him and proved that, indeed, I was the owner. It’s only money, right?

Well, I am convinced that there are “higher lessons” to be learned and that the moral consequences of this story are obvious and numerous. Talk amongst yourselves! Readers are encouraged to use their imaginations and build personal applications about life’s fragility, human incompetence, the role of “luck” or “karma” or human incompleteness or mankind’s propensity toward klutziness and the occasional lack of manual dexterity, even among the most deft and adept among us. Ever the martyr, I’ll accept the exalted role of moral pedagogue in this. Go ahead! Use me, if you must! Learn from my (all too human) mistakes!

For me, I’ll just point out that it did NOT, in fact, rain that evening. SO, in a stereotypically warped instance of self-serving male logic, I am convinced that the loss of the key is, in fact, all Janice’s fault. If she hadn’t insisted that I bring those umbrellas…. Well, you understand!

Going Down in Dee Feet!

2010-08-05T23:32:00.001-07:00

It is definitely a personal first for me. Before this week, I have never had my feet analyzed – in public, at such a reputable, upstanding pseudo-medical establishment as a sports shoe store in the mall! Yep! I’m proud to say that my feet have “stepped up" and "stepped into” the scientific age!

Since we were going to the mall in search of new running shoes, Janice strongly suggested (as only wives can do) that I should temporarily abandon the near-universal male Greek practice of going sockless in summer. Before we left the house, I actually put on (clean) socks. Once at the spiffy sports shoe store, in front of God and anyone else who cared to look, I disrobed my pretty feet by removing the shoes I was wearing and the fresh socks (Told you I didn’t need to wear those socks!) and stood on this fancy, freshly sanitized “foot analyzer.”

I choose to believe it was because my unshod feet are, well, attractive (he modestly said); maybe it was just a slow day at the mall; I’m certain it is not because my feet are in any way eccentric; maybe Greeks don’t often get a close-up look at American toenails; but, for whatever reason, lots of passersby stopped passing by and gawked at my feet. So here I am, standing barefoot and, by the way, holding up each pant leg, so that they would not interfere with the podiatric photo-taking. It was certainly one of my prouder public moments since potty-training.

Buzzing, whirring and techno-electric sounds came from beneath my toes. A hush fell over the crowd. A faint, vibratory action only slightly titillated my tootsies. I continued to stand bendingly tall, despite my embarrassment. (“Never let ‘em see you sweat!”) After a few breathless moments, a suitable for framing picture of the bottoms of my feet appeared on the computer screen. Don’t laugh! Have you ever seen a scientifically accurate rendition of the undersides of your “under standing”?

Pavlo, (not Pavlov) the highly trained, 21-year-old, minimum-wage Greek guy who was trying to sell me a pair of shoes, looked intently at the picture. With a device that looked a lot like “etch-a-sketch” (from when my feet were much smaller and more suited to running and jumping), Pavlo drew computerized lines, took deep breaths, grunted knowingly and completed the scientific analysis of my feet. I resisted the temptation to tell Pavlo about my lower left hip, the slight curvature of my spine and other medically related conclusions arrived at by his professional colleagues in doctor’s offices on two continents.

At last, Pavlo gave a nod, indicating that the “test” was complete. With a couple of Star Wars-like computer sounds, he assumed full control of the Star Ship computer, charging the machine to come to its conclusions and to “beam up” its results, post haste. “There’s good news and not so good news, Mr. Neville!” Pavlo said. (They never get my name right over here!) “The good news is that your feet and (apparently) your stride are normal.” (What a relief! Put that on the resume’!)

“The not so good news is that you will need extra support and, of course, if you continue to run each day, you will want extra cushioning.” The bottom line of these conclusions is that (Am I surprised?) the better choice for my shoe purchase “would need to come from the ‘higher end’ of the price continuum!” I love it when salespersons speak scientific and multi-syllabic!

So, I bought some new running shoes AND two pairs of specialized running socks! But more importantly, each night, as I take off my shoes, go to bed and put my feet up, I can rest easy, knowing that my own personal “base-line” has been established. My records are now (and for eternity) stored in the company computer. And, every time I need to consider buying new running shoes, I need not fret; I can simply consult my friendly and favorite, globally-connected, sports shoe company.

Still standing on my own two feet, another day older in paradise!

Dr. Robert A. Reid - My Friend and Colleague!

2010-07-30T10:59:00.001-07:00

(Reprinted below is my eulogy which was read at the "Celebration of Life" in Carthage, Texas for Dr. Robert Addison Reid on Friday, July 30, 2010.)

It is said that the true measure of the magnitude of a tall tree can only be known when it is felled and lies beneath our feet. If that is true, then you and I are discovering that a soaring giant has fallen in our forest. Today, those of us who have lived within the blessed shade of the impact of Robert Addison Reid and who have enjoyed the lyrical sounds of music which happily came to life within him give witness to a personal and spiritual upheaval, even as we honestly acknowledge our loss.

Robert Reid was my friend and colleague for many years. I first knew him when he came to serve on the faculty of Houston Baptist University. At a school where high academic standards were the norm, where faculty were expected to share themselves as whole persons, beyond the classroom, and where the authentic Christian commitment of academic role models was strongly encouraged, Robert’s calling was easily and naturally expressed. As an administrative dean with daily relationships among students, I was pleased to have Robert serving closely with me on a significant committee which routinely called for discernment and wisdom in making critical decisions.

When, in God’s providence, it was time for me to leave the university, to serve as a Pastor in a Houston-area Baptist church, I recall seeing Robert, one day, in the hallway. With that gleam in his eye and his ever-ready grin, he called me aside, looked into my face and, borrowing some syntax from the King James Version of Scripture, said: “Remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.” Both of us knew that Robert was signaling that he would like to serve with me on a church staff at some point in the future. We both laughed at his turn of phrase and happily acknowledged that such a prospect was, indeed, an attractive one.

Several years later, when the Minister of Music resigned at the Memorial Drive Baptist Church, I sought Robert out. I can still recall the joy I felt when I brought Robert’s name and resume to the Personnel Committee of our church, along with my highest recommendation.

From before we began to work together in the church, it was clear that we shared a passion for the priority of corporate worship. Robert understood and firmly agreed with me that acknowledging God in our midst, praising Him and seeking His face in worship were the church family’s first and highest concerns. Further, we covenanted together that we would devote significant energy, creativity and time to the planning and preparing of the worship experiences, each week.

I have worked with and planned worship with many ministers of music over the years. It is rare, indeed, when one finds the equal and authentic combination of both “minister” and “musician” in the same person. It is also rare when one discovers a gifted and creative worship planning partner who brings energy and innovation to the process of worship creation and implementation. Today, I can tell you honestly that Robert Reid, without question, was the best partner that I have ever had in this lofty aspect of my calling.

Robert’s role with me was far more than simply selecting a few hymns to “warm up” the congregation for the Pastor’s sermon. On the contrary, he keenly understood that the entire worship experience was our joint responsibility and that, although our roles were different, as partners in planning, each of us was free to suggest elements and ideas.

It was in this regard that I especially witnessed Robert’s many gifts and his penchant for spiritual curiosity and profound creativity. In those sometimes long and challenging worship planning sessions, where giant Post-it type posters lined the walls of my office, we sought the presence and leadership of the Holy Spirit, desiring to lead our congregation to offer its highest praise to God. We prayed together; we laughed together; we disagreed and agreed; we tried out possible scenarios; Robert often sang or whistled, to help me to catch the impact of a particular musical option; and, we struggled together until we had reached that acceptable and challenging worship plan that we could offer to the congregation. With courage and originality, Robert helped me to lead the congregation, adventurously, to new heights of devotion in their responsibility to honor God.

Robert was a man of impeccably high standards, both for himself and his music. He would settle for nothing but the highest offering of music, when given to God or as an expression of his stewardship to God. He was, of course, especially talented as a composer. So often, his original works served to express his God-given abilities and to advance the cause of Christ. My ministerial colleagues in Houston would marvel when I told them of Robert’s routine contributions to the worship life of our congregation.

Time will not allow me a full exploration of Robert’s many positive characteristics. He read broadly and was capable of and interested in a wide range of profound intellectual topics. He loved the turn of an English phrase. He valued our common Baptist heritage. He loved to pursue ideas and willingly explored many avenues of thought. He was eternally cheerful. Music, like sap in a tree, flowed through him. He whistled, he sang, he laughed and he caused others to do the same. So positive was his ethos, so optimistic was his outlook, so generous was his capacity to give to others.

The last time I saw Robert was last December. Janice and I had been invited, through the influence of Robert and Carolyn, to speak at the Central Baptist Church of Carthage, Texas. They wanted the church to hear about the challenging work to which God has called us in serving among Albanian immigrants in Athens, Greece. We spoke for a lunch meeting, for an evening meeting and enjoyed a quick meal with the pastor at a local restaurant. In between, Robert and Carolyn hosted us in their home. Absent-mindedly, I left my computer laptop at the Reid’s house.

On Thursday morning, just before leaving Henderson, Texas, I realized that I had left the laptop in Carthage. Over the telephone, Robert insisted that he drive to Henderson and bring the laptop. I would not allow it, since, the day earlier, he had driven to Henderson, picked us up and, late at night, returned us to Henderson. So, I drove back to Carthage to pick up the computer.

When I reached the Reid’s home, I knocked on the door at the garage. From the den, Robert shouted to me to “Come on in!” With that hospitality and familiarity characteristic of good friends, I made my way back to the den, where I found Robert sitting in his recliner. Immediately, I could see the weariness on his face. I realized that the previous day of hosting us had taken a toll on his tired body. Since Janice and I had to be in Austin later that day, I quickly retrieved the laptop, said my farewell and was engulfed in one of Robert’s “bear hugs.”

As Robert sat down again and allowed the weight of his body to find its familiar place in that recliner, I remembered another recliner in Houston, where Robert reported that, in the middle of many a sleepless night, he often had tried to rest. It is my last image of Robert on this side of glory. Today, as I remember this good man and grieve his loss, I am, nevertheless comforted by the realization that, at last, he has found a heavenly resting place and that his journey in this life is over.

Rest well, my friend Robert Reid!

Almost Cool Again!

2010-07-27T04:53:00.001-07:00

As I write, it’s 7 AM on a Tuesday morning in Athens, Greece. Stepping out on the veranda of our Pangrati apartment, in the still, quiet, earlyness of the morning, it feels almost cool. I know that, even as I type, the blazing sun is rising over the Pentellic marble of the ancient Parthenon on the Acropolis, radiating the heat and generating higher temperatures; I am aware that, soon, the temperature will soar, no matter whether calculated in Celsius or Fahrenheit; but, it’s almost cool.

I am not stupid; I recognize that Athens, Greece in summer is identical to Houston, Texas in summer, without the humidity. I know that sweat is the constant companion of every one of my five million fellow Athenians, at least three million of whom are already in traffic gridlock or on crowded, underground metro cars, cursing each other in contemporary Greek. I know that hot weather is so common in summer that we begin every sentence with “Κάνει ζέστη, alla…” (“It’s hot, but ….”). I am certain that, when August arrives, it will be even hotter. But, at the moment, it’s almost cool!

“Almost” is admittedly “not quite,” but “almost” is far better than “not.” “Almost” is the stuff of which dreams are made. “Almost” is the gift and product of faith, memory, imagination and hope. “Almost” is, sometimes, a deliberate, willful decision to anticipate a better world. Without the capacity to articulate an occasional “almost,” none of us could anticipate an improved future or recall a treasured past.

Sure! I’ll agree! “Almost” is also the repository of disappointment, sometimes yielding to despair. “Almost” carries with it the potential for hope deferred which can so easily become hope denied. But, “almost cool” means that I haven’t entirely forgotten what “cool” is like. “Almost cool” means that, within my sweaty breast there rests a fanciful vision of a more comfortable morning or evening, somewhere in the not too distant days to come.

It’s almost cool because a rain shower visited us yesterday. It’s almost cool because scarce wind has travelled down from the surrounding hillsides and the air is cleaner for a while, this morning. It’s almost cool and, as a result, I can sit on the veranda and watch the little pinwheels spin in the slovenly air currents, even though their movement is more likely the result of the furious flapping of a few thousand dirty pigeon wings.

But, it’s almost cool again in Athens and, in a micro manner, I am celebrating. It’s certainly too hot to jump up and down and the almost coolness surely doesn’t warrant strenuous exercise. But, I am sensing the slightest possibility that the fall is coming and, for this, I am grateful. This morning, I am saying “thank you” for predictability and for routine regularity. While climate change is an undisputed reality and global warming must be acknowledged, sitting in a semi-comfortable chair on my “front porch to the world,” I am here to say that it is almost cool again in Athens!

And, you?

I Have Told You A Thousand Times Not to Exaggerate!

2010-07-07T23:55:00.001-07:00

On the budget airline which Janice and I recently used, it was apparent that management was trying to retrieve as much cash as possible from “cheapo” flyers like us. We could have paid extra to check our bags, to board first and to enjoy an in-flight snack.

In addition to the attempt to swell alternate income streams, “product placement” was also evident. As I settled into my tight-quarters seat and tried to ignore the larger-than-average, sweaty guy seated next to me, while simultaneously attending to the overhead announcement encouraging me to fasten my seat belt and locate the emergency escape exits, my travel-weary eyes met the advertisement that had been affixed to the back of the seat in front on me. With recognizable food label logos promoting the presence of several brands which could be purchased mid-flight, the velcro-attached sign said, with a flourish: “Now Available on Board!”(In the small print which followed, the sign then said: “Subject to availability!”

Methinks that this is more than mere marketing. In this age in which language in general and public rhetoric in particular seem to have been severely devalued and their credibility stretched beyond recognition, we have grown to accept such obvious linguistic inconsistencies as the message in front of my seat. Many people trying to communicate a message these days seem to have learned too well the old argumentation device which I was taught years ago in my varsity debate days in college; subliminally, you can get your message across by exaggeration, hyperbole or outright stretching of the truth; just be prepared immediately to take it back. Like an attorney getting his point in the ears of the jury before the opposing lawyer appeals to the judge, many today are willing to say “too much,” followed by a quick retraction.

Almost routinely these days, politicians say outrageous things about their opponents or those in another party and, as soon as public outcry demands, simply take back the statement by saying that they “mis-spoke,” that they were “confused” or that their remarks may have been “taken out of context.” Even religious leaders now seem willing to say horrible things about those with whom they differ, especially those from another religion; only later, with mock sincerity, they issue statements like “I am so sorry if the things that I might have said may have caused others harm” or “I regret that some have seen malice in my innocent remarks” or “It is unfortunate that some have mis-construed my statement.”

Marketeers, politicians, religious leaders and anyone utilizing words to express a grasp of truth must make much better use of language than this. How long will we allow persons, prejudices and platforms to be advanced by the use of this cheap, shoddy perversion of the spoken or written word, at the expense of both truth and clarity? When will the general public reach the maturity to acknowledge such devices for exactly what they are?

Wish I knew!

Playing to the Crowd

2010-06-30T07:48:00.000-07:00

I recently read a theory as to why the old Globe Theatre, in London, was likely built “in the round,” with the audience in a circle surrounding a platform for the actors; it was because most of the actors got their start performing on the street. I also learned that, in contrast to Elizabethan life in general, with its many classes and much social distance, the Globe seems to have been a most egalitarian operation, allowing for common folk, as well as nobility, to view the show. For pennies a performance, large numbers of people from all classes could attend the performances of Shakespeare’s works. In addition, with no place “behind the curtain,” the Globe’s actors were required to do their dramas with few props.

In the theatre, the audience is often separated from the actors and the stage by a curtain and much distance. We are allowed to see only that presentation of the drama which the playwright, actors and stage management determine in advance that we should see. Indeed, some of the “magic” and “mystery” of theatre depends on the subtle manipulation of setting, perspective, lighting and sounds. But, reflecting the true life experiences of the “street actors,” the Globe was built very close to the audience, with what we might, today, refer to as a 360 view.

While I am no thespian, nor am I skilled or experienced in the science of staging, I think I much prefer the “in the round” and “up close and personal” approach to both theater construction and life construction. If, as the Bard is reported to have said, “"all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players,” I am drawn toward the more honest and intimate way of “acting” life so that the whole person can be known, up close and whatever “props” are necessary can be seen for what they are.

Admittedly, all of us are attracted to “staging” in life. We like to time our “entrances,” make “dramatic exits.” “stand in the spotlight,” protect our backsides, utilize “props” generously and hide behind certain “screens.” We don’t like being “upstaged” and, quite naturally, we want to present our “best side” to others, controlling our “exposure.” There is, of course, a certain advantage to keeping the “behind the scenes” views obscured from the public, “playing” by a certain “script” and showing only what one wants to be seen.

On the other hand, each one of us needs, also, to “play” our lives before a select “audience” of folks who know us well and who can handle all sides of the presentation of our lives. In the honest commerce of “the street,” there should be little room for pretense and an openness to …, well, openness!

The longer I live, the more comfortable I have become with the “character” that, by God’s grace and my volitional choices, has developed within me; I hope that the characterizations which my life have taken on are an honest reflection of a central, foundational core. There is no doubt that I have been called upon to play a variety of roles, but, I have always wanted my “part” of this drama that we call life to be transparent and an honest reflection of the person on the inside – no masks and no pretend, notwithstanding an occasional touch of “drama.” I have noticed that this is also true of others who have lived a while and have stepped up to “play” a few “roles.” We “veteran actors” have less desire for makeup and little patience for pretense. We certainly don’t want to be “type cast,” preferring, rather, to respond to our “cues” and “speak our piece” with some sort of integrity until the house lights come up and the curtain of our humanity comes down.

“Break a leg!”

Simple, but Loud, Joy!

2010-05-26T01:46:00.001-07:00

With Janice in the States, I am spending an exorbitant amount of each day’s early hours alone in the house. Most times, the television is my rattling, prattling, background audio companion, running off at the mouth, reporting in both English and Greek, the pressing problems and acute concerns of our ash-cloud interrupted, deficit-ridden, confidence lacking, globally warmer, much-conflicted world.

This morning, I remembered my often overlooked electronic companion, the CD player and that Celtic CD with the matching rapturous harp melodies and the energetic jigs played on a liberated Irish fiddle. I “juiced” the volume up loud on that thing, the better to hear it while in the shower and afterwards.

A few minutes later, dressed and ready for the day, I left the place for the run to the bank and to pay the bills, inadvertently leaving that machine running at full blast. Standing in the hallway, pondering the critical existential choice between the stairs or the elevator, I surprised myself with the abrupt realization that, from the neighbor’s perspective, the music was, shall we say, a little loud. Knowing that the queue at the bank was already forming, however, I hustled on down the stairs.

After two banks and a wait for my number to be called at the Post Office, I returned to our fourth-floor place that the Greeks and other Europeans, in their wisdom, insist on describing as being on the third floor. By the time I reached the second (or first) floor, I could hear and feel the melodious, mellifluous, yet lively music. Standing on the visitor’s side of my front door, I was greeted by an almost visceral tuneful salutation. Opening the door, the full weight of that otherwise soothing sweetness smacked me in the ears and sinus cavities, welcoming me home.

While I’m trying to be sympathetic to my neighbors (I really am!), I am also enjoying the high-voltage music. Sometimes, it doesn’t take much! Right?

Louiza

2010-05-20T12:05:00.000-07:00

A couple of months ago, she came to “our” apartment - the one that she owns and we rent from her – to ensure that the old yucca plants on the veranda were removed safely. We all recognized that the leggy plants should be extracted from their fourth floor flower boxes. Having once provided cool shade and green beauty for the apartment’s residents, over time, they had grown up and out, tall and slender, with their pointed, long leaves now vanished from sight and reaching almost to the neighbor’s veranda on the floor above. While the plants themselves had grown leggy and skinny with age, their roots had become big and bound in their containers, threatening to burst open the concrete boxes. The combined weight of so many bottom-heavy, tall plants was now so great that we genuinely feared that, some day soon, they would threaten the structural integrity of the expansive patio, and break off from their exalted post on its edge.

So, Louiza came over to keep a close watch while the Albanian man carefully unearthed the aging plants. Because her son has a new home, she harbored a hope to recycle the old plants and move them to his new place. It was the last time on earth that we would see Louiza. We actually have seen her precious little in the nearly five years that we have rented the place from her. Through her English-speaking daughter, Maria, she was always responsive to our needs and willing to assist in any way when we called on her. But, the truth of the matter is that we have had very few problems with this great place to live while we are doing our work with Albanian immigrants in Athens. Increasingly, as we have gotten our Greek “legs” beneath us, we have taken care of the repairs that have occasionally been necessary. We usually just call Maria and Louiza, tell them the problem and our proposed solution. They generally agree and we have the work done and reduce our monthly rent check appropriately.

Just two weeks ago, both the refrigerator and the dishwater choose to go “out.” When it was evident that the appliances, purchased thirty years ago, needed to be replaced, Louiza went shopping for us and purchased new ones and arranged to have them delivered and installed – all on her own Euro nickel! In fact, on the very day of her unexpected stroke, Louiza was scheduled to come by the apartment to make certain that the installation was correct and that we were pleased with her new purchases. But, she didn’t come. Only later did we learn that she had suffered a massive stroke from which she would, sadly, never recover.

Last week, we attended the funeral services for this 61 year-old, strong and delightful, hospitable Greek friend. The intricate and somewhat mysterious protocol of Greek Orthodoxy, though strange and different to our American Protestant eyes and ears, could not disguise the genuine pain and powerful grief that generally gathers, like closet dust, around death in any culture. As “strangers” and “foreigners,” we are also fellow human beings and folks who have lost a friend. We grieve far more than the loss of a landlady. We have lost a kind and caring, competent and considerate companion on this journey through life.

Refrigerators and dishwashers and yucca plants eventually come to the end of their service. So, too, human beings, who were never intended to live forever on this planet. Our loss is great; the family’s loss is greater. But, together, we have powerful memories of days gone by. We have character-building relationships and soul-shaping influences that are more potent than life or death. And we also have hopes for eternity. Human beings, who place their trust in Jesus Christ, actually dare to believe that aging yucca plants, unbound from their earthly “boxes,” may prosper and thrive again. So be it with Louiza!

City Welfare

2010-05-09T08:37:00.000-07:00

The tragic events of this past week in Athens, Greece have been broadcast all over the world. Only the most myopic, distracted or ADD-afflicted among us could have escaped the report of widespread public demonstrations in this city, in response to the proposed austerity measures which are, in themselves, a response to Greece’s crushing financial woes. As part of a plan which caused the reluctant EU and the IMF to agree to provide “bail out” funds to Greece to the tune of 150 billion Euros in the next three years, Greece’s most recently-elected political leadership, with a Joannis-come-lately sense of righteous frugality, promised to push through legislation intended to reduce significantly the country’s unacceptable, looming deficit-to-GDP. Greek citizens, especially those employed in the public sector who can expect to see their salary checks cut from 14 to 12 each year and can no longer anticipate retiring at age 50, were understandably upset.

Of course, public demonstrations and strikes in this “cradle of democracy” are as regular as pigeon-droppings and usually more easily tolerated. Greeks make an outdoor sport of protests and strikes from workers at all levels of society. Ordinarily, they are peaceful, with resort to violence coming only occasionally and then, from students and others urged on by anarchists and far left groups who seem to have a vested interest in both protest and hostility.

At the height (or was it the depth?) of the protests, however, a home-made incendiary device was thrown into a bank and three innocent civilians (bank workers required to work through the demonstrations outside) were killed as a result. This certainly raises the ante and increases the level of concern.

The Albanian immigrants with whom I work, already at risk, due to powerful discrimination against them, are likely to feel the first effects of Greece’s austerity measures. Reflecting on their situation, my mind went to another group of immigrants. Years ago, Jewish exiles in Babylonia were also forced to live as the underclass among people who found every reason to dislike them. To their dismay, the Jewish exiles learned that they would be required to live as aliens among their former enemies for many years.

The prophet Jeremiah, speaking a word from God, told them to settle-in and expect to live in this adopted country for at least 70 years. They were told to marry, buy land and try to make themselves at home. Underwriting all of this advice, the prophet said: “Seek the welfare of the city into which you have been called, for in its welfare, you will find your own welfare.” (Jeremiah 29:7)

Shalom, that quintessential Jewish word, is used here. While shalom can be translated peace or welfare, it means far more than simply the absence of conflict. It is normally understood to encompass a mutual sense of wholeness and justice.

What a superb idea for all of us in this conflict-ravaged city. Lets work together to seek the welfare of this place! Immigrant or native-born! Public or private worker! Those soon-to-be subject to economic pressures or those who already have been for years! If each of us and all of us could recognize that our best welfare is to be found in working for the good of all concerned, not just a privileged few, things might just change! Hope so!

Three Wheels, Two Generations, One Hope!

2010-04-20T01:03:00.000-07:00

In that intermediate, in-between time connecting sunset and dark, I came up behind them on a congested street in the Koukaki section of Athens. Even without the ostensibly mandatory red tail light, I could tell that it was a handmade, small truck-like vehicle, wired and spot-welded together. The two tiny, rear wheels sagged helplessly; I think I heard them cry out, beneath their far-too-heavy load.

Looking at the used auto batteries, bathroom porcelain and various shapes and sizes of metal piled haphazardly (and dangerously) into the tiny truck bed, I knew that the immigrant driving the thing was collecting recyclable junk from the public trash containers. I was neither surprised nor disappointed when, at the last minute, he pulled-in beside the next dumpster and began to poke around in it. A homesteader in Athens’ underground economy, who probably lives in one of the cardboard shanty-towns, he was planing to collect some needed cash from the assortment of cast-off items he had so perilously scavenged from the streets.

When I happily passed by this makeshift contraption, on to what I assumed to be my much more important business, I noticed that the front end of the thing was a motor scooter. The mini-truck bed had been affixed to the front wheel and handlebars of what my Albanian friends refer to as a motori. Compounding my surprise, I noticed that the driver was holding an infant on his lap. The baby couldn’t have been more than 12 months old! In my rear view mirror now, the happy-as-a-clam father was laughing and talking with the baby, while simultaneously steering, braking and preparing to dismount from the motor scooter-cum-pickup truck.

My first reaction was to let loose a generous dose of righteous indignation. How could any responsible father risk this tender infant by precariously placing him on a bony knee, while navigating the busy city streets in that contraption?! Then, my holier than thou resentment morphed into practical curiosity. How could the man shift gears, apply the hand brakes and steer that thing while cradling with his left forearm, elbow and palm, this squiggly, child?

And then, in a swift, mini synaptic passage, I became slightly more reflective. I began to imagine how this unique “take-your-child-to-work” scenario could have happened. What forces, social, familial, economic and political, contrived to create such a scene? What does a man feel when, through what is patently a multiplicity of causal factors, he is called upon to babysit a child while simultaneously doing the “trash run”? Where is Mama? Big sis? Big brother?

I spent most of my drive time thinking about the father’s attitude. How does a father arrive at the place where he can celebrate the child, even despite these less than ideal conditions? What messages does that father want to send to his most recent newborn? In a world that is likely to communicate to that child that s/he is a worthless inconvenience, that the struggle to survive would have been better off without him or her, how does a father laugh and embrace the precious infantile presence? What spiritual dexterity is required to authenticate humanity and to demonstrate a positive receptivity in close proximity to a trash dumpster?

Just wondering!

In Search of the Bunny!

2010-03-25T04:45:00.001-07:00

By that title and in deference to the upcoming Easter celebrations, one could be excused for thinking that these words refer to the quest for the Easter Bunny. At a glance, it might appear that I am musing today about the mystical rabbit that is historically associated with the resurrection of Jesus Christ. As an Easter symbol, the bunny likely originated in Alsace and the upper portions of the Rhineland when the Holy Roman Empire ruled that part of Germany. The first rabbit reports in connection with Easter appeared in German publications early in the 1600’s. Later, German settlers introduced the critter to America as they settled in the Pennsylvania Dutch region, during the 1700’s. Since then, the tradition has multiplied like …, well, like rabbits!

But, I am actually on the hunt for another, perhaps less folkloric and less notable of bunnies, known as the Energizer Bunny. Remember him? A marketing icon and totem for Energizer batteries, he actually originated as a parody of yet another bunny. The previously existing Duracell bunnies, first seen in ads in Australia and Europe, were battery-powered, drum-playing, toy rabbits who gradually slowed to a stop until a copper-top battery was inserted. In the “gospel according to Energizer,” however, Mr. Bunny enters that same scene, beating a larger drum, waving a mallet over his head and outlasting all other bunnies. The clear critique was that Duracell batteries, with their carbon tops, were inferior to the alkaline batteries from the Energizer folks. Battery wars!

Since those days, however, “Energizer Bunny” has entered the vernacular as a symbol for a person who seems indefatigable, with a personal power source that “keeps on keeping on!” Somewhat similar to the wristwatch commercial that once applauded a timepiece that “takes a licking and keeps on ticking,” in contemporary parlance, this bunny-type person possesses an endless source of perseverance. That is precisely the bunny that, in my weariness, I am always in need of!!

Although the Energizer Bunny has appeared in more than 115 commercials on our television sets, the honest to bunny-rabbit reality is that this type of vigor within persons is as rare and difficult to discover as “Harvey,” the giant rabbit companion of Elwood P. Dowd, played so convincingly in the 1950 movie by Jimmy Stewart. As a likeable drunk, Mr. Dowd swears to an intimate companionship with a six-foot, three and a half inch, invisible pooka, described in the movie as a “fairy spirit in animal form, always very large; a benign, but mischievous creature very fond of rumpots (and) crackpots ….”

Whether or not we have a penchant for alcohol, rum or crack or are crackpots who are afflicted with some other, more explicitly psychological expression of creaturely dependence, all of us could sorely make use of a colleague like Harvey and an energy source like the Energizer Bunny. I mean, where do we find the companion in our creaturehood who can instill within us the capacity to “stay at it,” despite the inevitable setbacks and trip-ups of life, many of which are self-induced? John Steinbeck wrote of travelling with Charlie, his dog; Robert Lewis Stevenson travelled with a donkey. You and I need an egg-bearing bunny!

Since I live in Greece, I am well aware that the Greek Orthodox Church encourages the giving and receiving of red-painted Easter Eggs, in recognition of the blood of Jesus’ sacrificial death on the cross and the renewal of life offered by the death-conquering, resurrected Christ. So maybe, I am seeking an Easter bunny, after all. But this bunny should not be of the “hippity, hoppity” genre; I need the hard-nosed, hare-brained, grit and determination kind. Ironically, he must, in this sense, be more tortoise than hare; less Playboy Bunny with a cotton tail and more of a tough, street-smart rabbit with a mallet; he must be less Beatrix Potter and more the persevering, stronger than death and life, resurrected Jesus, “energizing” kind of rabbit.

Perhaps you think me a Mad Hatter or as mad as a March hare! Please understand: I carry no rabbit’s foot in my pocket; I expect no magical dispensation from harm. But, by God’s grace, I am discovering in my warrings and weariness, the Companion on the journey who is the Source of that eternal, staying power for which the highest meaning of all of the eggs and rabbits are but symbols. This Easter, I am hoping that you, likewise will be ready to find and anxious to welcome that empowering fellow-traveler for life, despite the snares, lairs and rabbit traps!

In the Jimmy Stewart movie, Elwood P. Dowd says: "Well, Harvey has overcome not only time and space but any objections." What objections remain in you?

Got rabbit?

Strike Out for Greece!

2010-03-09T07:09:00.000-08:00

By now, much of the world is aware of Greece’s nasty little secret! After many years of “creative” accounting and hiding the facts, it is now apparent that Greece is in debt, big time. Since fudging on taxes is a way of life here, and many Greeks routinely under-report their actual incomes for tax purposes, it will come as no surprise to learn that the government, too, has been less than forth-coming! In a country where cheating on taxes is so common that two different receipts are offered by merchants (one in which taxes are paid and the other in which everyone agrees to “look the other way”), the recent news that the national debt is far higher than has been heretofore reported is not at all unexpected.

By now, you also know that the European Union, after years of patiently working with Greece to get its deficit and debt under control, has, at last, begun to apply blunt pressure on this “birthplace of democracy.” At the recent, called elections, the presiding political party was cast out and the new governing Grecians, themselves having been in power often in the past, have gallantly announced that the dirty house will be cleaned and that strict procedures are in the works. Austerity measures are hastily being pushed through the Parliament in a manner that will probably negatively impact the cash flow of almost everyone in the short-run, except, presumably, the cash-strapped government!

In a country where strikes and protests are as ubiquitous as pigeon poop, the announcement that taxes will be raised and that certain benefits will be curbed, such as lifetime job security and 14 months of salary each year for government employees, has been met with howls of public protest. In the “Grecian formula,” everyone strikes over something or other. The trash collectors, bankers, physicians, bus drivers and lawyers strike routinely. Often, general strikes are scheduled far in advance, sometimes for reasons that are not yet clear at the time of the strike forecast; the assumption is that sufficient grievances will have surfaced in the intervening months, so that a future strike will be necessary.

It is fittingly ironic that the most recent group to announce a strike in Greece in the protest over the need to levy more taxes has come from the tax-collectors themselves! While the logic of this could be difficult to extrapolate, the bean counters in the tax offices are taking off a couple of days in deference to the “unfairness” of the proposed, rigorous government measures.

If it were not so serious, I would be laughing!

Feathery, Orange Dinosaurs

2010-02-05T00:46:00.001-08:00

A recent report on CNN International highlighted the latest scientific discoveries about dinosaurs. The scientists used electron microscopic tools for sophisticated analysis of tiny flecks of pigment among the ancient, fossilized remains of the Sinosauropteryx and Sinornithosaurus. The results, based on samples uncovered in a dig in northeast China, suggest that pre-flying dinosaurs actually had feathers, and that they probably used them for purposes other than flight.

In addition, the report summarizes the scholarly consensus on the color of these “critters.” While you and I may spend little time worrying over the actual patina of prehistoric animals, this is, nevertheless, important to scholars. To the scientists’ apparent surprise, evidence indicates that these dinosaurs were colored a kind of orangey ginger! Who knew?

More intriguing to me, however, was not the supposed colors of the creatures; what interested me, as a non-scientist, about this news segment was an accompanying interview with little children. When asked “What color do you think dinosaurs were?” the kids resolutely answered, “purple.” After the interview, the reporter suggested(correctly, I suspect!) that their impressions about dinosaur color were most certainly influenced by their exposure to the TV dinosaur, Barney – the soft, non-feathery and loveable cartoon character creature brought into their living rooms by PBS Kids. Who can blame the children for thinking that dinosaurs are purple when the only one that they have seen and the one that they think they “know” personally is … well, purple!

Methinks a shrewd epistemological principle has been uncovered here amid the rubble of ancient fossils and modern kids’ colorized impressions. All of us - little kids and big kids - “know” primarily that to which we have been exposed. Even innocent children, typically so open to mystery and possibility, can uncritically become captive to their own limited perceptions. Regardless of what the truth may actually be, like the children, you and I can easily become convinced of the accuracy of what we think we “know,” based on what we have seen or experienced and based on our interpretation or someone else’s interpretation of our sense experience!

When looking out at the world, we generally begin with the unexamined presupposition that our reality perceivers are correct. We all have a deep-seated need to believe this – whether or not it is, in fact, true! And, of course, this is very helpful. It allows us to proceed through the universe with some confidence that we actually “know” things and that we are in touch with “reality.” I would not want to try to navigate life without this.

The problem arises, however, when our sense of reality is as far off as that of the kids who honestly believe that dinosaurs were purple. Since all of us are susceptible to this “perception is reality” affliction, it would behoove us all to be a little more humble and a tad more open in our erstwhile confident assumptions about “what is” and “what isn’t!” Sadly, but most assuredly, we have all narrowed the world and the realities both within and beyond it far too much by this all-too-human tendency to “lock-in” reality to our penultimate perceptions. One of my favorite verses from Holy Scripture has always been Paul’s candid acknowledgement: “We know in part.” (1 Corinthians 13:9a)

Wonder what might happen if, like an uncluttered child, still filled with wonder, curiosity and imagination, and with all due respect for the trustworthiness of my own perceptions, I went out into my world tomorrow with fewer presuppositions about what dinosaurs might look like?

B.Y.O.B. at Church!

2010-01-26T03:48:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, we observed a very special anniversary at the Greek Evangelical Church in Athens where we regularly and deliberately worship. The church recognized eighty-six years of life. Churches, like all social institutions, are shaped by history and by the actions of other social institutions in their milieu. As evidence, this particular church was birthed in the midst of and at least partly as a consequence of a gigantic social upheaval. During the period that some refer to as the Great Catastrophe, powerful forces in the region and beyond made decisions directly impacting the Greeks.

One historian has recounted that, by September, 1922, an estimated 30,000 Greek refugees were arriving in the city of Athens every day, in fear of the Turkish army. The Great Population Exchange, agreed to the following year at Lausanne, meant that 1.3 million Greeks would be expelled from Turkey to Greece, while 800,000 Turks would go from Greece to Turkey. In this instance, a rarely successful social tactic known as partition was once again attempted as a solution between conflicting ethnic groups. Despite the upheaval that ensued from such a massive, two-way migration, our Greek Evangelical friends, however, find much redemption in it, because it was the cultural and historical womb in which their church was conceived. God-fearing and non-Orthodox Greek Christians who had formerly been members of Greek Evangelical churches, especially in Smyrna, Turkey, came together and, under God’s leadership, formed what is now known as the Second Greek Evangelical Church in Athens.

At church that day, special activities were planned. Since it was the first of these observances in which Janice and I had been privileged to participate and since we love this church and share the members’ happiness on having survived for so many years, we looked forward to the celebratory event. The big affair was to be a luncheon, somewhat like what Americans call a “Pot Luck Dinner.” Everyone was encouraged to bring a special plate with enough food for their family and then some; the tasty dishes were stowed away in a room adjacent to the worship center. At last, when worship was completed, with proper thanks and commitment given to God for the past, present and future, tables were brought into the worship center and all were invited to the big feast!

Midway through the worship service, earlier that day, I noticed something that, in all my church experience, I have never before seen. Standing to sing the Greek hymns, I noticed that the man on the pew in front of me had brought a bottle of wine. With no attempt to hide the bottle, there it was, “as big as Dallas!” In Greece, of course, it is common for guests who come for dinner to bring a bottle of wine for the meal. Later, when the food was spread that day and all of us gathered around the improvised tables, the Pastor and one of the church’s Elders came to our table to offer wine.

I could not help but compare this to my previous experiences in Baptist churches in the South, where official resistance to alcohol and wine is usually so stringent that, contrary to our supposed strict and literal interpretations of Scriptures, even Communion wine is not really wine, but grape juice! In my experience, if/when Baptists bring their own bottles, they are usually much more discreet than my Greek brother!

I’m still reflecting on that experience and wondering what, if anything, it means. It reminds me, of course, that different religious groups, impacted equally by their life and social experiences, select varying social behaviors to resist and yet others to embrace. If the partitioning of conflicting groups is never the ultimate solution to long-held animosity, then how can it be helpful to partition the Christian family by selected social behaviors and the animosities that so often accompany them? Of course, it is always easier for me to make decisions for other people; so, I am confident that Greeks and Turks must learn to get along while living in close proximity. Likewise, I wonder if Christians who drink in front of each other, those who do not and those who drink nothing at all must also avoid partitioning their lives and find a way to accept and respect each other, regardless of which interpretations of the Bible they choose to emphasize or ignore. After all, in Christ, we have all been invited to the banquet!

Growing in Athens

2009-12-31T23:45:00.000-08:00

At 8:00 AM on New Year’s Day, 2010, I slid open the heavy glass door and went out on the veranda to check on the plants. The mild, typical Athens weather was comfortable, so my plaid pajamas were warmth enough. This open, exterior space is as close to the good earth as we are allowed from our apartment on the fourth floor in the old, Pangrati district of downtown Athens, Greece. The flower boxes, overcrowded by giant, venerable yucca plant trees that now reach to the neighbor’s veranda above, grant precious little space for a few plants to grow. Since we have just returned from a 2-month sojourn in the States, we are especially pleased that Ana’s good weekly work has kept most of the plants alive in our absence.

I also went outside to finish rooting that crawling, green, ground cover that I harvested on Christmas day, while visiting Sounio, at the southernmost tip of the Greek mainland. Although I have no idea what the name of the plant is or how to replant it, it seems hardy. I found it in what appears at first to be a non-hospitable habitat, crawling over the rocks and shallow soil close to the sea. With luck and enough care, I’ll be successful in transplanting it to the tiny, concrete flower boxes that give definition to our large balcony.

Like the green, crawling “stuff,” I, too, have been transplanted – at first from my native Mississippi southland to the booming metropolitan landscape of Houston, Texas; and then, after over thirty years, Janice and I moved, first to Tirana, Albania and then, to the ancient city of Athens. To take a “son of the South” from the Magnolia State to the Balkan cultures of Albania and Greece, by way of urban Houston, Texas is, perhaps as challenging as moving rock-crawling, green ground cover from the shallow, but damp seacoast to the fourth floor of an urban balcony. But, Janice and I have made that transition. With care from many, hard work on our part and not a little patience, we have moved ourselves and our many "foreign" mentalities to this busy, multicultural milieu. And, after almost seven years in the Balkans, we are feeling, if not fully “at home,” then, certainly comfortable. On our best days, we would even admit that we thrive in this place!

Likewise, our Albanian friends in Athens have been transplanted. From an isolated, neglected, economically lacking culture, ruled dictatorially by a suspicious mentality that brooked little opportunity and a truckload of fear, over half-a-million immigrants from Albania have now come to Athens. In the early days they came without the luxury of legal documents. Increasingly, today they come in the open air, seeking to abide by the ever-changing and often discriminatory legal procedures of their new host country.

Albanians in Athens, like everything that is transplanted or uncultivated, need lots of care. They need room to grow, water and other basic necessities, attention and nurture. As surely as Ana and I need to tend to the plants on the balcony, someone needs to care for Albanians in Athens. By God’s grace, Janice and I are honored to have that charge and, in 2010, return optimistically to that task.

And then again, Begin!

2009-09-15T10:43:00.000-07:00

As the slightly cooler air signaled the close of a hot summer and insinuated, gently, the arrival of fall in Athens, Greece, I climbed the steps to the second floor of the turn-of-the 20th century house that holds the facilities of PORTA – the Albanian culture center. This stately, neo-classical house that once served as the surgery and private residence for the doctor who was the medical attendant to the King of Greece, now is my primary workplace. A tight grip on the circling, wrought-iron banister pulled my aging limbs and body upward to the place where students were already gathering. It was the first night of the Fall Session of the English-as-a-foreign-language classes which we offer through our center for Albanian immigrants.

Despite my weariness, I sensed renewed energy, a fresh wind, a new-found grace and an elevated hope within. Although I wouldn’t dare physically to leap up those stairs, my heart wanted to, because it was time for school to begin again. Breathless, I arrived upstairs with a few moments to reflect on all of those times in the past when I and some students somewhere have, together, faced the first day of class. Since 1968, with precious few exceptions, I have celebrated the autumnal commencement of learning from the professorial side of a university lectern. In such varied settings as a small town in northeast Mississippi, a moderate sized city in Kentucky, the megacity of Houston, Texas and now, in the old, Balkan, metropolis of Athens, Greece, I have welcomed the fall and the first day of class.

I am certain that I favor the first of school because of the new beginnings which it celebrates and affords for all involved. There is something comforting, if also, somewhat artificial, about the academic penchant for beginning and ending seasons of learning. When the course of study begins again, there are fresh opportunities and renewed possibilities. Regardless of what has gone on before, one can begin again.

It put me to thinking about those distinctive lines from the first stanza of Matthew Arnold’s classic poem, Dover Beach. Written, some say, on Arnold’s honeymoon, against those beautiful white cliffs of Dover on the English seacoast, the poet reflects on the sights and sounds of the sea which was, perhaps, just outside his window. Perchance while his new bride slept, he first penned the words that speak of the regularity, the security, the melancholy and the comfort of the life’s predictability, where things end and begin:

Listen! You hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring the eternal note of sadness in.

Whatever Arnold might have originally intended these words to celebrate, this year, I am observing up close and respecting with great gratitude, just over thirty Albanian adults of all ages in Athens, Greece, who, despite the many obstacles in their pathway toward freedom and opportunity, are diving into the sea of knowledge again, seeking to learn how to speak English. With the rhythm of the sea, the actual sound and fury of which are no more than twenty minutes from their classrooms, they and their teachers are beginning again.

And, so am I!

It Certainly Is a Jungle Out There!

2009-09-09T00:39:00.000-07:00

Living in Athens, Greece and choosing not to have satellite television coverage, we are somewhat limited in the English-language programming we can receive. Late at night, we get reruns of American-made movies, usually interrupted by 30-minute commercial breaks! Earlier in the broadcast day, we get reruns of such notable television series as “Hart to Hart,” “Charlie’s Angels” and “The Nanny.” One of our all-time favorites, however, is the on-going saga of the quirky, slightly mentally fragile, private detective, “Monk.”

Adrian Monk, formerly with the San Francisco Police Department, is the quintessential acute obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) sufferer. His condition has been exacerbated by the murder of his wife, his unstable reaction to which resulted in his suspension from the department. Despite his emotional problems, however, he is a brilliant detective, styled along the lines of Sherlock Holmes with a little of Inspector Clouseau and Colombo thrown in. Monk has a record 312 phobias, chief of which are germs, milk, needles, death, snakes, mushrooms and elevators. He refuses to touch door handles and other normal objects with his bare hands, preferring to use sanitary wipes even after shaking hands. In addition, he is unable to eat food that other humans have touched!

Among the typical evidences of artistic genius in the development of this show, the people in charge chose Randy Newman’s ecological warning ballad, “It’s a Jungle Out There” as the theme song. Newman’s otherwise serious words of warning about the poisoning of the environment, placed against the backdrop of the slightly unwell Monk, are seen in a new light:

It's a jungle out there
Disorder and confusion everywhere
No one seems to care
Well I do
Hey, who's in charge here?
It's a jungle out there
Poison in the very air we breathe
Do you know what's in the water that you drink?
Well I do, and it's amazing
People think I'm crazy, 'cause I worry all the time
If you paid attention, you'd be worried too
You better pay attention
Or this world we love so much might just kill you
I could be wrong now, but I don't think so!
'Cause there's a jungle out there.

The genuine irony about this TV series is that it is precisely Monk’s relative illness that is, at the same time, the source of his detective genius. While his fears may often be ill-founded, it is his attention to detail, his penchant for symmetry and his obsession with orderliness which so often help him to notice the clues at the crime scene. And this is how Randy Newman’s appropriate warning about ecological concerns and Adrian Monk’s obsessive behaviors actually come together for me.

It truly is a jungle out there! There are very sinister and powerfully authentic and ugly realities about which each of us should be frightened and careful, at a minimum, if not active and corrective, at our best. Despite the fact that some may label us alarmist, overly-cautious, or moral sticks-in-the-mud, this good world has, in many instances, gone bad! How, then, can we be appropriately aware of the presence of evil in the world? How can we take seriously the many indications that this creation has been warped and thrown off-course from the original trajectory of its divine designer? How can we live with courage and fear and face our own, as well as the cosmic demons that destroy life’s happiness for so many? How do we dare to confront the social, personal and global "germs” that so easily pollute our world?

Adrian Monk’s trademark method of examining a crime scene may help us here. In what Monk’s able assistant, Sharona usually refers to as his “Zen Sherlock Holmes thing,” Monk wanders through a crime scene with apparent abandon. He holds up his hands, as though framing a shot for a photograph. Tony Shalhoub, the actor who portrays Monk, explains that Monk does this because it isolates and cuts the crime scene into discernable pieces or slices. It allows him to look at parts of the crime scene, rather than the whole.

Maybe that is what you and I need to do in this dangerous world. Perhaps we should stop easily ignoring and passing over the little evidences that our world is out of whack. Perhaps, we should give minute attention to the small evidences of discord, both in ourselves and in the cosmos. In all of the furor over health care, immigration, the economy and global peace, it might be Monkly wise of us to sense that something is way wrong, look at the small pieces of the puzzle and reflect on potential corrective scenarios, because, “It’s a jungle out there!”

CLUNKERS

2009-08-17T00:05:00.000-07:00

I confess to a major value conflict! If you know me well, you know that it’s not unusual for me when one subset of my somewhat complex, personal value system collides with another subset. Ordinarily, I work at keeping my values compartmentalized, so that I can pretend ignorance of my inconsistencies. I am quite mentally flexible and have become adept at disguising the contradictions within myself. Occasionally, I am honest enough to admit to them and sometimes I even celebrate my value paradoxes.

But this one truly has generated a restlessness in my ruminations which I can no longer deny and which I find difficult to celebrate. Try as I might, I just can’t ignore the incongruity or rejoice over the inconsistency. I keep running the “pro” values up against the “con” values and I keep coming out conflicted.

It’s about the US government’s recent decision to follow the lead of other world powers by encouraging consumption as an escape route from the world-wide economic mess; specifically, our leaders have chosen, simultaneously, to stimulate the faltering auto industry and to take a stand in favor of more efficient and ecologically sound automotive engineering; they have done so by encouraging the public to trade-in their gas-guzzling vehicles. I know, I know! I get it! These automobiles are inefficient! They over-pollute our already over-polluted air! And, besides, the US auto industry is in the dumpster! Something has to be done to stimulate this essential enterprise and to entice the American auto-buying public to pretend confidence in the economy!

But, on the other hand (I just hate it when there is an “other hand”!), to this day, I regret it that so many great, now-vintage automobiles were too-easily consigned to the scrap yards, just a few decades ago. As a vintage auto admirer and sometime collector, I know that cars represent a particular era, that they make a statement about who we were “back then” and what we valued “when.” I know that it’s more than mere sentimentality that causes so many to reclaim and restore old cars. I know that refurbishing vintage vehicles is something akin to protecting the “living artifacts” of social, political and economic history. I’m just grateful that the vintage wheels that I have owned were spared the dreaded extermination by cruncher and, to this day, (most) remain alive and thriving on the streets.

I feel this way about the current crop of so-called clunkers, because I know that some of them, perhaps many of them, are in fine shape and don’t “deserve” to be so sentenced to the scrap-heap. I know it’s inconsistent of me, but I just wish there was some other way to gain a boost to the economy and make some progress on our pollution problems without the sacrifice of all of this vintage sheet metal!

More importantly, this treatment of autos reflects yet another one of my value conflicts – the way we treat older persons. I can’t help but notice that our youth-oriented, narcissistic, contemporary-dominated culture is inclined to treat older persons like we treat older 4-door sedans! We are far too quick to set some arbitrary age limit and, without thinking or admitting it, determine that anyone over that age is, henceforth, of little value and is prohibitively expensive to maintain. I’m certain that my view is prejudiced by the reality that, last week, I began the process of registering for Medicare. Half-way through my sixth decade of living, I sense significant, growing prejudice toward those of us who are “chronologically advantaged.”

So, now, I must own-up to yet another value conflict. “What shall we do with grandma or grandpa?” How shall we treat the aged with respect and dignity? How can we so construct a viable social system that is efficient and, at the same time, able to “afford” the “inefficiencies” required to protect and treasure those who are living longer each year?

A clunker conundrum, indeed!

"There's a Land Beyond the River!"

2009-05-14T22:21:00.000-07:00

The old Gospel song speaks longingly of a life beyond this present life and, in so doing, taps into and gives voice to a soul wish that is pretty close to universal. Given the wearifying travail demanded as the price for a ticket to travel through this present world, who can blame the dog-tired pilgrim for hoping for a better place, “in that far off sweet forever, just beyond the shining river”?

The Israelites in the biblical story, however, were less concerned about the hereafter; exhausted, both from their Egyptian ordeal and from the rough road of desert emancipation and escape, they longed for a “promised land” in this very world where all that was wrong would be made right and all that was bad would be transformed into good. That land turned out to be somewhat less than the idyllic utopia that they imagined and it summoned them to change far more than just location in order to receive its benefits; on the other hand, it also was to be found literally “beyond the river” Jordan.

So, today, I am thinking of these treasured words, not in some super-spiritual, other-worldly sense; I am reflecting on their most practical and pragmatic meaning, as I have experienced them in my own life. I am recalling the profoundly challenging vision and also the terrifying reality that is caught up in this affirmation that there exists “land beyond the river.” It is so easy for me to build my little world around “my little world.” In my self-centered fashion, I can slip, unconsciously, into the notion that all that truly exists and all that actually “is” resides within the confines of “my place,” on “this side of the river,” if you please!

But, the current H1N1 virus scare that still threatens to become a pandemic has telegraphed its message to many citizens of the USA that there’s a land beyond the Rio Grande River! As the ancients in hilly Buda and those on the flat terrain of Pest, in Hungary felt differentiated by the Danube River between them, sometimes you and I live as though water were a wall. Often, people ask Janice and me what the people are like “overseas,” as if they were fundamentally different “across the pond.”

Please do not misunderstand. I would never deny the powerful reality of historical and cultural differences; as an expat American, living in Athens, Greece, I live with them every day! But, sometimes I just need to shout out loud, to myself, as much as to anyone else, that “there’s a land beyond the river” and it is peopled with people who are in so many essential ways very much like the people on “this side of the river.” Universal is their need for affirmation, their desire for security and their fear of the unknown; identical to ours is their hope for wholeness, their striving for freedom and their aversion to risk; catholic is their value in God’s sight, their beauty, their worth. Why must you and I consistently pretend that this is not true?

Everybody, sing with me now: “There’s a land beyond the river!”

Village Life!

2009-05-11T11:33:00.001-07:00

“You’re the one with the red coat!” the woman proudly said to Janice, as she got down from her bicycle. The woven, straw basket strapped to the rear fender of her bike was filled with groceries because she was returning from the only grocery store in the tiny village of Limni, on the Greek island of Evia. She boldly curbed her vintage bike to interrupt the otherwise peaceful breakfast-by-the-sea of these strangers because, well, that’s what they do in Limni. Since early May is still a bit early for tourists and since the village is small, she and her neighbors had definitely noticed us when, the twilight before, we drove into the village, in search of lodging for the night.

We had driven three hours from Athens to Larissa, Greece, the day before, to pick-up some Albanian language books in preparation for upcoming marriage enrichment and singles conferences at PORTA –the Albania House in Athens. On the way home, on the spur of the moment, with no extra clothes, we decided to take the ferry boat across from the mainland to the large island that hugs the Greek coastline. As the fading sun set on the waters, we drove into the seaside town and were fortunate to locate lodging in a German-run inn facing the bay.

Perhaps, the lady stopped to make conversation because there is precious little else to do in Limni. It is distinguished, not only by its simple and pristine beauty, but by its miniature size. Everyone in town knows everyone else in town; and, I suspect that new arrivals are welcomed both because they bring the potential for trade and also because they are people. And people seem to be valued in this tiny town.

As we sat at a dinner table the night before, enjoying a classic Greek meal in a building that was proud of its 150 years, my weary, wound-up-tight, western-over-scheduled brain began to sense a change of velocity. Almost unconsciously, my internal gyroscope recalibrated itself, to calculate more correctly the ambiance and milieu of this restful place. Since all that we did in that precious get-away was done near the sea, the casual, predictable and repetitive come and go, give and take of the waves, washing on the shore and retreating seemed to set the stride for us. The water spoke softly to us, telling us to slow down. And we did, if only for the better part of one night and half of the next day.

Driving home through the mountains on the island, passing idyllic mountain streams, I asked myself: How can I learn to slow the tempo in the hurly burly of my “normal life” on the streets of Athens? Lacking the island inducements to reflection and the “natural” village life incentives that entice one toward the larger perspective and the slower pace, what prompters can I locate in my urban existence that will put my worries on “pause” and help me to step back from the angst of anxiety?

While I have few easy answers to those questions, I am convinced that seeking both answers and places of emotional refuge are vital for me. And I have returned to this old city with a fresh desire to savor the little moments that this good life gives me, even those that may be filled with diesel fumes, motorcycle noise and Greeks shouting at everyone, anyone and no one. Look for the wistful, glassy-eyed guy in the Athens traffic!

2009-03-27T13:13:00.000-07:00

“ONE SENT” to the Hardware Store!

Any expat or missionary will tell you: practical, everyday matters, which are easily taken for granted back home, are often among the most difficult aspects of cross-cultural living. Finding and training a barber in a foreign setting, for instance, is not as simple as it may sound. Locating a trusty auto mechanic can be a challenge when the native tongue of the area is not your native tongue. For me, ranking right up there with schooling a barber and locating a reliable motor master is the challenge of befriending a good hardware store guy.

Those big box home improvement stores are beginning to appear in our city of Athens, Greece. You know the type; everything you need to repair the stopped sink or install the busted fuses can be found; I stand for hours, trying to decide whether to buy the $50 shower nozzle or the cheapo, $19.95 version. Unfortunately, the Greek teenagers who work at the place know less than I do about the eccentricities of home repair; and that, my friend, is precious little!

What I have been looking (and praying) for is that handyman guy who operates a little neighborhood hardware store – the one with screws of every different size, ladders and pieces of chain; the guy should also know a lot about how to do things around the house. I need an unpaid consultant, you see, who is willing, at no extra charge, to take me under his skilled wings and lead me, step-by-step, through the truly complex process of something like removing the broken potty seat and replacing it with the shiny, new one. I need someone who feels called to help out the lame-brained, mechanically-challenged and less fortunate – and who is available 24/7, exclusively for me!

Well, glory hallelujah, I have found him! His tiny shop is just around the corner! The shop is no bigger than a good-sized, four-door, American automobile, with cans, hangers and shelving reaching to the ceiling; you have to back-out of the place when you leave, but, this guy has everything! And he speaks impeccable English! And he is a super nice guy!

This week, I went to him in the ostensibly futile (for me) effort to repair the hinge mechanism on the bathroom cabinet doors. I showed him the broken piece that I needed to replace or repair and looked pitiful. Immediately, he swung into action! He took out some sort of measuring device that calibrated the diameter of the broken piece, turned quickly to that myriad of tiny drawers behind him, announced triumphantly that “What you need is a number 6!” and pulled open several drawers, each of which proffered several versions of number 6 nuts, bolts and washers. “Choose which one you like!” he said, as if I had the slightest idea how to make such a momentous decision. Finally, he gently suggested, “Why not take this one!” followed by “How many do you need?”

I felt like I had died and gone to heaven! There he was, in my neighborhood, with everything I might possibly need and the knowhow to guide me in how to use it! And guess what? I took the stuff home and installed it! And it works! Now, Janice thinks I’m a mechanical genius!

Somewhere, back there in my early childhood, perhaps in what was then called “Training Union” at church, I was taught that the word, apostle came from the Greek word (apostolos) for “messenger” or “one sent.” We were told that Jesus sent out every one of His followers, to show Christ-like love and to care for others, in His name. Although there were some people in the Bible who were referred to as “apostles,” as in the “Acts of the Apostles,” we Baptists were taught that all followers are “sent” by Jesus, not just the preachers and missionaries. We learned, back in those golden “olden” days, that although clergy represented a specialized version of that universal calling, they were no more special than the non-clergy who were farmers, bankers, brain surgeons, business persons, school teachers or taxicab drivers, yet recognized that Jesus had “sent” them to their work, as “apostles,” in His name. Since my parents were devout lay persons who took their faith in Jesus to work with them, and since no one in our family had ever been clergy, this was not a hard concept for me to grasp as a kid. I just figured that everyone who served Jesus was an “apostle” of His, no matter what work they did!

Oh, I forgot to tell you. The Greek guy at the hardware store? My latest, best friend? His actual name is APOSTOLOS!

WAITING FOR OURSELVES!

2009-03-12T00:40:00.000-07:00

The Hopi or “peaceful people,” now centered in the northern portion of the state of Arizona, claim an ancient heritage and think of themselves as the records-keepers of American Indian lore and truth. Their traditions exhibit a fierce concern for “Mother Earth,” the recognition of a mystical “higher power” and a generalized caution against most forms of modernism.

I have been impressed with the lines reputed to be from the Elders Oraibi, of the Arizona Hopi Nation. Utilized by some American politicians recently, these words should be heard beyond the histrionics of the campaign:

"You have been telling the people that this is the Eleventh Hour.
Now you must go back and tell the people that this is The Hour.
And there are things to be considered:
Create your community. Be good to each other. And do not look outside yourself for the leader. This could be a good time!
There is a river flowing now very fast. It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid. They will try to hold on to the shore. They will feel they are being torn apart, and they will suffer greatly. Know the river has its destination. The elders say we must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open, and our heads above the water.
See who is in there with you and celebrate. At this time in history, we are to take nothing personally. Least of all, ourselves. For the moment that we do, our spiritual growth and journey comes to a halt. The time of the lone wolf is over. Gather yourselves!
Banish the word struggle from your attitude and your vocabulary.
All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration.
We are the ones we've been waiting for."

For the people with whom I now work very closely, Albanian Immigrants in Athens, Greece, these words could be of help. The ancient wisdom is also relevant for many in America, beset by a seemingly unending economic meltdown and the loss of trusted sources of personal and corporate security. For that powerless feeling imbedded deep within us and the tendency, in the face of adversity, to be overwhelmed by uninvited forces and tempted to beat a safe retreat, to wait for reinforcements to arrive, the Hopi insight speaks directly.

Indeed, “this is the Hour!” We must live with a keen awareness that, despite the challenges of this hour, this is the time in which we are called to act. This is not the time to run away or to regress. This is the time to step forward, fully alert, active and ready to give back our very best in this time that has been given to us. We could pine for an easier hour; we could hope for an hour like safer hours we have known before; we could yearn for a blissful, imaginary hour that is not yet to be. But “this is the Hour!”

Who can disagree with the Hopi that our present day is one in which we are in the midst of a fast-flowing river? Some want to hold to the shore when the waters begin to swirl around; but staying ashore is no option for those who are already in the boat and in the water. We must navigate the rapids, channel the forces and position our life craft in such a way as to capitalize on the momentum of the waves, lest we be overtaken by them. Even amateur boats-men understand that resistance to the waves adds a greater danger. When one is in the fast moving stream, tis better to focus on steering than to abandon ship and strike out for the supposed safety of the shore.

I recall John Updike’s classic book of literary criticism, entitled, Hugging the Shore. For Updike, who excelled at both fiction and literary analysis, “writing criticism is to fiction and poetry what hugging the shore is to sailing the open sea.” While I am no literary critic, I resonate strongly with Updike’s contention that human beings are often like ocean-going liners who were meant to sail the open seas, but who, in fear of the depths or the force of the waves, choose to “hug the shore.” Although the Hopi imagery is that of a fast-moving river, rather than the ocean, the instruction is the same: “We must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open, and our heads above the water.”

How wise of the Hopi, also, to encourage us to “see who is in there with you and celebrate.” Times of difficulty and challenge should send us toward each other, not away from each other. Knowing that “we are all in the same boat” should help us to treasure each other, rather than trying to compete against each other.

At last, with the Hopi, we must conclude that “we are the ones we’ve been waiting for!” Some Albanian immigrants in Athens, Greece, beset by a legacy of poverty and the modern-day nemesis of powerful prejudice, believe that someone else holds their destiny. With too much passivity and too much resignation, they too easily surrender themselves to doing nothing and waiting for someone else –the European Union, the United States, or some humanitarian organization – to bring them deliverance.

Likewise, some Americans are so stymied by the economic malaise that they have convinced themselves that they can do nothing. The wait for a “stimulus package,” an extension of unemployment benefits or the election of the “right” political leader or the “right” political party before their liberation is at hand. Like native islanders who once witnessed the arrival of sailing ships, loaded with material goods from a far superior and more technologically advanced culture and concluded that their only hope was to stand on the shore and wait, it is easy for some moderns to develop a “cargo cult” mentality in these days of challenge.

As a follower of Jesus Christ, I recognize and believe firmly that the only true hope in this life and the next is in God. But, unlike some religions, Christianity asserts that individuals have the power and the responsibility to choose for themselves their eternal destiny and, to a considerable extent, their temporal outcomes as well. Followers of the One who went to Calvary understand that the Spirit of the Christ is in this with us, redeeming the difficulties and giving us the strength to face them, if not rescuing us from them. We must choose to believe, trust God and take the actions that are open to us. Relying on the Almighty to help us, we must claim the truth that, “we are the ones we’ve been waiting for!”

Root Beer, Please!

2009-01-25T06:07:00.001-08:00

It was a “Southern Living” Christmas for us! Set against the luxurious ambiance of finely crafted, antique furniture, enhanced by impeccable decorator touches and several lifetimes of family love, the two-story, five bedroom home, recently inherited by my daughter-in-law, is situated on Main Street in Henderson, Texas. (To be more precise, the home is located on South Main Street, since, emanating from a perpendicular intersection on the downtown square, there are actually four Main Streets – South Main, North Main, East Main and West Main!) Given the inviting atmosphere of this well-maintained home (built in 1929; restored about 10 years ago) and since our family is now scattered in Los Angeles, California, Alexandria, Virginia and Athens, Greece, we decided to celebrate our first Christmas since both of our sons have married in “beautiful, downtown, Henderson, Texas.”

The two and a half hours from the nearest large airport and urban center provided blessed time to depressurize and un-wind, in anticipation of the slower pace of small-town life. Beyond the Wal-Mart store, Bob’s Barbeque and its prominence as the county seat of Rusk County, Henderson, Texas is famous as an “oil town,” a railroad center, the home of a syrup festival and certainly, enough warm hospitality to soothe the most cynical city-dweller.

By the time everyone in my family had arrived and we were making final plans for the “best Christmas ever,” (every year, it gets better!), my mate remembered some vital elements that she had forgotten, so I was dispatched to the grocery store. (Some things never change, whether in Henderson, Texas or Athens, Greece!) I found the Brookshire Brothers grocery store remarkably busy for this late in the pre-Christmas season. Apparently, others had likewise forgotten those “must have” ingredients for the upcoming feasts and fests!

Inside the store, checking-off the items which I had been sent to retrieve, I passed the soft drink section of this modern supermarket. I was prepared for a generous selection of beverages, despite (or, perhaps, because of) the reality that Rusk County is a “dry county” - alcoholic beverage strictly prohibited! But, I was totally unprepared for what I saw in the middle rows of the expansive cola collection.

Seven different brands of root beer! Not seven different versions of the same brand (regular, diet, caffeine, non-caffeinated, etc), but seven different brands! Hendersonians must love their root beer! Hendersonians must love their root beer choices!

I have lived in Houston, Texas - population 5 million; I have lived in Athens, Greece - population 5 million; I have lived in Tirana, Albania – population 1 million! I have been to a couple of goat-ropings and a few county fairs. But, I have never seen seven different brands of root beer – all for sale in one place! And, if you’ll pardon my effete snobbery, I never expected to find such root beer options in Henderson, Texas!

Well, I am reminded that small-town life is not what it used to be. Modern technology and communications, yea, aggressive contemporary marketing, have shrunk the size of our world, with the result that most among us live in many ways the same lives, whether the setting is Henderson, Texas or Los Angeles, California. Perhaps we should celebrate the freedom and liberty represented by this week’s worth of beverage choices.

I intend no disrespect toward root beer; I love nothing better than that decadent delight in a frosty mug – perhaps with some vanilla ice cream in the mix! Maybe it seems impertinent of me to question vaunted capitalism and the machinations of modern marketing. But, I dare to wonder out loud: with all of the problems facing humanity, how does it come to be that our world (or the world of Hendersonians, at least) needs seven different brands of root beer? I understand that “there’s no accounting for taste,” and, as our government officials are learning, I am certain that it is very difficult to control private enterprise.

But, think with me here: what would our world be like if the energy, ingenuity, infrastructure and pizzazz associated with getting seven brands of root beer to the shelves in Henderson, Texas could be tapped and channeled toward the solving of some of the great conundrums of modern life, such as the Arab-Israeli conflict, the intractable spread of AIDS, or the prevalence of diet-related diseases among the desperately poor on the planet? How might this old, broken-down cosmos be improved if we could tap the forces utilized to satisfy individual tastes or cater to eccentric whims and redirect them toward what Abraham Maslow taught us, years ago, were the more basic needs of humanity?

There is some reason for hope on this topic. Bono and others, with their “Red Campaign,” etc., are helping us to learn how to channel the often unrestrained forces of capitalism away from simple selfish satisfactions toward the resolution of truly global, humanitarian needs. These days, it is becoming more fashionable for major corporations and their captains to engage in benevolent work and the trend toward eco-friendly actions and corporate largesse seems to be on the up-tick.

We capitalists, especially, must learn how, without abandoning our work ethic and even our incentives toward profit, to make appropriate use of the levers of power available to us for the sake of the often overlooked “common good.” If there is a clear lesson arising from our current economic “melt-down,” it is certainly that self-interest cannot be the sole motivation for human activity.

The next time I have a root beer float, I’m going to sit back, take a “swig,” and ruminate on that!

Canned Humanity

2009-01-15T01:53:00.000-08:00

How many of us were on-board that ordinary flight from Frankfurt to Los Angeles? I didn’t have the luxury to count. All I know is that every seat and every inch of storage space was filled. Sacred, personal space easily became shared, contested space. That metal cylinder reminded me of my expanding waistline – snug and stretched, unexpectedly taxed! In this limited, confined territory, I was involuntarily moved closer to mankind!

That Lufthansa daily “milk run” could have just as easily been the Starship Enterprise, with our all-knowing captain, cross-cultural crew, the blinking, buzzing machinations of modern technology, occasional space-speak gibberish, an upper level window on the universe and the silent, almost ignored, “power station.” Stuffed into that stress-tested, aluminum tube, I hurtled with apparent ease through the upper reaches of my itinerary!

There were all types: bigger ones, smaller ones, lighter-skinned ones, darker-skinned ones; happier ones, sadder ones, distracted ones; those headed towards something, those running from something; the energetic and wide-eyed novices alongside the weary, shade-covered veterans; wealthier ones, poorer ones! We were connected, yet separate, alike, yet different!

My life-mate and traveling partner sat next to baby Michel – a little hand in a much larger one! I winced when I was reminded that the price for the privilege of bulkhead seating is always proximity to infants. But my mate, in her grace, saw opportunity in this serendipity. Michel cried out and his bedraggled mother fed him what we call “baby food.”

Sharing the journey forces some, sometimes to be somewhat humane; others, consistently refuse to rise beyond the lowest level of humanity! Most know that the journey is a means to an end, yet others view the costly venture as an end in itself!

We had left behind, in Athens, the dangerous and destructive rioting in the streets, as well as the centuries-old prejudices. How thin is the layer of civilization! As this autumn’s world-wide economic meltdown has unquestionably reminded us, we are, all of us, vulnerable to forces beyond our control. Routinely, we naively move through frightening and deadly atmospheres. A screen tells me that we are over Hudson Bay, headed toward Calgary and are traveling at speeds I cannot comprehend, 2345 miles to our destination and minus 54 degrees, just outside my window! A thin, aluminum sheeting and a layer of plexi-glass separate me from the frigid and foul environment through which I move with careless ease.

We consume precious resources because we can and because our adopted lifestyle demands it. We are connected by the Internet, yet, also alone in the cosmos, with our thoughts and fears, waiting for the red, “occupied” sign on the astronautical “porta potty” door to change to green! We are powerful, yet vulnerable! Just hours ago, I stepped on board a space-ship, yet I was forced by a stranger to abandon liquids, take off my shoes and have my laptop wiped and swiped! What powers we have! How impotent we are! On an earlier flight, we were forced to do a “go around” at Frankfort, because …, I know not, why.

On a screen, a cartoon-like, electronic view of the world gives me a glimpse, ostensibly, from above what is assumed to be our privileged perspective! We see where the sun begins and the darkness ends! Oh, the gift, to come from the darkness into the light! Will it be that way when we land? Will I walk upright on the earth, in the daylight, or in the dark? Freed from this artificially-enforced intimate connection with humanity, removed from this precious introspection, will my life reflect the conquering compassion of the Christmas season in its first incarnation or the capitulative competition of the Christmas season in its contemporary manifestation?

Sometimes I don’t want to unbuckle my seatbelt!

2008-11-17T03:47:00.000-08:00

HOSTING PERSEVERANCE

Just one year ago, Ned and his wife were our guests in Athens for a conference. With their excellent command of the Albanian language (Shqip) and their training, expertise and wisdom in interpersonal relationships, they spoke to our Albanian friends about how to build healthy, productive and sustainable family relationships. During the weekend that they were with us, the Athens Marathon was happening. In fact, they were almost late to an assignment because the Marathon-related traffic put a “kink” in their cross-town travel plans!

It was during that weekend, however, that Ned, a former high school and university cross-country runner, decided to enter his first marathon. Returning home to Albania, he determined to begin the rigorous training, so that his forty-something body could be ready to compete in this year’s Athens Marathon. After all, what better way to enter the atmosphere of marathon running than to participate in the one located on the site that duplicates that first one, beginning in Marathonas, Greece and concluding in the ancient Olympic Stadium in Athens!

Those of us who know and love Tirana, Albania, will recognize that this congested, Balkan city is not the most conducive to training for a marathon. Circular racing tracks are, as yet, unheard of; even runners trails are unknown; paving on so many of the streets varies from crumbling to non-existent; potholes have been known to swallow automobiles and the lucrative business of stealing manhole covers is so routine (The authorities pay the thieves for the covers, so that they can go out and steal the same potholes again and redeem them again!) that pedestrians routinely step into the open spaces, often bringing serious bodily injury to the most cautious and careful walker.

With its constant rain and very cold weather in the winter months, Tirana can be a challenge to any kind of outdoor activity, much less the demanding and sweaty routine that is essential to marathon training. Nevertheless, Ned began to train in January, recalling his younger days. For months, he trained alone. Only in the last month of preparation did he link-up with some others who were also in training!

Although he and his wife maintain a busy schedule of humanitarian work, and they give both quality and quantity time to their young children and to their interpersonal relationships, Ned stayed with the rigorous regimen of preparation through many months. Last weekend, he came to our house a couple of days ahead of the famous race. It was our privilege to host him and to be present at the finish line when Ned crossed over, just over three hours since beginning the race.

Methinks a parable is to be found here. How impressive it is to see someone take on a personal challenge and to remain true to the essential and demanding disciplines required to achieve worthy goals! How much personal growth and character development awaits those who are willing, both to “dream the dream” and, also, to “pay the dues”! How needed, in this day of easy ease and abundant, fertile and enabled “couch potatoes,” is the model of restraint, self-denial and perseverance so humbly displayed by our friend, Ned!

On the other hand, what a privilege for us to be in a position to host this demonstration of resolve and determination! I want my house and my heart always to be accommodating to those who are willing to remain true to lofty goals. In the very best tradition of Albanian hospitality, I want to be willing to be a host to those persons who come across my path who can see beyond the immediate pleasures and can envision greater potentials within themselves and in the world at large. Athlete or athletic supporter, I want to give shelter to those who can demonstrate excellence and emulate insistence.

Who knows, in my own way, I might even become willing to run my own marathon!

2008-10-01T13:27:00.000-07:00

DEATH at BURY St. EDMUNDS!

The chill of a wet, late August evening in Suffolk County, in the east of England did not deter us from a refreshing, all-out enjoyment of our brief holiday away from Greece. In fact, we rather welcomed the stark contrast from the steamy temperatures and chokingly dusty, dry conditions of Athens in August. We actually quite enjoyed putting on coats and even dodging the unremitting drizzle.

We had arrived in the old cathedral town late in the afternoon. After securing comfortable lodgings in an ancient coach stop, we stowed our gear and went quickly to the high street, in search of English adventure. Starved of properly “high church” worship and meditation, we knew that we wanted to go to the cathedral for Evensong. But, there was still time for exploring, so we set out on a relaxing stroll in the old cathedral grounds.

As only the British can decorate lawns, stone walls and ancient ruins, we ambled leisurely, yet still in the rain, through-out the grounds, breathing deeply to inhale the sense of majesty, symmetry, grace and history that abides. Honking horns on crowded streets, underground subways chocked full of frustrated urban captives, and loaded email inboxes screaming with messages from insistent colleagues marked “urgent” and “respond immediately” – all of that faded away, washed out by raindrops and the sweet, wet scent of roses.

In the midst of this antiquity, we came upon a small touch of more recent vintage. Facing a miniature golf putting course, in the shadow of the mighty cathedral edifice, we found a park bench of contemporary origin. Seeking rest for our soles and wanting to cherish the reverie of our souls, we sat down, pulling our rain gear close around us. After a brief respite, it was time to move on, toward glorious choral sounds of the early evening worship, now pouring forth from the majestic old sanctuary.

Almost as if by accident, but, I posit, by some sort of mysterious intervention, I turned to look behind myself as I rose from the bench. There, near the end of the bench, on a small plaque, I found these words: “Roger William Hobbs (8/15/46 – 3/16/06) He was not afraid of dying, he just wasn’t finished with living.”

I sat back down and called my partner to wait awhile. Surely, the cathedral music would wait for a few, delicious, additional moments, in honor of the late Roger William Hobbs. Who was he? What was his abbreviated life like? Why, in this ancient place, was this tribute resting place left in his honor? Of course, I know not.

My lack of insight into the particulars of his personal life cannot deter me from catching a glimpse and learning a lesson from this British stranger. I made an instant decision to take back to Athens the spirit of living which apparently characterized the report of the death of this noble soul. Although not yet staring death in the face, as least as far as I know, I want to die like that, not being finished with living.

If there is something sad about some of the aging friends whom I have known in my sixty plus years of wear and tear, it is that they have lost or lessened their enthusiasm for life. Some have mislaid the gusto by way of the painful intrusion of chronic and incurable diseases. But others, of-times far less ill of body, have somehow, somewhere made a fateful, if subconscious, decision to give up on life. They seem ready to hang it up, no longer willing to live fully, as if aging, by definition, disqualifies one from zest.

I remember my granddaddy. William Emmitt Newell was a barely-educated, rural farmer who scratched out an almost handsome living on a few acres of turnips, tomatoes and corn, raised a family of 10 children (one of whom was my father, his namesake) and lived an honorable life from the late nineteenth century through to the mid-twentieth century in eastern Mississippi.

On the Saturday night before his sudden death, this otherwise strong seventy-something year-old gentleman, went to sleep early, as was his custom. In the dark hours of the early morning, he awoke, convinced that it was time to go to church. Stirring his sleeping partner, my Granny, he said, “Is it time to go to church?” “No, Daddy!" she said, "Go back to sleep.” And he did, never to awake again this side of eternity.

Whenever that bell tolls for me, I want to go gladly, having learned the lessons from Roger William Hobbs of Bury St. Edmunds, England and William Emmitt Newell of Marion, Mississippi. What a great gift, indeed, to be fortunate to die before being finished with our living, accompanied by a solid anticipation of praising the timeless, eternal God.

Ceiling Fixers

2008-09-01T09:39:00.000-07:00

Our recent holiday in England was a refreshing change from the Greek and Mediterranean culture within which we normally live. We had considered going to a Greek island, but decided in the end that we needed a break from all things Hellenic. Not only did I enjoy being in a place where English is the first language, where cucumbers are not served with every meal and where “full English breakfast” is redundant, I was especially taken by the English-language newspapers which litter the London underground. Published daily and without direct cost, the papers are always on the seat next to one when traveling from one tube-stop to the next. Although in my adopted home-town of Athens, Greece, I get lots of English-language news via the Internet, it was great to indulge the inky feel of newsprint in my hands again.

We were somewhere on the Piccadilly Line, early one morning, en-route to a day of tourism and shopping. As the clogged underground railcar churned away through the dark holes of its route, I was reading the want-ads in one of the papers. I could dignify this exercise and report to you that I was doing research on economic conditions in Great Britain, but the truth is, I was bored; I had read everything else in the paper, including the society pages’ unending reports of Peaches Geldoff’s recent, perhaps impulsive, marriage to a new friend in the United States.

I found one classified ad particularly interesting. It was an advert for “ceiling fixers.” I can only assume that these are “drywall” people who “tape and float” sheetrock or its equivalent and who repair damaged ceilings in home make-overs. At any rate, there is apparently a great need for these people at the moment in the greater London area.

Ah, there seems always a pressing need for people who can powerfully fabricate ceilings and thus, limit the potential of other human beings! We have heard about the glass ceiling, but we also know that there are many other kinds of ceilings forced on the human spirit. Intended by God to soar, sinister and self-serving social forces often restrict the upward flight of humanity and hold its feet too close to the ground. The stale air and vested interests of “normalcy,” the suffocating vacuum of repressive authority and the damning downward force of unquestioned allegiance to tradition can easily suck the air from aspiration. Lacking the enervating and enlarging, heaven-bound wind currents and natural updrafts so readily available in the upper stratosphere, so many so easily have their dreams extinguished by socially imposed “ceilings.”

I am certain that I want to spend my life helping others to break through restrictive "ceilings," rather than repairing them and keeping people "down!"

Involuntary & Intravenous

2008-08-30T03:51:00.000-07:00

My recent 5-day hospitalization for a serious and potentially aggressive bacterial infection (I’m fine now, thanks, very much!) was much more than a mere assault on my audacious and assumed sense of invulnerability. The whole thing was a powerfully loaded learning experience, despite my patented resistance to reading life’s sign-posts. While I have only begun to “mine” the depths of this incident and will likely have more to say on this later, here is at least one category of my initial reflections.

The first framework for interpreting this rude educational experience came to me in an uncertain and discomforting moment, when, with eyes tightly shut and arms close to my side, my body was being backed into one of those ginormous machines which takes electronic pictures of your brain. My tiny head now surrounded by a metal and plastic apparatus about the size and shape of a large tractor tire, I began to detect the buzzing, whirring and churning of a busy electric motor. Accompanying this was what seemed the slight sloshing of water and the occasional ping reminiscent of the radar sounds from an old submarine movie.

And then, it came to me! The sloshing sound did it! I was instantly transported across time, all the way back to my early childhood. Lying prone and at risk, in this perhaps “Freudian” moment, I was, once again in my parents’ humble rental house. The sounds dredged up on the screen of my mind a grainy image of a tiny infant, sprawled in a crib; in the background, his mother’s yoeman wringer washing machine was rotating dirty clothes in a small tub of clean soap and progressively dirty water.

Returning to my hospital room, with lots of time to reflect, I noted many parallels between an adult hospital stay and the typical experience of being an infant. Babies and hospital patients share the reality that:

· an inordinate amount of time is expended waiting and looking at the ceiling!
· one’s schedule revolves around a preoccupation with sleeping, eating and attending to basic bodily functions!
· there is an enforced priority on taking medicine!
· most of the time, you look up and out at others, while others look down on you!
· you often spill things on yourself and usually learn quickly to accept the mild inconveniences of sharing the bed with crumbs or various, minute remnants from previous meals!
· you are wheeled everywhere you go in an uncomfortable, rolling conveyance constructed of cold metal sides and flexible, plastic webbing!
· a small room is, of necessity, perceived as the center of the universe, with little awareness of reality beyond what can be immediately seen!
· clues, suggesting life beyond the immediate setting, can occasionally be derived from the ominous sound of footsteps in a corridor!
· the world and access to it are controlled by well-meaning care-givers!
· these generous others express enormous compassion, usually in a slightly patronizing way!
· at first these faceless “invaders” seem sinister, but they soon become friends!
· although at the mercy of others initially, after a while, they learn how to make wants/needs known to those in control!
· schedules and routines, determined largely by others, can be upset by “accidents” or “emergencies,” over which one has, if not power, at least some measure of responsibility!
· the timing, quantity and selection of food intake is divined by others, guided ostensibly by health concerns, but always because they “know better!”
· the world can be frightening and confusing and almost totally dependent on the “supreme” knowledge of other, more experienced, “big people!”
· it is quite nice to have someone to prepare, serve and deliver meals, as well as to make the bed and “tuck one in” at night!
· anonymous others often talk about you, usually outside your hearing!
· the difficult act of putting on new clothes, even though minimalist or lacking in fashion or flair, usually makes things better, notwithstanding the inconvenience!
· other “actors” in life’s drama usually have more elaborate and colorful “costumes!”
· a bath, clean towels and bed-sheets can change your entire outlook on life!
· usually, you are blessedly ignorant of and, at best, largely unconcerned about the actual costs of the care provided!
· slightly nervous, but polite persons from another world often come and look at you, say pleasant things to you and say even more pleasant things about you!
· some visitors from this other world excel in their visitations; others do not!

Well, here’s the last word – for now. Both babies and patients, in the most optimistic of scenarios and the most normal of instances, make progress, grow, get better and move on to new challenges; and, thanks be to God, so have I!

Pigeon-Talk (a Parable)

2008-08-09T00:20:00.000-07:00

The common street pigeon in Athens waddled across the pavement, his calloused little bird feet immune to the boiling August temperature, near to melting the asphalt. With a characteristic, calibrated turn of the head, he seemed to be taking notice of the exotic birds in the cages of the nearby street vendor.

On my way to pay a parking fine, I was in need of some comic relief, so I paused to observe this serendipitous avian interaction. Backing away, so as to provide both an unencumbered view and an unobtrusive presence, I rested my weary bones on an old rectangular piece of pipe, intended to prevent automobiles from driving on city sidewalks. I caught my balance, leaned back against the city market light pole and watched a pricy, foreign-export bird in a cage commune with an ordinary, nasty peristeri (Greek word for pigeon) on the street – the kind that my prejudice insists we have far too many of.

Although my linguistic fluency is improving, thanks to language studies in both Albanian (Shqip) and (contemporary) Greek, I really have no competence in bird-speak. But my imagination translated the dialogue between these two feathered creatures.

The cocky, bright colored cockatoo seemed to be speaking down to the pigeon. From his cooler, lofty perch in the swinging cage, this articulate and pompous prima ballerina of the feathered classes seemed to be saying: “Oh, you poor, sad creature! Destined by fate and genetics to tread the filthy streets, scavenging on a scatological diet and savaging to survive, it’s just too bad that you could not be like me. I was born to privilege, destined by DNA to be among the higher of the bird species. People treat me like royalty; they bring me food each day; they talk sweetly to me; they clean my cage and ensure that I have fresh water. And all I have to do is sit here on my perch and occasionally peck at the little bell. It takes so little to make some people happy!”

The pigeon fluffed up his filthy feathers, leaned back on those well-worn street feet, cocked his tiny head, and said: “Yes, my dear fine-feathered friend, you do seem to have some advantages that I do not have. When I am tired of the street life, sometimes I long for your life of leisure and security.”

Now lifting his massive wings and catching the hot, steamy updraft rising from the city street, as his aerodynamic body began to rise swiftly, the pauper pigeon seemed to say in retort. “But, I am free! And freedom, my fellow bird friend, is far better than pedigree or luxury!”

I'm working with Albanian immigrants in Athens and praying that, despite their limited opportunities, they will know the truth, which sets one free!